Glimmers
March 12, 2010
"Listen to the cry of a woman in labor at the hour of giving birth - look at the dying man's struggle at his last extremity, and then tell me whether something that begins and ends thus could be intended for enjoyment." Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855)
A friend of mine from college used this Kierkegaard quote as his Facebook status recently. My friend has experienced levels of pain I can hardly imagine and my heart aches for him. I can see how he would identify with Kierkegaard. I added a comment on his post that Kierkegaard must have been looking at the wrong moments.
Kierkegaard, for all his brilliance as a theologian and philosopher, never came across as particularly happy. He struggled with melancholy, what we now call depression. He passed on one opportunity for happiness by breaking up with the love of his life, thinking that he did not deserve such happiness-which makes one wonder about his theology. He never seemed to find another happy opportunity. I think he must have been the inspiration for the quote I saw on a bumper sticker once; “Life is hard, then you die.”
Clearly everyone’s life is different and I will allow that for some life holds little enjoyment at the beginning, or the end, or for many of the moments in between. But I don’t think that is true for all people.
Life is hard. It is often a struggle at the beginning, the end, and many moments in between. But these aren’t the only moments. There is that moment at the end of the aisle when she appears on her father’s arm and the breath nearly leaves the body. There is that moment just after the labor is over and we gaze at the miracle of new life and pain is overwhelmed by joy. The first smile and first word. There is the first day of school and the first step of faith.
Some moments are so full of joy the heart can barely contain them. Some are so full of pain the soul can hardly bear them. Moments. We’ve all had our moments. And we will have others, like the one after the labor is over and we gaze at the miracle of new life. I hope at the moment, after his “last extremity,” Kierkegaard saw that one and finally knew joy. Too bad he had to wait that long.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Showing posts with label miracle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label miracle. Show all posts
Friday, March 12, 2010
Friday, August 21, 2009
Miracle Tuesday
Glimmers
August 21, 2009
As often happens, one scene evoked the memory of another. On Facebook this past Tuesday, I wrote the following; “I walked past room 307 and smiled. The man’s chances of ever leaving the hospital were slim. His son kept saying, ‘every day is a miracle.’ Today was no exception.”
The family in question hails from a Southern state and they are only here part of the year. While here, he had fallen gravely ill and recovery was very doubtful. When I first met them in the ICU, one of his sons and a brother-in-law were keeping vigil by his side. “It’s miracle Monday,” the son said with that Southern drawl. “The doctor said if he made it 24 hours, he might have a chance.” “We’re past that.” “Every day is a miracle.” The certainty of his faith lifted mine. It was not the first time that had happened.
As a chaplain resident at the University of Tennessee Medical Center in Knoxville, I was responsible for covering the Emergency Department when on-call. On one such night, the trauma pager went off and I reported to the ED to find out what was happening. I read the board and learned a man had been buried as a ditch had caved in and he was being flown in from Sevier County.
The flight team was administering chest compressions and bagging (breathing for) the patient as they wheeled him into the trauma room. He was not responding. They opened his chest, fluid gushed out and I watched as the physician wrapped his hand around the man’s heart and began squeezing it. To my amazement, it responded.
Shortly thereafter, I met some family and the man’s construction supervisor in a room next the to main ED waiting room. The physician who had accompanied me to report on the man’s progress said, “This is the chaplain.” “He’ll pray with you.” Before I could even take offense at his clumsy and simplistic description of my role, the construction supervisor took over. Covered with dirt from digging his friend and co-worker out of the ditch, his tall frame collapsed to the floor as he began to pray. It was simple, child-like and deeply moving. “I can’t add anything to that except Amen,” I said. A few days later, his once-dead friend was released from the hospital. It was the first time I had witnessed anything close to a miracle. The last one was miracle Tuesday.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
August 21, 2009
As often happens, one scene evoked the memory of another. On Facebook this past Tuesday, I wrote the following; “I walked past room 307 and smiled. The man’s chances of ever leaving the hospital were slim. His son kept saying, ‘every day is a miracle.’ Today was no exception.”
The family in question hails from a Southern state and they are only here part of the year. While here, he had fallen gravely ill and recovery was very doubtful. When I first met them in the ICU, one of his sons and a brother-in-law were keeping vigil by his side. “It’s miracle Monday,” the son said with that Southern drawl. “The doctor said if he made it 24 hours, he might have a chance.” “We’re past that.” “Every day is a miracle.” The certainty of his faith lifted mine. It was not the first time that had happened.
As a chaplain resident at the University of Tennessee Medical Center in Knoxville, I was responsible for covering the Emergency Department when on-call. On one such night, the trauma pager went off and I reported to the ED to find out what was happening. I read the board and learned a man had been buried as a ditch had caved in and he was being flown in from Sevier County.
The flight team was administering chest compressions and bagging (breathing for) the patient as they wheeled him into the trauma room. He was not responding. They opened his chest, fluid gushed out and I watched as the physician wrapped his hand around the man’s heart and began squeezing it. To my amazement, it responded.
Shortly thereafter, I met some family and the man’s construction supervisor in a room next the to main ED waiting room. The physician who had accompanied me to report on the man’s progress said, “This is the chaplain.” “He’ll pray with you.” Before I could even take offense at his clumsy and simplistic description of my role, the construction supervisor took over. Covered with dirt from digging his friend and co-worker out of the ditch, his tall frame collapsed to the floor as he began to pray. It was simple, child-like and deeply moving. “I can’t add anything to that except Amen,” I said. A few days later, his once-dead friend was released from the hospital. It was the first time I had witnessed anything close to a miracle. The last one was miracle Tuesday.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
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