Wednesday, 22 March 2017 00:36

Borne On A Current And The Laying On Of Hands

Written by  Priscilla K. Garatti

"We'll take good care of you," she said with confidence.  "This is a great hospital; we have wonderful care and your doctor is the best."  Patty, the pre-op nurse, said this to me as she helped me get ready for surgery.  I sensed she was not giving me a line, her touch light and cool as she took my vitals.  She was dressed in quintessential nurse attire, no scrubs with dancing polar bears or cats with spectacles.  She wore white hose and comfortable shoes, a triangular nurse hat perched on a pile of auburn curls.  I answered her health questionnaire, and then she began to talk to me like I was an old friend.  I had asked her no questions, just smiled and looked her in the eye.  She went on to say she was cleaning out her house.  "Simple is best," she said.  "I even keep it simple with my cell phone. Can you believe I still have a flip phone?"  I said, "Yes, that is most unusual these days."  Patty went on as she slipped the IV in the vein of my right hand, "I know how to use that phone, and I'm just going to keep it for as long as I can."  Then that cheerful nurse breezed out of the room and said, "Now you relax.  The doctor will be in soon, and we'll have you off in no time.  All is well."  I could have kissed Patty on the cheek. Her optimistic chatter had put me at ease.  And this was before the valium.

The last thing I remember before succombing to the anesthesia was hearing the banter of the team that would perform my surgery.  I couldn't distinguish their words, but they sounded happy, like maybe they were off to play a baseball game.  Ready to batter up.  Ready to hit a few home runs.  Ready to win.

For twenty-four hours post surgery, a competent crew of nurses and techs took care of me, laid their gentle, healing hands on me, brought me ice chips.  My husband walked the halls with me and pushed the IV cart.  He spent the night, sleeping on an uncomfortable chair, his soft snoring deep comfort in hospital room 710.

I sensed Jesus gave me a vision for what He is doing for me now as I recover.  I see myself being borne down a current in a silver gondola.  The Lord stands behind me, the perfect helmsman.  My only task is allowing myself to be carried down the glistening waters.  I lift my face to the sun and feel a healing breeze on my cheek.  There is surely the sweetness and strength of God managing my passage, a bouquet of red roses laid on the prow. can seem like an endless desert of danger with scratchy sand in your shoes, and yet if we remember or are reminded to pay attention, we find so many sources of hidden water, so many bits and chips and washes of color, in a weed or the gravel or a sunrise.  There are so many ways to sweep the sand off our feet.  So we say, "Oh my God.  Thanks."~Anne Lamott (From Help, Thanks, Wow).


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What Readers Are Saying

In Missing God Priscilla takes a brave and unflinching look at grief and the myriad ways in which it isolates one person from another. The characters are full-bodied and the writing is mesmerizing. Best of all, there is ample room for hope to break through. This is a must read.

Beth Webb-Hart (author of Grace At Lowtide)

winner"On A Clear Blue Day" won an "Enduring Light" Bronze medal in the 2017 Illumination Book Awards.

winnerAn excerpt from Missing God won as an Honorable Mention Finalist in Glimmertrain’s short story “Family Matters” contest in April 2010.