As I walked up the rotten steps to the pitiful shack, I was
making a list of all the referrals I needed to make to ensure the house was not
just livable, but appropriate for a hospice patient to die in. Thankfully, I
had several dedicated volunteers with carpentry skills. My mind was busy
assigning tasks when the door opened. Mrs. Smith’s arms spread wide, inviting a
warm embrace.
My only meeting with Mrs. Smith had been in the hospital. She was
adamant to honor her husband’s wish to die at home. Seeing the dilapidated house, I doubted if
that was the best decision.We sat on a well-worn couch supported by
cement block on one end and covered in a thread-bare quilt.
Mrs. Smith beamed as she took my hands, “I’m just so thankful to have
Hank home. He’s so much happier.” She
glanced over at her husband who lay unresponsive in a hospital bed. “And look
how comfortable he is in his new bed.”
I squeezed her hand and we sat in
silence for a few minutes. She gathered
her courage and continued, “I know it don’t seem like he knows, but he knows.”
I nodded in confirmation. “He’s blessed to have a wife that loves him so much.”
Tears filled her eyes. Breathing
in deeply, she refused to let them spill over. “My Hank is a good man. Never
had much, but always had each other. We gots two healthy children’bout grown.”
She sighed. “God’s been good.” She smiled sadly as the tears were released and
she cried freely while I held her.
As I stood to leave an hour later, I knew Mrs. Smith would be okay. In the
midst of her heartbreak, she had that deep, inexplicable peace. The love in her little home was so thick it
was almost palpable.
I stopped on the dusty, gravel road to type the address of my next
patient into my GPS. Looking at the
directions, I realized it was in the most affluent area of the city. What a dichotomy. Cancer does not discriminate between rich and
poor.
Turning on the stately, circular drive, I stopped at the wrought iron gate.
It opened automatically and the home came into view. Majestic white columns stood like soldiers
supporting the mansion of dark red brick.
A housekeeper greeted me at the door and ushered me into the parlor. I could hear voices arguing in the next room. Suddenly, a young woman stormed out the front
door. A few minutes later, Mrs. Wilson
entered the room and introduced herself. She was cold and aloof while stating
she had no need for a social worker. Her
husband was well-cared for by a twenty-four hour nurse on the third floor. In a business
tone, she informed me I could visit with him if I liked, but she didn’t feel
the need to see him anymore since he no longer knew who she was.
Another employee led me upstairs. Mr. Wilson looked like a king sleeping
in an elaborate, antique, canopy bed. A nurse sat in the corner
reading a magazine. He didn’t respond when
I took his hand. But did he know I was there? More importantly, did he know his wife
wasn’t?
Driving home that afternoon, I pondered the two extremes. Obviously, the old saying holds true, “You can’t
buy happiness.” I thought of the secret
to peace that Paul shared over 2000 years ago in a letter penned to the church at
Philippi.
“And
the peace of
God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ
Jesus . . . I know what it is to be in
need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being
content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in
plenty or in want. I can do all
this through him who gives me strength.” Philippians 4:7 and 12-13
No matter what we’re
facing today, let’s be reminded that genuine joy and deep, unshakable peace is
only found in one place. Whether we live in a homeless shelter, a trailer, a penthouse or mansion, our material home is irrelevant as long as we know our real home, our eternal home is in the unchanging, loving arms of our Father.
