her small, thin, fragile frame was propped on the bed, a transparent breathing mask covering most of her face. she was in the hospital because her lung had collapsed. the doctor’s detached sentiment was, “it’s only a matter of time.”
surrounding her were friends she hadn’t seen in years. my group was but one pack in a steady stream of people who had visited her over the past two days. friends from her old church. friends from her current one. all to support, to show love. all chatty and upbeat. i was wondering how the person she was sharing a room with could cope with all that racket. good thing lydia would be transferred to a suite soon enough.
in her state, she shouldn’t be talking. she didn’t need to. while her friends encouraged her, urged her on, pointed out her steady heartbeat on the monitor, she could have just smiled and nodded.
but she wanted to talk. she had to. her friends were here. and though she was addressing the room, i could swear she was looking right at me. as if what she had to say were meant, nay, reserved for me.
there she was, labored breaths escaping through failed lungs, currency for choice words muffled by an oxygen mask, and you know what she spent those precise words on?
praises.
praises and laughter.
“God is good.”
“what I’m going through has a purpose.”
“His name will be glorified.”
and so it has been for her. for all the years i’ve known her. through her first debilitating disease and surgery thirteen years ago, when her doctor said she would never walk again. as she experienced a miracle recovery. as she walked for the rest of her days with a cane. through her two daughters’ weddings. through facing the worst kind of heartache from those who were closest to her. when she found out she had cancer. when it spread to the rest of her body. while she had to take care of her ailing mother in spite of her own ailments. when her lung collapsed. when the first opinion was, “it’s only a matter of time.”
praises and laughter.
that was her. a life of praises and thanksgiving. of trusting in a God who will come through, even if the evidence points otherwise. a life devoid of feeling sorry for oneself and always looking to Him, especially during the afflictions.
i’ve been a worship leader for eight years. i stood in front of the congregation and i sang the songs and played the music till the strings popped on my guitar and my fingers were calloused and green and my throat was sore for days on end. but i’ve spent more time doing those things with a cynical heart. i think about how much breath and spit i’ve wasted complaining, grumbling, shouting at this God that i say i praise, bad-mouthing and blaming the people and circumstances He has brought to me. i think about all those times i’ve fallen repeatedly into self-pity and depression, for the same pathetic reasons, instead of looking up to the sky and adoring Him.
it’s disgusting.
if i don’t have the right attitude, the thankfulness, the love, then everything i have, everything i do is garbage. if i can’t find it in me to praise and thank God for each moment of every day that i have, then i will not survive even the trivial, mundane, repetitive, boring moments. how do i expect to survive the crises?
i don’t know how many breaths lydia’s got left to spend. i don’t know how many i’ve got. but i know what she’ll be using those remaining breaths for.
i’m asking God for the heart do the same.