A persistent buzzing pulled me from the hazy warmth of nonsensical dreams. My watch’s face glowed green and read 4:30. I left the cocoon of blankets behind, rinsed sleep out of my eyes, pulled on some clothes and fumbled for my keys. Outside, the air was frosty but damp; Orion was low on the horizon. The screeching of the icy windshield sent shivers down my back. Cold air blew through the heater for at least five lights. The city was waking up.
My car slid into the nearly empty lot. They were getting an early start today. The doors of the hospital slid open. Bypassing the woman at the desk, I made for the little huddle of people seated with their backs to me. Two white heads and a dark one. I placed my hands on Carl’s shoulders and asked, “What are you doing here so early?!?”
We laughed and talked and visited. After a while a nurse came to lead Carl back so he could put on one of those little gowns designed to make sure you never turn your back on anyone. We rejoined him in a little room with a bed and one chair, and made small talk about our families and friends. As the time neared, we held each others’ hands and lifted little prayers to Jesus.
Many times each week, Carl and his wife visit friends and make new friends in hospitals and nursing homes. Sometimes Carl plays hymns on the little keyboard he taught himself to play. They sing and read scripture and laugh and pray with an endless stream of people. Carl and his wife look after the rest of us too. They pray for us, they send us notes, they make us smile.
Jesus said that in the kingdom, we sometimes have to leave mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and houses and lands. But in some strange and wonderful way, sometimes we get all that back, and more beside. I touched Carl's arm, gave his wife one last hug and went on my way, thankful to be in the family of God.
