STREAMS.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011 at 10:36AM You're in the hospital. But you're not sick. You wish you were, though. You wish it was you instead. Because the person you love most in the world is dying. And they are lying just beyond the walls of the room in front of you. And you can't go in until the surgery is complete.
And you can't bear it anymore.
You try to hold it in. But tears come hot and heavy. They roll down your cheek. You want to scream.
You glance around the waiting room, hoping no one is watching. But even if they are, they could never see what is going on inside of you. You can't stop yourself from entertaining future thoughts. Running future scenarios through your mind. Christmas. Thanksgiving. Anniversaries. Birthdays. They would never be the same. Each day would be a reminder of the one you loved. Waking up alone. No one to text "I love you!" to or send one of those silly smily faces to. Getting home from work knowing you'll never be greeted the same way again. No more holding hands. No more hugs. The tears fall.
Suddenly, you're jolted back to reality. You're still in the hospital. You're still in the same chair. But the other people in the waiting room have left. Now you're alone. You welcome the silence.
But it isn't completely silent. You hear something. A whisper or murmer of some sort. You get still and strain to hear. Yes, there it is again. You hear something, but can't make out what it is.
You look back towards the room in front of you. The room you hate. The room that may change your life forever. The fear begins to creep up your spine againl like a spider. You fight to hold back tears.
But there it is again.
The whisper.
Yes, you're sure you heard it this time. Reluctantly, you decide to investigate. It seems to be coming from somewhere on your right.
It takes all the strength you have to get up from your seat. You feel stiff. It hurts to move. But there it is again.
The whisper.
Finally you're on your feet. You make your way down the hall to your right, past the rigid chairs that line the walls of the waiting room. You pass one door and peer in. Empty. You pass another and peer in. Empty. You begin to think maybe you were just hearing things. You pause and strain to hear. The clock on your left ticks loudly. One second. Two seconds. And then you hear it again.
The whisper.
You take a few more steps down the hall. There is a very dimly lit room on your right side. It looks almost like a utility closet. You peer through the small glass pane on the door.
There, in the small room, you see a figure on the ground. You look more closely, squinting. It seems to be a man. "What's he doing on the ground?" you wonder. But then something pierces your heart. You just heard your name.
Thoughts race through your mind as you try to make sense of the situation. You push your face closer to the small window and can now see that the man is kneeling. And whispering. Quietly. Steadily. Calmly. Continuously.
And you hear your name again.
You strain closer. You can now see the man in greater detail. His eyes are deep and beautiful, almost like flames of fire. His hair is beautiful and wavy, and is genlty reflecting the dim light - in the same way that moonlight reflects off of snow. His face is slender and beareded and weathered. And all along He continues to whisper.
Now that you're closer you realize He must be speaking another language. Because the only word you can make out is your name. But with each word you feel lighter. Each phrase seems to tear down something dark inside of you. For the first time in months, you feel peace and rest. You welcome it.
And you know. You don't know how you know. But you know that you know that you know. That it's going to be ok. That no matter what you find when you go back to the waiting room, it will be ok.
You look back at the Man. He hasn't moved. And He hasn't stopped whispering in that beautiful, gentle language. And you hear your name again.
And finally you have strength to face whatever is to come.
"If I could hear Christ praying for me in the next room, I would not fear a million enemies. Yet distance makes no difference. He is praying for me." Robert Murray McCheyne
"Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died - more than that, who was raised - who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us." Romans 8:34
"...He always lives to intercede for [His Children]." Hebrews 7:25
Grace and Peace,
JP Hennessy, youth director
