WHEN THE E.R. BECOMES HOLY GROUND

The other day, Facebook reminded me that 15 years ago I had been in a minor car accident.  This was during that first year that I found Hope Episcopal church and started the discernment process for becoming a priest.  I spent a lot of time that first year writing, sharing with others where I was encountering God in my life and this car accident was no different.  A friend of mine commented on Facebook something along the lines of “I think these things keep happening to you, just so you can write something profound about them.”

Now, I want to make it clear—bad things happen to everyone.  I am no different, but, yes, the way I cope is by finding meaning, finding God in all areas of my life, especially in the upsetting and unsettling moments.

Almost two weeks ago, I found myself in the ER with excruciating abdominal pain.  I had been living with gallstones for around ten years, and I was very worried that this pain was my gallbladder.  I was hoping it was just gas—spoiler alert—it was not just gas.

My dad drove me to the hospital and both of us were sitting in the ER waiting room for hours, the waiting room maybe uncharacteristically packed for a Thursday night, although the moon was very full that night.

I spent those hours considering my options for pain relief.  Perhaps those two-seater chairs in the waiting room would hold me if I curled up in a fetal position.  What about the floor itself?  At least the floor would be cool.  But no, the hard floor would make my pain worse and getting up again would also be painful and require some assistance.

My vitals that night showed a resting heartrate of 124 and blood pressure at 150/100.  I always love how in these moments they ask you if your high blood pressure is normal and I want to say back to them, “Nothing about why I am here is normal—if anything about my visit to the ER were normal, I wouldn’t be here.”

Adrenaline was racing through me at this point and consequently, I was having to use the restroom quite a lot.  When I stood up for the second time to use the restroom, I discovered that one of the two restrooms was in use and I was stuck with the gross one, the one with the sticky floor that reeked of urine.  But I didn’t have a choice.  I used the toilet, I flushed, took one step and then two to the sink and was suddenly overcome with extreme nausea and the feeling I was about to pass out.

I stopped and leaned over, resting my hands on my knees. 

I hate puking, but my pain had been so intense, I hadn’t eaten much, so I wasn’t worried about what I might wind up depositing on the floor, I was more concerned with the pain of dry heaving.  I was concerned that additional pain might push me over my limit—be more than I could bear.

The nausea continued to build.  The emergency cord was not within arms’ reach or otherwise I would have pulled it.  I realized, suddenly, that I was scared.

And that was when I felt God’s presence.

This calm, still, small voice that speaks to us, to our hearts, to our souls, that reaches us when the noise of the world is so loud.

That still, small voice said, to me, “You are right where you need to be.  Don’t be afraid.”

I took a breath.

My legs wobbled.  I was going to pass out.  But I had a choice.  I could go ahead and sit down on that nasty floor, or I could wait, and faint and wake up with my face on that sticky floor.

So, I sat down, hugged my knees and breathed in and out, in and out.

I remembered—and if you have made it to the end of my spiritual memoir, you will remember me writing about this—the time when I was volunteering as a hospital chaplain and called into a woman’s room, only to find her sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing uncontrollably. 

At one point, her spirit clearly aching and in pain, she cried out, “This is how worthless I am; I’m sitting here on this nasty floor.”

I stood there silently for a minute and then I asked her if I could come in.  She said yes.  I asked her if I could sit down.  She said yes.  And then I sat with her on the bathroom floor.  (For the record it was far cleaner than the ER restroom the other night.)

I was thinking of that moment as I found myself on that grimy floor at the ER, because as the wave of nausea passed, as everything stabilized, I realized I was not alone.

God was there with me, on that floor.

Suffering, a chaplain once told me years ago, is a thin place.  That in our suffering, the veil between worlds becomes transparent and we can feel the presence of God.  As a chaplain, myself, I could feel God’s presence in every patient room I visited.

And when I wasn’t a chaplain, when I was a patient, at my very lowest, both literally and figuratively, God was there, because that is who God is.

When Moses asks God for His name, asks God who is sending him, Moses, God says “I am, tell them I am has sent you.”

I am.

He is.

Think about all the times in the Bible when God just … is.

Elijah in the wilderness.

Hagar in the wilderness.

Jesus in the wilderness.

The quiet but profound presence inhabiting every molecule, every atom of creation, and thereby holding us, embracing us, carrying us in His love.

Eventually, I was able to stand up and leave that restroom.  I was admitted a short time later—had surgery some 36 hours after that, and in all that time, I felt safe and loved.

Amen.