Thoughts on the Hospital

Hospitals are very tiring, very sad places.  You can see it in the eyes of the patients and also the eyes of the caregivers. The strange thing is that this hospital is a wonderful facility, with caring nurses and brilliant doctors.  But it is not home. And the people who are here do not want to be here.  I have mostly felt positive during our stay here, until I get tired and then I’d rather be anywhere but here.  I know I have been at Riley a short time compared to some who stay here months. Yet I feel the slow draining of strength and vitality that happens when one is confined.

Our cat, when we put her in a cage to take her to the vet would cry and cry, until finally she would settle down and be eerily quiet.  This wasn’t a contented quiet, but a resigned giving up of her freedom.  That is how a caged animal, or human, responds to their confinement.  That is how the eyes of the parents here look.  Absent.  Despondent. The nurses in contrast, talk animatedly to one another about their plans, their families, and a bit of gossip.  The nurses–who are the workhorses of this place– seem energetic in comparison.  Seven-thirty rolls around and they go home.  We rustle around in empty drawers searching for a snack, anything to appease our hunger.

Yet in the Bible, when Paul and Silas were in jail, what did they do?  Did they wallow around in their misery?  Did they complain about their surroundings?  Did they accept their entrapment as fate?  No.  They sang.  They sang despite their  surroundings, despite their confinement, despite the fact that they may not be saved. They may not get out. They may even die.  They praised God.

And the walls came tumbling down.

 

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