Tuesday I ended up covering ICU for the day and night. My colleague signed out the sickest babies in
the hospital to me. One, little F, was a
9 month old with Down Syndrome, congenital heart disease, a serious bacterial
infection, and a marginal prognosis. But
when she had seemed to be imminently dying the day before, she inexplicably
revived. Her dedicated family held
prayer vigils in the chapel; her mother sat by her bed and alerted us to any
subtle change in her vital signs. As so
often happens, the more one pours into a patient the more attached one
becomes. As I spent most of the next day
and evening struggling to keep F alive, I began to hope too. But just before midnight, her heart stopped
again, and nothing I did brought her back.
That innocent limp body gave up the soul, and I had to wake up her
mother with the tragic news.
And this might not sound very glorious, but I hated the
futility of it all. The hours and hours
of careful titration of drips and oxygen, the begging for surgical help to
secure a central line, the pouring through the file to understand a complicated
patient and the writing of pages of notes.
The daring to hope, and then the fact that none of it mattered. She was dead.
Then over the next two days, I had similarly tragic news
from two young women who are friends, both of whom miscarried in the first
trimester of longed-for pregnancies, both of whom had been trying to have a
baby for a year or more, both of whom had known struggle and loss, both of whom
are laying down their lives in generous ways for the Kingdom. Both of whom I had prayed for quite a bit. Both of whom I would long desperately to see
as mothers of live, tangible babies and not as mourners holding hidden
wounds. The sheer futility of their
months and months of dashed dreams was another punch in the gut.
So when I read this today from Miroslav Volf (Free of
Charge), it struck a chord:
But in fact, our
gifts and others’ benefits are not related as causes and effects. They are related as the cross and the
resurrection. Christ gave his life
on the cross—and it seemed as though he died in vain. His disciples quickly deserted him, his cause
was as dead as he was, and even his God seemed to have abandoned him. But then he was resurrected from the dead by
the power of the Spirit. He was seated
at the right hand of God and raised in the community of believers, his social
body alive and growing on earth. Did
Christ’s “gift of death” cause his own resurrection and its benefits for the
world? It didn’t. The spirit did. So it is with every true gift
of our own, however small or large.
Like Christ’s healings or feedings of multitudes, often our
gifts offer immediate help. We give, and
the hungry are fed, the sorrowful comforted, and loved ones delighted. We are like a tree, laden with fruit that
only waits to be picked. At other times,
we give, and the gift seems less like a ripe fruit than like a seed planted in
the ground. For a while, nothing
happens. Dark earth covered with cold
winter holds the seed captive. Then
spring comes, and we see new life sprouting, maybe even growing beyond our
wildest imagination.
Sometimes it seems as if a fate worse than lying in the dark
earth befalls our gifts. It is almost as
if some evil bird takes away the seed we planted before it can sprout and bear
fruit. We labor in vain. We give—and it seems that no one
benefits. Yet we can still hope. The Spirit who makes a tree heavy with fruit
and who gives life to the seed that has died will ultimately claim every good
gift that the evil one has snatched away.
Just as the Spirit resurrected the crucified one and made his sacrifice
bear abundant fruit, so the Spirit will reaise us in the spring of everlasting
life to see the harvest of our own giving. Our giving is borne by the wings of the
Spirit’s hope.
Tonight I pray that my friends will cling to this hope. That the Spirit has seen the darkly covered seed, and will not ignore the evil one who snatches away their fruit. That the good will be claimed back for eternity. That their giving will not be futile. That the hours and days and months we seem to sacrifice, the waste and ache, will not return void, but will be redeemed. That all will one day be well, even if tonight it is so very very hard.
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