I stopped in the lobby to get a coffee at Starbucks. Around me, nurses in scrubs grabbed their to-go orders. Bright Christmas music played over the speakers, and a tree glittered in the corner. As I walked the long tan hall, with that antiseptic scent that hovers in hospitals, I heard beeps of monitors from open doors, and I wondered about the stories of those I passed.
In the elevator I met the eyes of an older gentleman. "How is your day?" he asked with a smile.
"Better than yesterday," I replied.
He nodded. "Yeah, me too. Any improvement is the right direction." He exited onto the third floor, and the doors closed. I assumed he was visiting his wife. I wondered if they would be home by Christmas.
Between Thanksgiving and the middle of January, I walked that same hall, going up that same elevator, many times to visit my dad. It wasn't the way I had expected to spend December, but it was an honor to share that time with my parents.
Photo from Pixabay
Many mornings I left my house in the dark, driving east on the interstate, watching the Crayola rays of the sunrise. Hours later, I traveled the same road, this time heading west into the coral and copper glow.
Since I was a child, I always thought of heaven when I saw a sunrise or sunset. It seemed that glory was just behind the clouds, straining to peep through.
I didn't have the excitement that I usually experienced at the beginning of the new year. I love looking back over the past year and gazing forward at the new one. Ed and I always enjoyed making some goals for the new year - a habit I've continued. I try to be realistic when goal setting and revisit the list throughout the year.
But this year, I was just tired. A friend suggested that maybe memories of past hospital visits, with the sights, sounds, and smells, had worn me down more than I realized.
In December of 2018, I spent a lot of time at the hospital for Ed's doctor appointments - though at a different hospital in a different state than the one I visited this December. The cancer in Ed's brain was slowly overtaking him. I remember the contrast of walking into the medical center lobby with Christmas music playing and sparkling decorations swinging from the banisters while my spirits hung low. We tried to enjoy our time together, and Ed often stopped to buy a coffee in the lobby for the ride home. One afternoon we took some time to examine the gingerhouse displays showcasting the creative talents of the various nursing deparments - a contrast to dire brain MRIs.
That year I filled our December with as much family time as possible, knowing that it was likely our last as a complete family. I was struck by how many of our Christmas carols look with longing to a world when Christ will come back and make all things right.
"For lo, the days are hast’ning on,/ By prophet bards foretold,/ When with the ever circling years/ Shall come the time foretold,/ When the new heav’n and earth shall own/ The Prince of Peace their king,/ And the whole world send back the song/ Which now the angels sing." - Edmund H. Sears
Jesus didn't come to a world that was bright and happy, with cheery music, sparkly lights, and peppermint lattes. He came for the sick awaiting blood draws and CT scans. He came to an occupied country, with an evil ruler who would stoop to infant massacre to keep his power. Jesus came to world of slavery, predjudice, hopelessness, where even many of the spiritual leaders had lost their way. He came to world that was suffering disease and heartache from thousands of years of the curse of sin.
A world much like the one in which I live today.
Many mornings I began my day by checking my phone for updates from my sister who lived halfway around the world and was watching war creep closer to her home. I saw her photos of thousands of refugees in camps and grieved.
I was sitting in my dad's quiet hospital room when I received the startling call that a friend had been killed in a vehicle accident. I was crushed with the knowledge that his children were now fatherless, his wife a widow, and our church again faced the senseless loss of a good man.
Photo from Pixabay
That night I walked through the Christmas-decked lobby and shivered through the bitter cold to find my car in the parking garage. I drove out onto the interstate for the ride home and again the setting sun painted the sky with the indescrible beauty of fuchsia, magenta, and maroon until darkness descended again.
Life can be dark. Death and sickness, betrayal and pain are real. I know many of you have faced hard things these past months.
I don't want to share a pat cliche, but I believe it is true. Jesus came to earth to enter our broken human existence with all of its pain and tears. It is in Him that we can find life abundant despite the darkness.
I've spent January holding onto the slow and the quiet. Reading the book of John quietly in the early morning. Putting together a puzzle by the fire with my daughter. Deciding not to make any goals for 2026 until February 1 this year. (Because I do like goal setting, but there is no magic in January 1.) My dad is home by now and recovering well.
I keep watching for brilliant sunrises and sunsets and the reminder that heaven is just beyond view. But God is even closer, right here, in hospitals and homes, along highways and by headstones, in refugee camps and homeless shelters.
Emmanuel, God with us. The Light of the world.
