Her name was Stephanie...

As I sat in the waiting room while mama had a CAT scan, I heard her crying. I looked over my shoulder and saw her sitting by the front door, head bowed, hands in her lap. I entered the valley of indecision… Should I leave her alone? Should I go to her? Back and forth I argued in my head until I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I stood and moved towards her. What do you say to total stranger who is in distress? I settled on “Can I get you a cup of tea?” She lifted her face towards me, her cheeks streaked with tears, told me she had not been able to keep anything down for 72 hours and thanked me for asking. I sat down in the chair next to her as words and feelings began spilling out in an unquenchable flood. For the next thirty minutes, I was a chalice, the receiver of her lifeblood, as she told me her story. In the midst of her recitation of illnesses, an anguished cry came from her soul. “I am only 46. I don’t want to die.” For that, I had no words. All I could do was hold her hand and pass the Kleenex. Mama came out as the nurse came to get stephanie. She hugged me, hard, thanked me for listening and I promised to pray for her. Sometimes at the end of our ropes, prayer is the knot that helps us hang on. It was all I could offer in the moment so I am praying for her.
The name Stephanie is of Greek origin and means a crown or garland. It is also related to one of the first Christian martyrs, Stephen, who was stoned to death. Some of us wear our suffering like a crown and are readily identified. Stephanie’s struggle, her pain and fear were visible and it was easy for me to reach out to her. Most of us, however, walk around with interior tears, invisible struggles, and buried broken hearts. For those of us who weep on the inside, the phrase “How are you doing?” is a loaded question that rarely comes at an opportune moment.
Dear One, You remember the feel of tears on your cheeks, the pain of a breaking heart and the solitude of despair. Help me this day to be your voice, your arms, your hands as I move among your children who are in need. Bring someone to me, too, Lord, so that as I give, I might learn the lesson of letting others care for me. Thank you for the complexities of life and death, for our comrades who make the journey with us and for your everlasting love that holds us up when we can no longer stand on our own. Amen.