Being a minister for 40-plus years, I have stood by many hospital beds and sat in many living rooms, doing my best to help patients find hope in the midst of often dire predictions.
Over time it struck me that when I am personally undergoing an extended period of fearful suffering, what helps go a long way in gathering much-needed strength is to envision an upcoming joyful event or experience.
Last year at this very time, I was undergoing a total of 44 gruelling radiation treatments — nine weeks in all — at Cooley Dickinson Hospital. What kept my spirits high through it all? Applying the same dose of advice I administered to so many, be they near death or quite certain to come through the operation intact.
My actual words went something like this: “Have you made any plans for what you’ll be doing afterward? A pleasant trip nearby, or far away, in mind?” If they hadn’t thought of this, I asked them to consider doing so, and then stay with the comforting company of those images. After all was said and done, I was amazed how much strength, let alone hope, it brought to the bedside of those who took this healthful exercise to heart.
As we face today, praying that not one more soul anywhere succumbs to this insidiously virulent disease, we find ourselves emotionally, if not physically, in a state of stress-induced sickness. Every passing day brings more frighteningly bad news: hospital heroes on the front lines risking all; refrigerated trucks being converted into morgues; and states bidding against each other for crucial staff as well as patient supplies, as if life-or-death issues were strictly a corporate matter of profit, written in the supreme economic law of supply and demand.
Finding ample time these days for spring-cleaning, I collected our winter-boots for basement storage, replacing them with sandals and flip-flops. Making the exchange, my eye caught a ready-to-drink liter of Marguerite, my (front line) daughter and husband’s favorite summer treat. I was to open it at our grandson’s 13th birthday this month. Having forgotten that I had bought it for this celebration, there it stood reminding me of what happiness now will be deferred (even doubled, combined with another grandson’s day), making the toast that much more meaningful, as the storm clouds pass. As Buffy St. Marie would sing, “Love lifts us up where we belong.”
For Christians around the world, this is the season marking a tradition known as Easter, ushering in the impassioned travails of Christ, who stood his ground, leading to a brutal Roman-style crucifixion, culminating, like Spring herself, in new life, freed from the prison of paralyzing fear. Ever since, followers have attempted to interpret the ordeal for their — and everyone’s — benefit. Noteable is a concept contained in an obscure anonymous letter of the late 1st century, included in the Christian testament, entitled “To the Hebrews,” in which the author states that “for the joy that was set before him, he endured the cross.” (12.1-2).
May these times of widespread anxiety encourage us all to look ahead to actually — as opposed to virtually — reuniting with those we love. For me it will be one, long bear-hugfest for each of my children and grandkids (like it or not!).
After all is said and done, to get the most out of these days, to fill the bleak present with bright imagination, is no simple task. It is the marriage of a tense present to a hopeful future, now awaiting us in the promising, bright chapel of possibility, in which Emily Dickinson invites us to dwell.
The Rev. Peter Kakos lives in Northampton.