In the Valley of the Shadow

Down to the cellular level, I knew it was not a typical night. Around 6:00 pm Tom had taken a deep dip in his pulse/ox readings and almost died. He had been intubated for the last six days. We commenced our intercession for him. Karen was pacing and taking authority, her lips moving and hands waving. Megan connected from Orlando, via phone, and ran to find her Bible. I knelt at the couch and listened and prayed as Dean quietly stroked piano keys adding a weighted holy power to our pleas toward heaven for Tom’s life and health.

Megan read with precise and perfect diction, “Psalms 91. Those who live in the shelter of The Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty. This I declare of The Lord, He alone is my refuge, my place of safety. He is my God…”

As if the tide was coming in, women arrived for our regular Tuesday night Bible study. “Will we include the ladies that need to zoom?”

“No.”

“Why?’

This is not an ordinary night. Tom almost died.”

“Where is Karen?”

“Upstairs. Warring.”

The Bible study proceeded for the typical 2 hours and Karen reemerged from upstairs when everyone was gone, save my pets. She sat as the phone call came through from the nurse. I grabbed my phone and proceeded to record, an established habit, so that the children could hear the update in full, and not in part.

The remorseful tone of the nurse spoke volumes, “We lost his pulse and tried to resuscitate him, but unfortunately, we were unable to…”

Waves of grief, shock and numbness, permeated the quiet house. Tears, like shattered glass fell from Karen’s eyes.

Disbelief mixed and mingled with woeful grief. We started the several mile drive to the hospital. Everything was surreal. Could I wake from this dream that had taken such a drastic, unforeseen turn? Katherine and Andrew, Karen’s children who also live in Jacksonville, arrived at the hospital. I would wait, for what I was unsure, but I would wait on the concrete, lifeless bench located out front as the family entered the hospital to say their final goodbyes.

The night was cold and still, so very bitter for the temperate south. I clutched my tweed full length winter coat and rearranged the scarf around my neck. I stared off in the distance as if staring would alter something of the current reality. The cold lingered and settled. I stood. I sat. I stood. The shift in position did nothing to comfort or heat. I felt completely empty, a void was all I could detect from the part of my soul where my emotions usually flowed so freely .

Gently, Dean’s guitar began to release songs. I could hear something, but almost in the distance. A homeless woman was drawn to the music. Under different circumstances, I would have made eye contact giving her my full attention. I could barely sense myself inside my own body much less understand the words Michelle was forming in her vocal chords and releasing through her mouth. My best friend’s husband had just died and I was face-to-face with one of society’s most fragile citizens. “Not tonight, God. I have nothing. We are all in crisis.”

As I stood once more, I pushed my hands all the way through the pockets. Ruptures in the fragile lining had rendered them useless long ago. The structures that should hold coins, grocery lists, combs and things functioned as giant holes. Still, it comforted me, the feel of the black silky fabric. My touch lingered on the frayed edges. “I need to repair this,” crossed my mind. Michelle kept talking and much to my surprise, I tried to listen. I was assuming she was recently released from the hospital. I noticed she was singing along with Dean. “Amazing grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.” I noticed that she wore a facemask, a red shirt and jeans, wholly inadequate for the 40 something degree temperatures. She clutched a long gray purse. Her dirty blonde hair framed a face weather-worn from years of living outside and exposure to the sun. My shattered heart was drawn to her need. I was clothed properly for the icy air. I would travel later to my heated home. She would not. Dean asked her to interpret the lyrics in sign language, which she knew, as she had a hearing loss. I watched the elegant beauty in her hand motions. I was mesmerized and wondered if I was just in a dream. Wrapping my arms around her shoulders, I prayed for her needs. I placed my hand on her malfunctioning ear and felt a warmth enter my finger tips.

Thoughts of grief, loss and sadness would pulse in and out of my conscious thoughts. All the while, I was having flashbacks of a burn Dean had done recently. In it, he tried to give to a homeless man a jacket that I knew he liked. I was stunned how freely, though rejected, it had been offered. This memory took hold. Deep inside, I knew I needed to offer my coat to Michelle. In fact, I had yet another coat in my car and I could give her a choice in which covering pleased her the most. We walked to the car and I showed her another jacket, short brown and wool, more stylish. She choose the one I was wearing. I hugged her again and thanked her. She had been an unexpected blessing on a night of trauma and death.

On December 19th Tom Bary had a magnificent funeral befitting a man who made a career of sharing the gospel of peace, that reconciles man to God. It even included a several mile procession, the likes of which I have not seen in years. I don’t know if I will ever see Michelle again. I don’t know if she will even be granted a funeral one day. I know as an unexpected visitor in the valley of the shadow of death, she has marked my heart with her fingerprints.