They haunt me.
I see them walking on the street. Or driving past me in a car. Mowing the grass. Shopping.
These things I know they once did with ease. But now their bodies or their brains will no longer cooperate with these once taken-for-granted-activities.
Some days, the stories of my patients ghost around inside of me and won’t let me be.
The knowledge that I am, at least for now, able-bodied/sound-minded—tenders my heart to this life.
I treasure these two legs that hold me up with ease. I revel in this brain that sees (most of the time) clearly my environment and that of those around me. My health, my family, my life—is intact.
At least for now.
This does not make my life more valuable than theirs.
If anything, it is the other way around.
Sorrow leaves a mark. Grief sets apart.
I sit before this man who recently lost a child…and I have no words. No words to comfort. No letters strung together that can make sense of this situation.
The loss etched in his eyes…around the corners of his mouth…
It makes my soul ache.
But we continue to breathe in and breathe out.
What if we all wore our sorrow so openly?
What if our heartaches were written on our faces for all to see?
Would the world be a softer place?
Would we treat each other tenderly? We would be more willing to touch and hold each other? My arms ache to comfort. My heart beats to the sound of sorrow.
Psalms 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
I feel Him there. I see Him in their eyes.
But, so many times, they do not.
There are people hurting all over the world today.
All I can do is offer these hands. I offer this heart.
And pray that they see Him in me.