When We Cannot Pray
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"When We Cannot Pray" by Sandra Herrmann
* * * * * * *
When We Cannot Pray
by Sandra Herrmann
Romans 8:26-39
Jean lay in bed. Her hospital room was an isolation unit, so there was nothing to brighten it up. Even a greeting card might carry in bacteria, and flowers were absolutely forbidden. She felt restless, even though she could do hardly anything. Getting out of bed by herself was a "forbidden activity" -- she felt light-headed even laying down. All she could do was watch TV or listen to music. Reading had become practically impossible ever since her first round of chemotherapy. There was something about the chemicals they used that made her feel stupid and forgetful. She picked at the sheet that was folded back over the blanket.
"Trapped," she thought to herself. "Can't trust myself to sit up, need help to stand, need help to get to the bathroom. Can't even feed myself well." She looked down at the mess of spots on the heavy bib the nurse had fastened to her hospital gown with clips. Her hands were too shaky to get the food into her mouth without drips. She sighed just as the nurse returned to her room.
"Having a hard time?" the nurse asked sympathetically. At least this nurse didn't smile as though she were in a toothpaste commercial.
"Yes." She had nothing more to say. The nurse meant well, she knew. But how could she possibly know what this was like? She went home at night, away from the smells and mess that was the price Jean was paying to stay alive. Jean wanted to go home too and eat a good meal that wouldn't taste like a tin pot and keep it down. On the other hand, she realized, just thinking about the smell of a broiling steak made her nauseated. She quickly took a deep breath but that no longer worked.
When she had recovered, and the nurse had her cleaned up again, Jean collapsed against the pillows. Where was God when she needed him most? She had asked so many people to pray for her, and they had asked their friends and fellow church-members to pray for her. But she could not pray for herself.
It wasn't that she didn't think God loved her. It was just that she couldn't feel God anywhere near her. She was used to closing her eyes and instantly feeling that presence before she even said a word. But not now. All she could feel was tired. She leaned back and the tears welled up again. What could she say to God, other than complaints? She had always tried to start any prayer time by thanking God for all her blessings, starting with her grandkids. But it seemed that every time she pictured them, she started to cry again. She so wanted to watch her eldest granddaughter be confirmed. More, she wanted to see her go to prom, get married, have children of her own. The doctor, however, made no promises. She thought of each of the grandchildren, from Moses, who at age four had told her he had decided to be a pastor when he grew up (!) to Denver, who had, at age 11, already started a small band in his parents' garage. All that potential. She wanted to see it all come to fulfillment. The tears began to fall. She couldn't call them back. All she could do was wipe them off her face before they dropped onto her gown. She reached for a tissue and with a groan pulled out the last one in the box.
She was blowing her nose when there was a tap on the door.
"Come in," she called out.
The door opened and a middle-aged man with a mustache and goatee peered around the door. "Are you up for some company? A man of God, perhaps?" He smiled in a very strange way, she thought, and sighed -- she was so tired of people who were coming to help her and at the same time afraid of her cancer.
"I guess. Come on in," she replied, gesturing toward the small plastic chair at the side of the bed.
The man eased around the door, keeping it somewhat open. She thought to tell him to close it, but realized as she thought about it that ethically he probably needed to leave it open. Protection for her, vulnerable as she was at this moment. Or maybe it was for his protection. Whatever. He sat down and looked at her.
"How are you doing with your cancer treatment?"
"Fine."
"Well, good. Because you look terrible."
"What?" She was too weak and tired to be outraged, but she wondered what on earth he was doing. So far, she didn't much care for his bedside manner.
"I'm sorry. You really look pale, and you're clearly losing your hair. That has to be really hard. I'm just saying." His voice was very soft. He wasn't being harsh, she realized.
"I haven't been looking in the mirror much," she replied.
"I can understand that. Besides, who has time to look in the mirror when you're throwing up every time you eat more than three bites?"
That startled her. "You've been on chemo therapy?"
"My wife had pancreatic cancer."
Jean couldn't think of anything to say to that. She shifted her body, turned her head away, and looked out the window. "Is she still alive?"
"No. Pancreatic cancer almost always wins. But she fought. She suffered, but she fought as hard as she could for as long as she could." He sighed.
Jean turned and looked at him. He had a badge on his jacket. She couldn't read it, so she asked, "I'm sorry. I can't read your tag. What's your name?"
"Joshua Christian."
Jean smiled for the first time in days. "Seriously? That's what your mother named you?"
Joshua joined in her laughter. "No. My wife was a pastor, and when we married, we decided we would both take on a new last name. Chaplain and pastor, both Christian." He smiled ruefully. "But my mother did name me Joshua. And her mother named her Phoebe. So we both had very biblical names. You can tell what kind of sense of humor we had about being doomed to be in the ministry."
Jean smiled. "In my case, my pastor recruited me. I resisted for a long time, because I saw what being a woman in ministry meant. But she was right, I love the work." She sighed and plucked at the sheet again. She wondered if she would ever be able to do communion again. Or even stand in the pulpit to lead worship or preach. "I don't seem to be able to pray." Her eyes darted at his. She hadn't meant to say that. What would he think of her, a pastor unable to pray?
Joshua reached toward her hands, but stopped short, letting his hand rest on the blanket near her leg. "I know how that is. Sometimes words fail us. When we're suffering, it's hard to think. And we can't help but wonder where God is in the midst of our suffering. I couldn't pray for myself for the whole year that Phoebe lived after her diagnosis. I could pray with her, I could pray for other patients, but I would kneel to pray at home, and I couldn't. The words just wouldn't come. I wondered sometimes if God still loved me. How could I expect God to listen to my sighs? Phoebe was the same. She'd been a pastor for nearly forty years -- she was one of the first women ordained in her denomination -- and she had the same problem." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a prayer book. "And then her bishop came to see her, and he read from Romans. I'm sure you know the scripture? Chapter 8 beginning with verse 26?"
Jean opened her mouth to say yes, but she stopped herself. She wanted to hear Joshua read it out loud: "In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express...." he began. Jean leaned back and closed her eyes as he read the passage. Before he had reached the part that read "I am convinced that neither death nor life..." she was breathing smoothly, beginning to drift into sleep. She never noticed when he began to pray, "Father, Jean cannot pray just now...." Nor did she notice when he stood up and quietly left the room, closing the door softly behind him. But that was all right with Joshua. She needed peaceful sleep. And he knew he would see her again, the next time she was back in the hospital. He, like her, was in this situation for the long haul.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
*****************************************
StoryShare, July 27, 2014, issue.
Copyright 2014 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.
"When We Cannot Pray" by Sandra Herrmann
* * * * * * *
When We Cannot Pray
by Sandra Herrmann
Romans 8:26-39
Jean lay in bed. Her hospital room was an isolation unit, so there was nothing to brighten it up. Even a greeting card might carry in bacteria, and flowers were absolutely forbidden. She felt restless, even though she could do hardly anything. Getting out of bed by herself was a "forbidden activity" -- she felt light-headed even laying down. All she could do was watch TV or listen to music. Reading had become practically impossible ever since her first round of chemotherapy. There was something about the chemicals they used that made her feel stupid and forgetful. She picked at the sheet that was folded back over the blanket.
"Trapped," she thought to herself. "Can't trust myself to sit up, need help to stand, need help to get to the bathroom. Can't even feed myself well." She looked down at the mess of spots on the heavy bib the nurse had fastened to her hospital gown with clips. Her hands were too shaky to get the food into her mouth without drips. She sighed just as the nurse returned to her room.
"Having a hard time?" the nurse asked sympathetically. At least this nurse didn't smile as though she were in a toothpaste commercial.
"Yes." She had nothing more to say. The nurse meant well, she knew. But how could she possibly know what this was like? She went home at night, away from the smells and mess that was the price Jean was paying to stay alive. Jean wanted to go home too and eat a good meal that wouldn't taste like a tin pot and keep it down. On the other hand, she realized, just thinking about the smell of a broiling steak made her nauseated. She quickly took a deep breath but that no longer worked.
When she had recovered, and the nurse had her cleaned up again, Jean collapsed against the pillows. Where was God when she needed him most? She had asked so many people to pray for her, and they had asked their friends and fellow church-members to pray for her. But she could not pray for herself.
It wasn't that she didn't think God loved her. It was just that she couldn't feel God anywhere near her. She was used to closing her eyes and instantly feeling that presence before she even said a word. But not now. All she could feel was tired. She leaned back and the tears welled up again. What could she say to God, other than complaints? She had always tried to start any prayer time by thanking God for all her blessings, starting with her grandkids. But it seemed that every time she pictured them, she started to cry again. She so wanted to watch her eldest granddaughter be confirmed. More, she wanted to see her go to prom, get married, have children of her own. The doctor, however, made no promises. She thought of each of the grandchildren, from Moses, who at age four had told her he had decided to be a pastor when he grew up (!) to Denver, who had, at age 11, already started a small band in his parents' garage. All that potential. She wanted to see it all come to fulfillment. The tears began to fall. She couldn't call them back. All she could do was wipe them off her face before they dropped onto her gown. She reached for a tissue and with a groan pulled out the last one in the box.
She was blowing her nose when there was a tap on the door.
"Come in," she called out.
The door opened and a middle-aged man with a mustache and goatee peered around the door. "Are you up for some company? A man of God, perhaps?" He smiled in a very strange way, she thought, and sighed -- she was so tired of people who were coming to help her and at the same time afraid of her cancer.
"I guess. Come on in," she replied, gesturing toward the small plastic chair at the side of the bed.
The man eased around the door, keeping it somewhat open. She thought to tell him to close it, but realized as she thought about it that ethically he probably needed to leave it open. Protection for her, vulnerable as she was at this moment. Or maybe it was for his protection. Whatever. He sat down and looked at her.
"How are you doing with your cancer treatment?"
"Fine."
"Well, good. Because you look terrible."
"What?" She was too weak and tired to be outraged, but she wondered what on earth he was doing. So far, she didn't much care for his bedside manner.
"I'm sorry. You really look pale, and you're clearly losing your hair. That has to be really hard. I'm just saying." His voice was very soft. He wasn't being harsh, she realized.
"I haven't been looking in the mirror much," she replied.
"I can understand that. Besides, who has time to look in the mirror when you're throwing up every time you eat more than three bites?"
That startled her. "You've been on chemo therapy?"
"My wife had pancreatic cancer."
Jean couldn't think of anything to say to that. She shifted her body, turned her head away, and looked out the window. "Is she still alive?"
"No. Pancreatic cancer almost always wins. But she fought. She suffered, but she fought as hard as she could for as long as she could." He sighed.
Jean turned and looked at him. He had a badge on his jacket. She couldn't read it, so she asked, "I'm sorry. I can't read your tag. What's your name?"
"Joshua Christian."
Jean smiled for the first time in days. "Seriously? That's what your mother named you?"
Joshua joined in her laughter. "No. My wife was a pastor, and when we married, we decided we would both take on a new last name. Chaplain and pastor, both Christian." He smiled ruefully. "But my mother did name me Joshua. And her mother named her Phoebe. So we both had very biblical names. You can tell what kind of sense of humor we had about being doomed to be in the ministry."
Jean smiled. "In my case, my pastor recruited me. I resisted for a long time, because I saw what being a woman in ministry meant. But she was right, I love the work." She sighed and plucked at the sheet again. She wondered if she would ever be able to do communion again. Or even stand in the pulpit to lead worship or preach. "I don't seem to be able to pray." Her eyes darted at his. She hadn't meant to say that. What would he think of her, a pastor unable to pray?
Joshua reached toward her hands, but stopped short, letting his hand rest on the blanket near her leg. "I know how that is. Sometimes words fail us. When we're suffering, it's hard to think. And we can't help but wonder where God is in the midst of our suffering. I couldn't pray for myself for the whole year that Phoebe lived after her diagnosis. I could pray with her, I could pray for other patients, but I would kneel to pray at home, and I couldn't. The words just wouldn't come. I wondered sometimes if God still loved me. How could I expect God to listen to my sighs? Phoebe was the same. She'd been a pastor for nearly forty years -- she was one of the first women ordained in her denomination -- and she had the same problem." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a prayer book. "And then her bishop came to see her, and he read from Romans. I'm sure you know the scripture? Chapter 8 beginning with verse 26?"
Jean opened her mouth to say yes, but she stopped herself. She wanted to hear Joshua read it out loud: "In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express...." he began. Jean leaned back and closed her eyes as he read the passage. Before he had reached the part that read "I am convinced that neither death nor life..." she was breathing smoothly, beginning to drift into sleep. She never noticed when he began to pray, "Father, Jean cannot pray just now...." Nor did she notice when he stood up and quietly left the room, closing the door softly behind him. But that was all right with Joshua. She needed peaceful sleep. And he knew he would see her again, the next time she was back in the hospital. He, like her, was in this situation for the long haul.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
*****************************************
StoryShare, July 27, 2014, issue.
Copyright 2014 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.
