Trish #8

It is possible that I experienced the sweetest moment of my life this evening. It happened as my daughters and I surrounded Trish's bed and sang hymns. I could hardly continue singing because I wanted to listen to my children minister to their mother. For they were singing with such a love and tenderness that I can only describe it as a "foretaste of glory divine."

My daughters are strong, like the women of my mountain home. They know how to sing and pray in that certain way that opens the soul. As I listened to them, I kept wondering, "when did they learned to do that?" I heard their mother, their grandmothers and even great grandmother's voices pouring through them. My children's voices were carrying that aching sense of longing that reminds a person that they have a home far away in another world. It is the most piercing, marvelous and mysterious sound one can experience in this life.

My great grandmother had that voice. She was born in the mountains of West Virginia in the 1880's and carried the name Utalka. She was already old when I was a little boy but I was old enough to witness her spirit and her connection to God. I can see her even now, with those long braids hanging down her back. She had eyes that were sunk so deeply into her head that it was almost frightening. They pierced out at whoever she was looking at. And her skin! It was so wrinkled. But every fold of her skin was a glory and a grace. My daughters, born 100 years after her own birth, are her children. Though they live in the desert of the American Southwest, they have mountain souls. Somewhere and somehow, they have learned how to open their souls to God. That's what they did tonight. I don't know when they learned to do this. I don't know if one can learn to do it.

I watched Trish's face began to glow in spite of the agony and weariness of her trial. The tubes in her head and mouth; the bruises on her arms, red and brown from the now countless needles; the indignity of her appearance-- all of this was overcome for those magical moments as my daughters sang so their mother could find her way home. I could almost see her spirit straining to connect, trying to allow their voices to attach to her soul. Like one who is in waters over her head might grab a rope to get pulled to the shore by loved ones, Trish was grasping at the voices of her children.

Trish knows how to follow the voices. She had a grandmother who knew the way home. She knows what it is like to feel on her shoulder the weathered hand of a strong woman who has known wind and rain. She knows what it is like to hear the wail of wisdom pierce the morning air in songs as ancient as the earth. As the chores were getting done and life was being lived, mountain women wove their melodies into my wife's being. Tonight, when Trish heard the voices of her children calling out to God, she knew how to follow them. She knows that sound.

This sounds so weird to people now. To speak of soul and song, of spirit and longing, of wailing and wonder -- how can I possibly expect people make sense of such things? And yet, they are the deepest hungers of the human heart. We are not made to be machines. We are not made to be statistics and categories. We are created for awe. We are created for God. When we forget the way to our soul we lose every reason to live. That is why my children sang to their mother -- to remind her feel for her soul, to open up her being to life and to health. They sang to create a sacred space in which Trish could sense the presence of God. They know if she can do that, she will come home to them.

There are times in life that one cannot do that for himself or herself. In such times, we must have family to do it for us.

Trish and I were both raised in Appalachian families. In that context, "family" does not mean a Dad and Mom, two kids and a great dane. For us, family is a village. When I was a child, the word "family" meant great uncles and great aunts, great-grandfathers and grandmothers, a gazillion cousins and waves and waves of "kin" who identified their blood connection to me by the way the family tree had forked through the generations of its history. Trish and I share that experience of family. We have a people.

In this current trial, Trish and I have heard from "our people." One group sent a quilt, each square meaning something different and each stitch made with prayer. The woman sent the quilt with deep affection, to carry hope to my wife. Many wrote to tell us that their church is praying, or that their family is interceding for us. It is astounding just how vibrant this network of "kin" became within days. I had nearly forgotten how deeply connected we are with so many.

A few years ago, Hillary Clinton wrote a book: It takes a Village (to raise a child). We conservative types tended to ridicule the title of the book and the concept that it represents. We shouldn't have. The concept is right. It is biblical. The individualistic approach to life we have been taking for a long time in our country is poverty stricken and soul-sick. It leaves us exposed. It leaves us unprotected. It leaves us without a people. No amount of church crowds or slick programs can replace not having a people.

This week, Trish has been protected and nursed to health not only by the wonderful hospital staff at St. Josephs -- the nurses, doctors, specialists, therapists, cleaning people, cooks -- all of them -- but by the hundreds of people who love us. The notes, the cards, the gifts, the fervent prayer, the practical help with cleaning our home; cooking for us; people just trying to take up the slack -- we have survived this week because we have a family, a clan, a village. For over a week, we have witnessed the earthly side of the "communion of saints" in action.

Beside Trish's bed are two items -- a cross given to us by Don Montgomery and a little blue bear, sent by the Salvation Army. They represent the people of God in all their variety and variation. They represent all those who surrounded us, who have built a wall to protect and defend us. They represent our kin.

Tonight, two voices rang out from among our people. Those voices collected the hopes and faith of our "kin" in heaven and earth and sang them into the awakening spirit of my wife. Jesus walked into her room on a royal road formed by their song.

The struggle continues. Trish is moving, ever so slightly, her left hand and left foot. By God's grace, the ventilator may be removed tomorrow. We keep moving through this dangerous time, sustained by the voices of God's people. Tonight, two of these voices were those of my own children.

Life really is beautiful.

Blessed be God!

Trish #7

This morning I went to the Salvation Army in South Phoenix. I took a tour of that wonderful ministry, that like so many precious works of God, operates on a shoestring. Trish has a secret life there. They didn't know me. I had to tell them that I am Trish's husband to get in. Then I got the royal treatment! I met several of Trish's clients. They told me that they are praying for Trish.

How precious the body of Christ is when it is in motion. We seem to be at our best when we are ministering to those in need. I have certainly witnessed the beauty and glory of the Lord's Church this week. I am humbled and moved.

Because I am very tired tonight, this will be a brief note.

Trish was tired today and slept a lot. But she did open her eyes several times and squeeze my hand. She knows everyone. Tonight before I left the hospital, she was able to squeeze with her left hand ever so slightly.

I end with a prayer that my friend, Kris Jenson sent me:

"Keep watch dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous, and all for your love's sake. Amen"

" O God, your unfailing providence sustains the world we live in and the life we live: Watch over those, both night and day, who work while others sleep, and grant that we may never forget that our common life depends upon each other's toil; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen."

Trish #6

Trish made progress today. For one thing, she opened her eyes.

This time, instead of the spaced-out, unfocused glaze we have been seeing, the light of her person shined through, at least for brief moments. She repeatedly stroked my arm. She squeezed my hand. I tell you, no touch has ever passed between us that was more intimate or more precious than this. Nor has any private moment between us ever been more ecstatic or full of bliss for me.

Talitha, Tiffany and I sang Blessed Assurance and Amazing Grace as she nodded her head. Two or three were gathered and our Lord was there, just as He promised.

Trish once pointed to the tubes in her mouth and nose. She was asking me for an explanation for her discomfort. She did not seem to be afraid. She seemed to be at peace.

The MRI results reveal that Trish has probably suffered at least one small stroke since last Tuesday. However, the doctor says that there is no significant tissue damage. So there is every reason to believe that the current paralysis on her left side will not be permanent.

All of this is good news. Trish remains at a at high risk for vasospasms, however. These frightening episodes occur 3 -10 days after an aneurysm. I have learned -- and I hope I explain this correctly -- the outside of the arteries are allergic to blood. This is a good thing if you cut your arm off in some field. You have a fair chance of not bleeding to death. The arteries will clamp shut and stop the bleeding. In the brain, this same life-saving feature can be disastrous. Since an aneurysm soaks the brain in blood, arteries and veins become very irritated and agitated. So the arteries tend to clamp shut, just as they are programmed to do. Please, pray hard and specifically that Trish will be delivered from these vasospasms.

It is so hard to sleep at night while Trish goes through this dangerous time frame. It is good to know that God was mindful of this. Lat night, a young nurse introduced herself to me. She said her name was Amanda Evans. Tonight, that same nurse said, "I go to your church. I have worked here at this hospital a long time but this is the first time I have ever been assigned to this particular unit. God has placed me here for tonight. So go home and rest tonight, pastor. The Lord has me here to watch your wife. I promise that I will give her my undivided attention."

More of God's secret agents. This week, I have run into them everywhere. This is so appropriate because my Trish is one of these secret agents herself . She works quietly. She prays behind the scenes. She just does what needs to be done. She pushes the darkness back a bit and gives witness to the light in whatever situation she finds herself. She does not mind high things. She condescends to men of low estate.

This week I have watched doctors and nurses, cleaning people and interns and all kinds of other people at work, all busy saving lives. They comfort hurting people. They bring hope to hopeless situations. They stand guard while we sleep. They keep watch over the walls of the city because evil is always trying to sneak in to kill, to steal and to destroy. These hospital workers have made me think of our policeman, mental health workers, sanitation workers and other kinds of workers who each in their own way contribute to the ceaseless struggle against chaos and evil that continually works to overcome humanity's health. And here I though that the church was the main place where good confronts evil! As it turns out, the work of the church, though vital, is hardly solitary in doing the work of redemption and warring against the darkness.

This week, dozens have worked hard to give me and my family space to grieve and care for ourselves. Talitha's mother-in-law stayed home from work to keep the newborn baby safe so my daughter could be with her mother as much as possible. Our pastors and church staff doubled up on work that I have not been there to do. Then there is my son in law: he cannot be here because he is a soldier. He is busy guarding us all from any possible attack. Such people form the structure that holds the world together. Through such people the kingdom of God makes itself visible to the world. Tonight, I honor these real heroes, the people who really make the work work. They humble me. They make me want to be certain that what I am doing is really of eternal significance and is not just some sick ego trip done in Christ's name for my own aggrandizement.

We live in a day of superstar religious figures. They are too often plastic people made for the stage who have no real mission in life other than strutting before a camera or a congregation. They master the moves and words of piety and prayer. they never hold a grieving mother. They never listen to the sobs of an addict who is crushed in spirit and who has lost all hope of redemption. My wife, Trish, is the essence of the kind of people who really advance the kingdom of God. She breaths concern for people who are lost. She seeks out those who are in need of help. She has never cared for fame. She has never sought to be recognized. She has always been slightly uncomfortable even with the reasonable amount of protocol that public work requires. She has always looked for a way to get to the periphery of the crowd in order to find the one person who may be left out and unnoticed. She finds struggling people, uncool people, ignored people, poor and minority people, sinner people -- she makes the unwanted people of the world feel included.

So it is altogether fitting that these should be the kind of people who now care for Trish. Of course, sooner or later, they are the kind of people who care for all of us. The "cool" folk rarely make it to needy places or to needy people. When it comes their time for care, it is people like Trish who are there, dispensing grace and doing good.

Trish is now sleeping through the most dangerous week of her life. But an angel stays awake all night to keep her safe, a woman who was embarrassed to introduce herself to me; a woman who apologized for her presumptuousness. The writer to the Hebrews refers to such people as "those of whom the world was not worthy." Tonight, I learned what that phrase meant.