the beginning of you

I.

The sheets are ironed flat
and warmed in an effort
to make him "as comfortable as possible";
the procedure is routine,
though not his routine, nothing like,
and on the gurney he knows that there is
nothing more that he can do, that nothing
that he's done so far is adequate
to the task ahead.

II.

If success depends on my efforts here,
then failure is assured.  I am
failing, failing, falling fast,
flapping and flexing to no avail;
and like that first abrupt jerk
when a parachute opens, there is
the full and warm rush of You.
Suddenly I float, sensing
that I was formed for this;
where I am not enough
You are sufficient,
magnificent. 

III.

A young girl watches strands of hair
come out in her brush
and grabs the razor
like a piton driven into
an icy mountain crack, ready
for the adventure
of ascent. 

IV.

Suffering may not be the only
route, but it's a highway,
not a backroad or detour.  It is the road
that leads most quickly home, if home
is the end of myself,
the making of myself,
the beginning
of You.

Liz McFadzean

Photo of patients at Shriner’s Hospital for Crippled Children, San Francisco, 1978

Sick children.  There is probably nothing that so confounds a person of faith as wondering why children, the most innocent among us, get gravely ill.  I’ve had my own sick child and watched some of my friends’ children suffer.  Earlier this year I gave you a glimpse into the St. Jude’s journey of my cousin’s granddaughter, Ava.  (Thankfully Ava has been given a clean bill of health after one surgery and blessedly fewer rounds of chemo than originally predicted.)

In 1978 Dave and I were given the opportunity to do an impromptu performance of our show “Family Bible Jamboree!” at the Shriner’s Hospital for Crippled Children in San Francisco.  I don’t know what I expected exactly, but I know that I didn’t expect so much laughter and joy.  The little patients there were so receptive and so ready to have a good time, to go with us on a crazy quilt journey through the Bible.

One of the things I’ve observed about very sick children is that they take charge!    When our eight-year-old daughter was bedridden and faced taking a medication that made her feel nauseous, she feigned being asleep for a whole day to keep me from giving the meds to her.  Every time I went into her room ALL DAY LONG, she was lying eyes closed in the same position.  I knew she was alive, but I figured she was just exhausted.  It wasn’t until the end of the day that she confessed to me that she had been faking.  (Think of the will-power and self-control that it takes to not do ANYTHING for a whole day!)  And then she laughed at me for buying it.  She really enjoyed pulling one over on her mom. 

Ava knew that she would probably lose her hair after her first round of chemo, so she colored it a vivid hue, then got a sassy new haircut.  But when her hair did begin to fall out, she said, “I want to shave it all off!”  So that’s what they did.

In their resilience, children, even very sick children, can seize all of life as an adventure.  It is not an adventure that they face without fear.  But they grab the reins of the moment with guile and gumption….sometimes we can only learn those things the hard way.