Worth the Heartache

 Gislene

 Julienne and Gislene

We heard the voices inside and I moved the curtain aside to see the small front room lined with dark faces and someone leading them in prayer. She was lying in bed like she has been since late spring. Her body frail and weak. I smile as I walk in. I think again after experiencing this twice that this, this is community. Wednesday night church moved into that room. The team nurse walks in, the doctor, Tony, and Julienne. We all squeeze in. Julienne and I hug the patient without squeezing her. We don't want to break her. I've never seen someone's cheeks go missing and bones in the face so prominent. She looks like a child in the twin bed, taking up so little space. The debilitating pain in her throat has left her so fragile and speechless.

One sister starts up in song. A tambourine starts moving and soon the room is full of clapping and words in tune. An offering up to the Lord in a beautiful way. It was worship. It was so different here than worship I've otherwise known. Her hand goes up and I see the bed-stricken friend worshipping with that one hand. Julienne nudges me and we smile together at that one waving hand in worship. Meanwhile the room is full of loud praises. Hallelujah's and Amens. We start another song and I recognize the tune. This one Julienne sings to Ava when she cries. It calms me. I see Julienne singing it with the others and I wish I could grab the words and know them, understand them. Sing them back to God. Another brother reading a Psalms. A pastor speaks up with words from Matthew spilling out. He preaches that the church can stick together and God can heal Gislene. He talks on perseverance and persecution. Suffering and pain. I wish I knew the in between words that I can't place. But the hearts of the people in that room hear every word and they agree with them. I catch a glimpse of Gislene's dad, almost hidden behind the curtain. His eyes are fear stricken and they are glazed over in grief. He's watching his big, little girl suffer through the last stages of life and his grief is all I can read on his face. His grandson comes in with all smiles. A tropical shirt on his back and a quick glance of the room. What will he do when his mama is not in the bed any longer? Sad thoughts amidst a loud chorus. I look at the doctor sitting next to me, and tony behind me with Gislene's mother on his knee. No room for a seat and she is delighted with company. I feel the knot the size of Texas in my throat wanting to pour out into tears as we rehearse "Mesi Jezi" and "Mesi encore" ... giving thanks and more thanks. Gratitude is the highest form of thought. I think it in this moment and I remember sorrow and love, flow mingled down. They can co-exist. The love and the sorrow. The thanks and the heartache together.

I think back to a funny Saturday morning with Gislene at the Hope Center when I heard loud sounds in the kitchen. I was on my way out the door to run and stopped in to check out the noise. There is Gislene with a metal bowl of milk she is heating up in the microwave. Uh oh. No metal in the microwave. Not sure if that's just a given usually or we should've made a sign somewhere. Anyhow, I stop the bad lightning storm in the microwave and get her some crackers to go with her milk. She smiled a smile so big I won't forget it.

One by one the brothers and sisters stand to say a quick thought or prayer to Gislene and then sit. Each one offered up with sincerity and hope. The meeting is coming to a close. The thin faces and dark skinned brothers and sisters lift up prayers in one voice and it is what I imagine heaven to sound like. A multitude of voices lifted high with words familiar and unfamiliar. The Amen comes at the end and the room starts to clear out. We have a special moment with her and tell her we saw her son at Hope Center today. The teenage son she doesn't see enough of she says. He's scared. It's not easy to watch her, he says. He's doing ok. Tony tells Gislene he's been by and they've talked. Her temperature is down from yesterday's 103 to 96 today but the doctor and nurses decide to give her the shot anyways. Now it's just me and the nurse in the room and I reach out my hand for Gislene's. This shot hurts. Gislene pulls up her gown so Bethany can inject it into muscle. There isn't much. Her muscle is gone. Her body totally emaciated by illness. She winces and makes a silent scream as the shot goes in. I turn my head as it hurts me to watch and catch her dad watching behind me. Big tears go streaming down his face. Bethany is apologizing for the pain and the knot is no longer in my throat. The tears spill out on to my own face. The injection seems to last too long. Her hand was too weak to grip mine as much as she would have liked. And then it eases. I cover her back up and wipe my face. I apologize and hug her daddy as I walk out. The fresh air hits my face. And I fall into Tony. So hard to watch," I say, impossible to stop my tears now. The real life of love and sorrow together. Bethany walks out behind me with tears dripping too and we are headed to the car. Tony goes back in one more time to say goodbye. We'll be back tomorrow. I hug Julienne. She shakes her head ... "tris, tris" ... "me Jezi konne" ... (sad, sad but Jesus knows).

The truck ride back Zac seems glad he went. He said it was a rough day in Port Au Prince. Hard to see the overwhelming need, like a drop in the ocean and what's the use if it takes so many drops and still no progress. But the timing is perfect. There is good in the hard and movement in the stand still. In a strange way those little one room experiences are almost magical. Unprecedented and impossible to replicate. We talk about how that wouldn't happen in the States. About getting use to death when you work in the ER. The tears dissipated and the rain started and I just keep thinking the drops in the ocean change me. It's the small experiences like tonight that remind me that God is working in and through so much to show me who he is and that it's worth it to keep investing in people. Loving them is worth the heartache of losing them. But it's still hard.