Deep Breath

 Occasionally, someone will ask me what my office hours are.

I assume they mean my office in the church building, and that is (fairly consistently) Tuesday mornings, Wednesday afternoons, all day Thursday, Friday afternoons. Other times I work from home. Sometimes I'm out visiting with people who ask for some of my time.

My other office (the one with wheels and a hatch-back) I occupy mostly Wednesday mornings and Friday mornings, sharing around the lunches my church provides each week, and hanging out with 'parishioners' in a few different locations.

This week's peregrinations were divided mostly between the storefront drop-in down the street, and the Emergency Room.

I'd planned to spend some time with an unsheltered friend, but on the morning we'd booked they texted me to say they'd decided instead to call an ambulance to get to the hospital. They have a wound that hasn't healed properly and they thought it might be infected. So I texted back, “Let me know if you need me for anything. I'm in town today.”

A little while later, they texted me that they hadn't had breakfast yet and they were waiting at Emerg, would I possibly be able to bring them a coffee and a sandwich? Sure, no worries.

I arrived at the hospital and found where they were (still waiting for the doctor in a room just off the waiting room). As soon as I walked through the door, I could smell it. Ever smelled a really bad infection? Don't.

I hung out with my friend (trying not to make a face everytime I breathed in) waiting for the doctor to come, and when he did he said, “Yeah, that's not right.” When the bandages were off... I won't describe what my friend's foot looked like. You don't want to know. But there was an actual hole in the bottom of the foot where the infection was draining out. I grew up on a farm. I've seen things that were gross. This is the first time in a long time I've felt physically nauseated.

No wonder my friend has been saying their foot hurts.

So a few hours later, after some tests and a scan, my friend was admitted for treatment. Thank God. My friend asked me to “pray for me” before I had to leave, and we prayed together.

For the previous several hours we'd been talking about all the crap my friend has been through lately. (One of the nurses recognized my friend from a previous visit and said, “You just can't catch a break, can you?”) In the past year or so my friend has lost their mother, their brother, their sister, and a cousin. They've been the victim of a serious crime and had a couple of surgeries, all while working hard to break a fentanyl addiction, and living unhoused.

In our conversation yesterday, my friend had said, “I don't believe there's such a thing as sin. I believe in karma. You get what you earn and the universe decides.” I asked, “Do you believe there is such a thing as evil?” They said, “Oh, yes. Look at what I've had to put up with.”

So when I prayed (make of this what you will) I prayed that my friend would begin to see the results—the "karma"—of all of their hard work. Their courage. I could have used words like 'bless their efforts.' Because that's what was in my head. But it wasn't my prayer, really. It was my friend's and I was just speaking on their behalf to the One to whom I always pray. The One who understands and who hears the meaning behind the words, not just the churchy vocabulary. So I said "karma." Anathematize me.

I walked out of that Emerg ward and into the fresh air of a snowy, breezy winter day. Took deep breaths, hoping to clear that smell out of my sinuses and my mind. It took a while.

The next morning, after I'd spent about an hour in my brick and mortar office starting work on things I need to accomplish (including a report to my denomination about how we are putting to use the grant money they've provided for this ministry, which I started writing but it ended up being this blogpost because I needed to put yesterday on paper before I could move on), I walked a few blocks downtown to the storefront drop-in run by a local charity.

Once a week, they offer a free hot breakfast, cooked short-order style.

I grabbed a coffee, enjoyed some conversation. I'm new there. Just getting to know folks, but I had the chance I needed to debrief with another community volunteer about the challenges we'd each experienced the day before, walking alongside our friend at the hospital.

The drop-in space is welcoming, and smelled of bacon and french toast. While I was chatting with a new friend about the Group of Seven, out of the corner of my eye I saw a man lean forward, his head on his arms, and start to cry. Two people came alongside him, moved his french toast aside, and spoke friendship to him, a comforting hand on his shoulder until he was able to gather himself again.

After breakfast, I walked out of that room into the fresh air of a cold, still winter day. Took deep breaths. 

I tried to recall the smell from yesterday, but it's gone, replaced by sunshine and bacon.

For both of which I'm grateful.