Mindful of Christ
Stories
Contents
“Mindful of Christ” by Peter Andrew Smith
“The Divine Gift of Listening” by David O. Bales
“God’s Hand” by David O. Bales
Mindful of Christ
by Peter Andrew Smith
Philippians 2:5-11
Jill looked at the tiny bundle in her arms. “Hey little guy, I’ve waited a long time for you.”
She gently reached out her hand to touch his face. He was so tiny and delicate that she was almost afraid that her caress might hurt him, but he opened his eyes and grabbed for her finger. She smiled and he shifted in her arms. A whole host of emotions washed over her.
“He is a beautiful baby boy,” Jill’s grandmother said from the doorway. “Are you up for a visit?”
“Of course. Come on and sit down Nan.” Jill nodded toward the chairs in the room. “He is beautiful, isn’t he?”
The old woman sat in the chair closest to the bed and carefully put her cane against the wall. “Have you thought of a name for him yet?”
“Daniel and I are still discussing it. I would like Peter in memory of Dad and Daniel wants Andrew because of his grandfather.” Jill paused. “We’re going to use both names but haven’t yet figured out which will come first.”
Her grandmother shrugged. “Both good names.”
Jill watched the baby yawn and then snuggle into her arms. “He is just so small.”
“Babies are like that. I remember when I first held your father. I worried that I was going to break him.”
Jill looked over at her. “Really?”
“Absolutely. It takes a while to get used to such a small person being so dependent on you.” Her grandmother said. “How are you feeling?”
“Grateful and tired.” She shifted in the bed. “I’m a bit sore too.”
“All perfectly normal,” Her grandmother said. “Are you feeling overwhelmed yet?”
“Sort of.” Jill looked up at her grandmother. “How did you know?”
Her grandmother smiled. “Feeling like you have no idea what you are doing is part of being a new parent too.”
“Will it pass?”
Her grandmother shook her head. “It never did for me.”
“Really?”
“It changes though. You get used to being responsible for a baby and then they start walking and you have a whole new set of things to worry about and look after.”
“I’m not sure how we’ll cope,” Jill said. “There’s so much that we don’t know.”
“You and Daniel will find your way. Just take each day as it comes.”
Jill watched her child sleep. “Any other advice?”
“Just one thing. Remember that you are all powerful compared to your child. You can do so many things that they can’t and know so much more than they do.” Her grandmother looked into her eyes. “Never forget that.”
Jill frowned. “How does that help me be a good parent?”
“What are your favorite memories of your father?”
“I have so many. I don’t really remember Mom, but he was always there.” Jill looked at the wall for a second. “I guess him playing with me. There were tea parties and baking cookies when I was little.”
“And playing cards when you got older.”
Jill smiled. “I think being able to play cards with him was the only thing that got me through my teenage years.”
Her grandmother leaned forward. “Can I tell you something that he never told you?”
“What?”
“Your father never liked playing cards.”
“Really? He knew all the games and never said no anytime I asked him.” Jill frowned. “If he didn’t like cards why did he play them with me?”
“I asked him once and he said he played because you loved it so much,” her grandmother said. “He loved spending the time with you.”
“I loved spending time with him too.”
Her grandmother wiped at her eyes for a second. “I know you did, and he knew you loved him, too.”
Jill thought for a moment. “So, we have to decide to give up what we can do in order to do what the child wants?”
“Sometimes we do. In the Bible, one of the epistles talks about Jesus taking the form of a servant and giving up all he could for our sakes. In some ways that is what we do for a child to help them learn and grow and become the people we know they can be.” Her grandmother took a deep breath. “We give up some of ourselves to be able to give to them. That is really what love is all about.”
Jill nodded. “I hope I can be as good a parent as Dad was.”
“I have no doubt you will be a wonderful parent.” Her grandmother smiled. “After all, you had a great role model.”
* * *
The Divine Gift of Listening
by David O. Bales
Isaiah 50:4-9a
“It’s a man thing,” Les said, which wasn’t what he really meant, but all he could think of at the moment. This sounded as if he were defending himself and he tried to come up with something that explained to Candice what was circling around within his tangled thoughts and emotions.
Candice stood slack-shouldered in front of him as if what he’d decided were personally against her; yet his decision was motivated by memories so distant from anything to do with their relationship that it was also impossible to explain. “Okay,” she said, not that she understood, how could she? “I just ….” She shook her head. “Go ahead. I can tell this means a lot to you.” She reached up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. It was a kiss meaning that of course they loved each other and were married and committed to one another, but she neither understood nor agreed with what Les was going to do Thursday night. Les stood silently. The last time he’d felt so unable to speak was when the team lined up for physicals in front of a strange doctor.
When Gene’s voice had sounded on the phone yesterday morning, “You’ve got to do it,” Les was instantly in high school again looking back and forth at the faces of the basketball team. His ranking as second highest scorer meant little socially. His athletic ability made no difference in what group he belonged to outside the gym. Even in the subtleties of team relationships, he was the one ignored or pushed around and was included in the group only at Gene’s permission. Yesterday’s telephone call was like a voice from across the years saying Coach Lawrence was dead. Les had read the news two days before. Now the team members (or maybe just Gene?) had agreed that Les should speak at the funeral. “You’re the religious one,” Gene said, his voice as identifiable to Les as if it were echoing in the showers as the team razzed him. Les’ smiling and enduring the team’s jabs were the price he paid for being included.
Candice backed out of the kitchen, speaking quietly, “You’ll need to say something to Eddie. He’s been looking forward to having us both at the district assembly. It’s more than just the students. Advisors and helpers will be mentioned also, lots of administration and community announcements and awards for the whole year.” She stood for a moment as though she expected a response; but Les was again in the high school showers where he felt that his skin was an enemy, his entire body covered with skin eruptions, some of them smears of blood after a hard practice or game. Other kids had facial zits yet Les had never seen anyone as plagued as he was. His doctor hadn’t encountered such a case either. A couple of the school’s skunk boys had called him “Spot.” Gene and the rest of the basketball team soon dealt with those two and Les could walk the halls—and play basketball—without anyone in school humiliating him. Other teams? That was different.
At 22, a miracle drug had cured his skin ailment and left only a few scars on his face. Candice saw his younger photographs, but he didn’t say much about the difficulty it caused him.
Candice left the kitchen with a questioning look and Les rushed to his office, scrambling to put thoughts together about Coach Lawrence. He’d loved the man. As insecure as Les had been, Coach Lawrence bolstered his athletic ability, knowing it was a way for him to survive student life and push into adulthood.
On Thursday afternoon, Les, “the religious one,” spent the hour and a half drive mulling over his funeral address. At the church, Coach Lawrence’s wife Shirley greeted him as graciously as twenty years before, many times having him over for a meal, either with the team or alone. For a few minutes he circulated with other men he’d graduated with and in the classes before and after him.
“Almost didn’t recognize you with new skin,” Gene said, laughing. They joked together for a while and a few other men came by to shake hands, slap one another, some hugs. Then the service began and, when it was his time to speak, Gene nudged him.
“He was always ‘Coach’ Lawrence.” Les said. “Didn’t make any difference if one was on his team or not, male or female, student or teacher. He was ‘Coach.’ It was who he was, someone who helped you to learn, showed you how to move, pivot, shoot, or to think … or to face life. And you may remember, he yelled at us sometimes too.” The audience laughed for quite a while.
“I read the scripture about God’s servant who was a teacher who listened to God and taught others. If Coach Lawrence had only talked to us … or yelled, who would’ve taken his advice? We responded to him because he listened to us. He coached both basketball and track. He was my coach for both. What I always remember about him, and never mentioned,” he paused to swallow, “was one afternoon in track practice. Junior year, first year I turned out for track and was still getting used to wearing spikes. We were practicing starts, leaping out of the blocks and sprinting 25 meters. Over and over, with Coach Lawrence standing three paces ahead holding a hand over us and saying we should still be low enough at three paces not to hit his hand. About the tenth sprint I was tired and threw my head back and dragged a toe. Spike caught and I skidded face first.
“Didn’t hurt so bad, but I went into shock. Coach got me up and said I looked like I was about thirty meters from a hand grenade explosion. At that time, my whole body was covered with infected zits and so I’d ripped them open, and blood oozed from my forehead to my knees. He got me into the locker room, quickly through the shower, and then, because he was a coach, he sat on the bench and calmed me down. We just talked like there was nobody else in the world. He asked me how school was going. He got around to asking what it was like in high school with blemishes all over me and I told him. Only person I ever told, and he listened. Hand on my shoulder and I cried some. He said this was part of growing up, admitting things, facing things, choosing to change when life demands it of us. He listened to me, and that’s why I not only listened to him, but I still am taking his advice seriously as I try to grow up, admit things, face things, and choose to change when life demands it. We could do a lot worse than to follow the advice of Coach.”
On the drive home, when Les was changing lanes, Eddie phoned, “Dad, how’d the funeral go?”
“Fine, son. Thanks for asking. How long’ve you guys been home?”
“Just got here. The assembly was long. Over two hours.”
“All new to me. Didn’t have that kind of event when I was a kid. How was all that?”
“Super neat. Mom was voted parent volunteer of the year. A bunch of us had nominated her and someone had told her she was in the running, so at least she was a little ready for it. Standing ovation. Really great.”
“Marvelous. Great to hear,” he said nervously. “Glad you told me. I’ll be there soon. Let’s see … ETA less than half an hour.”
“Okay. Mom’s fixing hot chocolate.”
He felt like he’d been struck by a hand grenade exploding thirty meters away. He’d been so consumed with his own unsolved problem that he hadn’t listened to why Candice might be upset with his choice for Thursday night. He breathed deeply a number of times and shook his head hard, as though waking himself up. He decided what he’d do when he got home. First thing in the door, he’d ask Eddie to talk about the assembly. Then he’d give his attention one hundred percent to Eddie and Candice. If he said anything about himself, it would be that he was finally learning what Coach taught him.
Preaching point: God’s design throughout history is that the one who listens well is listened to.
* * *
God’s Hand
by David O. Bales
Psalm 31:9-16
Estelle had heard the same thing the morning before at shift report. She’d seen the same looks on the faces of the two other student nurses: scorn and loathing. The attitude of her fellow student nurses bothered her. They’d been taught these four years that nurses should be non-judgmental toward unconventional behaviors. She expected that her student colleagues in a psychiatric unit would especially be compassionate toward people suffering mental illness, and Laila was clearly suffering. She had been Estelle’s patient for two weeks. To Estelle, Laila was as dear as she was needy. She said little. When she did speak, it sounded like ancient English.
This afternoon after Estelle completed her shift, she wandered away from the other students and returned to Laila’s room. She paused in the hall. The first morning’s report had included the assessment that the 45-year-old woman had breaks with reality conditioned by a strict religious family and religious community ruled only by Bible and prayer. Laila had finally tried to abandon the only community she’d known and been ostracized. Then she disassociated from reality. At shift report that first morning one of Estelle’s fellow student nurses had whispered, “Just Bible and prayer. That’ll make anyone crazy.”
Estelle quietly entered Laila’s room. She performed her studied glance not only at the patient, but around the room. What was different? The smell? Something was strange, out of place? Maybe housekeeping hadn’t been in yet this shift. Laila lay on her back staring at the ceiling. Estelle could tell that she was agitated and hadn’t noticed Estelle enter. Estelle had seen her this way before; but she knew when Laila had received her last medication and she calculated that she would become calmer within ten minutes.
Laila, still without noticing that Estelle stood beside her, spoke quietly toward the ceiling, “Have mercy upon me, O LORD,” and the hair rose on Estelle’s neck.
Laila’s arms and legs stopped their jiggling, but she crushed her knuckles into her eyes. Her voice was stronger, “for I am in trouble: mine eye is consumed with grief, yea, my soul and my belly. For my life is spent with grief, and my years with sighing: my strength faileth because of mine iniquity, and my bones are consumed. I was a reproach among all mine enemies.” Tears came down Laila’s cheeks and Estelle too almost wept. “Especially among my neighbors, and a fear to mine acquaintance: they that did see me without fled from me.”
Estelle’s chest tightened and she realized that she was holding her breath. She forced herself to breath with a steady rhythm.
“I am forgotten as a dead man out of mind.” Laila panted the words quickly. “I am like a broken vessel. For I have heard the slander of many: fear was on every side: while they took counsel together against me, they devised to take away my life.”
She spoke with the whine of a child, “But I trusted in thee, O LORD.” Then she gasped, “I said, Thou art my God.”
Estelle was bent slightly over the bed and stood without a conscious thought, totally present with Laila. She gently laid her hand upon Laila’s forehead. At first Laila didn’t respond to the touch. She was silent a few moments. She became calmer and spoke quietly again toward the ceiling, “My times are in thy hand.”
Estelle’s entire body became rigid. She felt as though her hand was disconnected from her body, a different hand, not her own. Whose hand? She realized that she hadn’t gloved-up before she touched Laila.
Laila shifted her hands from her eyes and slowly turned to Estelle. She seemed to recognize her. She smiled and nodded slightly to her, “Deliver me from the hand of mine enemies, and from them that persecute me.”
Estelle was unable to move or to utter a sound. She was captivated by what had become in her presence no longer just a prayer but a conversation. Laila turned her view to the ceiling again, “Make thy face to shine upon thy servant: save me for thy mercies’ sake.” She closed her eyes and seemed to fall asleep instantly.
After five minutes standing quietly beside Laila, Estelle became aware again of the room in which she stood, like awakening from a daydream. She remembered that she hadn’t gloved-up. First time it had happened. It bothered her less than she expected. She removed her hand from Laila and told herself again, as she did with every patient she attended, that this was a dear child of God, a being whom God resembled more than anything else in creation. This child of God, Estelle trusted, didn’t merely have the Bible and prayer. This child of God, no matter what anyone else knew, held firmly to the Father’s hand.
Preaching point: Prayer of the desperate is heard by God.
(“I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand.” John 10:28)
*****************************************
StoryShare, March 28, 2021 issue.
Copyright 2021 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
“Mindful of Christ” by Peter Andrew Smith
“The Divine Gift of Listening” by David O. Bales
“God’s Hand” by David O. Bales
Mindful of Christ
by Peter Andrew Smith
Philippians 2:5-11
Jill looked at the tiny bundle in her arms. “Hey little guy, I’ve waited a long time for you.”
She gently reached out her hand to touch his face. He was so tiny and delicate that she was almost afraid that her caress might hurt him, but he opened his eyes and grabbed for her finger. She smiled and he shifted in her arms. A whole host of emotions washed over her.
“He is a beautiful baby boy,” Jill’s grandmother said from the doorway. “Are you up for a visit?”
“Of course. Come on and sit down Nan.” Jill nodded toward the chairs in the room. “He is beautiful, isn’t he?”
The old woman sat in the chair closest to the bed and carefully put her cane against the wall. “Have you thought of a name for him yet?”
“Daniel and I are still discussing it. I would like Peter in memory of Dad and Daniel wants Andrew because of his grandfather.” Jill paused. “We’re going to use both names but haven’t yet figured out which will come first.”
Her grandmother shrugged. “Both good names.”
Jill watched the baby yawn and then snuggle into her arms. “He is just so small.”
“Babies are like that. I remember when I first held your father. I worried that I was going to break him.”
Jill looked over at her. “Really?”
“Absolutely. It takes a while to get used to such a small person being so dependent on you.” Her grandmother said. “How are you feeling?”
“Grateful and tired.” She shifted in the bed. “I’m a bit sore too.”
“All perfectly normal,” Her grandmother said. “Are you feeling overwhelmed yet?”
“Sort of.” Jill looked up at her grandmother. “How did you know?”
Her grandmother smiled. “Feeling like you have no idea what you are doing is part of being a new parent too.”
“Will it pass?”
Her grandmother shook her head. “It never did for me.”
“Really?”
“It changes though. You get used to being responsible for a baby and then they start walking and you have a whole new set of things to worry about and look after.”
“I’m not sure how we’ll cope,” Jill said. “There’s so much that we don’t know.”
“You and Daniel will find your way. Just take each day as it comes.”
Jill watched her child sleep. “Any other advice?”
“Just one thing. Remember that you are all powerful compared to your child. You can do so many things that they can’t and know so much more than they do.” Her grandmother looked into her eyes. “Never forget that.”
Jill frowned. “How does that help me be a good parent?”
“What are your favorite memories of your father?”
“I have so many. I don’t really remember Mom, but he was always there.” Jill looked at the wall for a second. “I guess him playing with me. There were tea parties and baking cookies when I was little.”
“And playing cards when you got older.”
Jill smiled. “I think being able to play cards with him was the only thing that got me through my teenage years.”
Her grandmother leaned forward. “Can I tell you something that he never told you?”
“What?”
“Your father never liked playing cards.”
“Really? He knew all the games and never said no anytime I asked him.” Jill frowned. “If he didn’t like cards why did he play them with me?”
“I asked him once and he said he played because you loved it so much,” her grandmother said. “He loved spending the time with you.”
“I loved spending time with him too.”
Her grandmother wiped at her eyes for a second. “I know you did, and he knew you loved him, too.”
Jill thought for a moment. “So, we have to decide to give up what we can do in order to do what the child wants?”
“Sometimes we do. In the Bible, one of the epistles talks about Jesus taking the form of a servant and giving up all he could for our sakes. In some ways that is what we do for a child to help them learn and grow and become the people we know they can be.” Her grandmother took a deep breath. “We give up some of ourselves to be able to give to them. That is really what love is all about.”
Jill nodded. “I hope I can be as good a parent as Dad was.”
“I have no doubt you will be a wonderful parent.” Her grandmother smiled. “After all, you had a great role model.”
* * *
The Divine Gift of Listening
by David O. Bales
Isaiah 50:4-9a
“It’s a man thing,” Les said, which wasn’t what he really meant, but all he could think of at the moment. This sounded as if he were defending himself and he tried to come up with something that explained to Candice what was circling around within his tangled thoughts and emotions.
Candice stood slack-shouldered in front of him as if what he’d decided were personally against her; yet his decision was motivated by memories so distant from anything to do with their relationship that it was also impossible to explain. “Okay,” she said, not that she understood, how could she? “I just ….” She shook her head. “Go ahead. I can tell this means a lot to you.” She reached up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. It was a kiss meaning that of course they loved each other and were married and committed to one another, but she neither understood nor agreed with what Les was going to do Thursday night. Les stood silently. The last time he’d felt so unable to speak was when the team lined up for physicals in front of a strange doctor.
When Gene’s voice had sounded on the phone yesterday morning, “You’ve got to do it,” Les was instantly in high school again looking back and forth at the faces of the basketball team. His ranking as second highest scorer meant little socially. His athletic ability made no difference in what group he belonged to outside the gym. Even in the subtleties of team relationships, he was the one ignored or pushed around and was included in the group only at Gene’s permission. Yesterday’s telephone call was like a voice from across the years saying Coach Lawrence was dead. Les had read the news two days before. Now the team members (or maybe just Gene?) had agreed that Les should speak at the funeral. “You’re the religious one,” Gene said, his voice as identifiable to Les as if it were echoing in the showers as the team razzed him. Les’ smiling and enduring the team’s jabs were the price he paid for being included.
Candice backed out of the kitchen, speaking quietly, “You’ll need to say something to Eddie. He’s been looking forward to having us both at the district assembly. It’s more than just the students. Advisors and helpers will be mentioned also, lots of administration and community announcements and awards for the whole year.” She stood for a moment as though she expected a response; but Les was again in the high school showers where he felt that his skin was an enemy, his entire body covered with skin eruptions, some of them smears of blood after a hard practice or game. Other kids had facial zits yet Les had never seen anyone as plagued as he was. His doctor hadn’t encountered such a case either. A couple of the school’s skunk boys had called him “Spot.” Gene and the rest of the basketball team soon dealt with those two and Les could walk the halls—and play basketball—without anyone in school humiliating him. Other teams? That was different.
At 22, a miracle drug had cured his skin ailment and left only a few scars on his face. Candice saw his younger photographs, but he didn’t say much about the difficulty it caused him.
Candice left the kitchen with a questioning look and Les rushed to his office, scrambling to put thoughts together about Coach Lawrence. He’d loved the man. As insecure as Les had been, Coach Lawrence bolstered his athletic ability, knowing it was a way for him to survive student life and push into adulthood.
On Thursday afternoon, Les, “the religious one,” spent the hour and a half drive mulling over his funeral address. At the church, Coach Lawrence’s wife Shirley greeted him as graciously as twenty years before, many times having him over for a meal, either with the team or alone. For a few minutes he circulated with other men he’d graduated with and in the classes before and after him.
“Almost didn’t recognize you with new skin,” Gene said, laughing. They joked together for a while and a few other men came by to shake hands, slap one another, some hugs. Then the service began and, when it was his time to speak, Gene nudged him.
“He was always ‘Coach’ Lawrence.” Les said. “Didn’t make any difference if one was on his team or not, male or female, student or teacher. He was ‘Coach.’ It was who he was, someone who helped you to learn, showed you how to move, pivot, shoot, or to think … or to face life. And you may remember, he yelled at us sometimes too.” The audience laughed for quite a while.
“I read the scripture about God’s servant who was a teacher who listened to God and taught others. If Coach Lawrence had only talked to us … or yelled, who would’ve taken his advice? We responded to him because he listened to us. He coached both basketball and track. He was my coach for both. What I always remember about him, and never mentioned,” he paused to swallow, “was one afternoon in track practice. Junior year, first year I turned out for track and was still getting used to wearing spikes. We were practicing starts, leaping out of the blocks and sprinting 25 meters. Over and over, with Coach Lawrence standing three paces ahead holding a hand over us and saying we should still be low enough at three paces not to hit his hand. About the tenth sprint I was tired and threw my head back and dragged a toe. Spike caught and I skidded face first.
“Didn’t hurt so bad, but I went into shock. Coach got me up and said I looked like I was about thirty meters from a hand grenade explosion. At that time, my whole body was covered with infected zits and so I’d ripped them open, and blood oozed from my forehead to my knees. He got me into the locker room, quickly through the shower, and then, because he was a coach, he sat on the bench and calmed me down. We just talked like there was nobody else in the world. He asked me how school was going. He got around to asking what it was like in high school with blemishes all over me and I told him. Only person I ever told, and he listened. Hand on my shoulder and I cried some. He said this was part of growing up, admitting things, facing things, choosing to change when life demands it of us. He listened to me, and that’s why I not only listened to him, but I still am taking his advice seriously as I try to grow up, admit things, face things, and choose to change when life demands it. We could do a lot worse than to follow the advice of Coach.”
On the drive home, when Les was changing lanes, Eddie phoned, “Dad, how’d the funeral go?”
“Fine, son. Thanks for asking. How long’ve you guys been home?”
“Just got here. The assembly was long. Over two hours.”
“All new to me. Didn’t have that kind of event when I was a kid. How was all that?”
“Super neat. Mom was voted parent volunteer of the year. A bunch of us had nominated her and someone had told her she was in the running, so at least she was a little ready for it. Standing ovation. Really great.”
“Marvelous. Great to hear,” he said nervously. “Glad you told me. I’ll be there soon. Let’s see … ETA less than half an hour.”
“Okay. Mom’s fixing hot chocolate.”
He felt like he’d been struck by a hand grenade exploding thirty meters away. He’d been so consumed with his own unsolved problem that he hadn’t listened to why Candice might be upset with his choice for Thursday night. He breathed deeply a number of times and shook his head hard, as though waking himself up. He decided what he’d do when he got home. First thing in the door, he’d ask Eddie to talk about the assembly. Then he’d give his attention one hundred percent to Eddie and Candice. If he said anything about himself, it would be that he was finally learning what Coach taught him.
Preaching point: God’s design throughout history is that the one who listens well is listened to.
* * *
God’s Hand
by David O. Bales
Psalm 31:9-16
Estelle had heard the same thing the morning before at shift report. She’d seen the same looks on the faces of the two other student nurses: scorn and loathing. The attitude of her fellow student nurses bothered her. They’d been taught these four years that nurses should be non-judgmental toward unconventional behaviors. She expected that her student colleagues in a psychiatric unit would especially be compassionate toward people suffering mental illness, and Laila was clearly suffering. She had been Estelle’s patient for two weeks. To Estelle, Laila was as dear as she was needy. She said little. When she did speak, it sounded like ancient English.
This afternoon after Estelle completed her shift, she wandered away from the other students and returned to Laila’s room. She paused in the hall. The first morning’s report had included the assessment that the 45-year-old woman had breaks with reality conditioned by a strict religious family and religious community ruled only by Bible and prayer. Laila had finally tried to abandon the only community she’d known and been ostracized. Then she disassociated from reality. At shift report that first morning one of Estelle’s fellow student nurses had whispered, “Just Bible and prayer. That’ll make anyone crazy.”
Estelle quietly entered Laila’s room. She performed her studied glance not only at the patient, but around the room. What was different? The smell? Something was strange, out of place? Maybe housekeeping hadn’t been in yet this shift. Laila lay on her back staring at the ceiling. Estelle could tell that she was agitated and hadn’t noticed Estelle enter. Estelle had seen her this way before; but she knew when Laila had received her last medication and she calculated that she would become calmer within ten minutes.
Laila, still without noticing that Estelle stood beside her, spoke quietly toward the ceiling, “Have mercy upon me, O LORD,” and the hair rose on Estelle’s neck.
Laila’s arms and legs stopped their jiggling, but she crushed her knuckles into her eyes. Her voice was stronger, “for I am in trouble: mine eye is consumed with grief, yea, my soul and my belly. For my life is spent with grief, and my years with sighing: my strength faileth because of mine iniquity, and my bones are consumed. I was a reproach among all mine enemies.” Tears came down Laila’s cheeks and Estelle too almost wept. “Especially among my neighbors, and a fear to mine acquaintance: they that did see me without fled from me.”
Estelle’s chest tightened and she realized that she was holding her breath. She forced herself to breath with a steady rhythm.
“I am forgotten as a dead man out of mind.” Laila panted the words quickly. “I am like a broken vessel. For I have heard the slander of many: fear was on every side: while they took counsel together against me, they devised to take away my life.”
She spoke with the whine of a child, “But I trusted in thee, O LORD.” Then she gasped, “I said, Thou art my God.”
Estelle was bent slightly over the bed and stood without a conscious thought, totally present with Laila. She gently laid her hand upon Laila’s forehead. At first Laila didn’t respond to the touch. She was silent a few moments. She became calmer and spoke quietly again toward the ceiling, “My times are in thy hand.”
Estelle’s entire body became rigid. She felt as though her hand was disconnected from her body, a different hand, not her own. Whose hand? She realized that she hadn’t gloved-up before she touched Laila.
Laila shifted her hands from her eyes and slowly turned to Estelle. She seemed to recognize her. She smiled and nodded slightly to her, “Deliver me from the hand of mine enemies, and from them that persecute me.”
Estelle was unable to move or to utter a sound. She was captivated by what had become in her presence no longer just a prayer but a conversation. Laila turned her view to the ceiling again, “Make thy face to shine upon thy servant: save me for thy mercies’ sake.” She closed her eyes and seemed to fall asleep instantly.
After five minutes standing quietly beside Laila, Estelle became aware again of the room in which she stood, like awakening from a daydream. She remembered that she hadn’t gloved-up. First time it had happened. It bothered her less than she expected. She removed her hand from Laila and told herself again, as she did with every patient she attended, that this was a dear child of God, a being whom God resembled more than anything else in creation. This child of God, Estelle trusted, didn’t merely have the Bible and prayer. This child of God, no matter what anyone else knew, held firmly to the Father’s hand.
Preaching point: Prayer of the desperate is heard by God.
(“I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand.” John 10:28)
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StoryShare, March 28, 2021 issue.
Copyright 2021 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
