Three prayers

Since my post this past August about the loss of my heart for God, I want to be honest and say that I have not found it within me to pray.  Out of habit, when I lie down at night there's still a moment when I pause, feeling whether my heart has something to say.  And truly, she does - but I'm tired of saying it.  I would try, more out of guilt than anything else.  I'd be out of breath by the end of the first sentence.

So be it.  I'm not forcing myself to do anything my heart doesn't want to do anymore.

I stayed late at work a couple weeks ago to work on my capstone paper, because it helps my spirit and my focus just to have people around.  I don't need them to speak to or entertain me, I just need them near, and the duty crew were also friends who were happy to let me invade the quarters with my piles of research.  While we sat, another of our coworkers called to see if the crew could pop over to check vitals on his wife, 37 weeks pregnant and having preeclamptic symptoms.  Her blood pressure was indeed high, and they drove themselves to the ER.

Between the distractions of sick and worried friends, putting up Christmas decorations, and ordering Chinese with A & J, I finished a mere one page.  I was anxious, tired, and nauseated from MSG by the time I made it home.  I laid down.  I began to cry - from the stress, I thought.  If I've ever found it hard to pray, it's been especially so for anything revolving around babies or relationships.  Yet the words streamed from my mouth that God please surround my friends and their soon-to-arrive daughter with calm and health.  I was finished before I realized I'd begun.  I was so stunned that my tears dried up instantly.  And somehow I found myself continuing in ten minutes of prayer over many of my hurting and needing friends.

--

I had a call to a middle school the following week for a child in crisis.  Psych calls are a frustration to begin with, but there's something about a child acting up in the context of a structured, familiar environment and with knowledgeable adults that is particularly irritating.  Especially when it's over a matter of not wanting to participate in class.  Especially when it's a matter of mouthing off to the liaison officer and trying to kick a teacher.  Especially when you can't reach a parent and the child is anything but cooperative.

Always one to look for the blessing, I can say that at least the staff was very helpful.

I don't know where my calm came from that day.  Normally my frustration would be clear and my smile would be strained.  It was not a perfectly managed scene by any means, but we managed to reach Mom, negotiate a workable plan, and get the child to the ambulance without a physical fight thanks to my bafflingly firm but kind words.  Still, my patience was stretched thin by the time we got outside, and when the child continued to mouth off, I said simply that if he didn't care to speak to me respectfully then he didn't need to speak to me at all, and I would simply sit behind him in silence, with the reminder that I'd be watching his every. single. move.

After a few minutes of strained, proud silence and the silent wiping of tears & snot (the Kleenex box had been flung back at me), I looked up and saw that my patient's arms had fallen to his side, and he was nearly asleep as we bounced along.

And I saw his humanity.  My anger at being held late and being verbally abused - again, as during nearly every shift - began to fade.  I took several deep breaths as I watched him.  I lowered my head.  And I asked God to pour out healing/spirit/presence/love on this broken little soul, whatever the reasons for today's events might be, and to pour out the same over his parents, his teachers, and all of the caregivers who would meet him that day.  Present company included.

--

I worked these last two weekend overnights as well, and as we were finishing up at the hospital after a very long night, the other truck got the call that we spend our entire careers dreading: a pediatric cardiac arrest.  Without speaking aloud our intention to do so, my partner and I detoured slowly by the scene on our way to coverage, to ensure there were enough people there to help.  Dispatch did everything they could to make sure every resource was available.  Those who do this job may appear emotionally impenetrable, but my partner and I sat there in tense, knowing silence, waiting to hear what would happen.

I've met death both personally and professionally.  I accept its inevitability.  I don't wish to say that my heart wasn't with that patient or that family, because it absolutely was.  I sent blessing to them, love and light.  But more so, my heart was with my coworkers and the other rescue personnel on the scene.  Those of us who'd been up all night, who were tired, probably hungry, frustrated, who'd been swung at on some calls, frozen on others, cursed at, condescended to, but who got back in the truck anyway.

I leaned my tired head to the cold window with tears in my eyes.  Silently, so that my partner wouldn't hear, I mouthed for God to send for my coworkers calm and steady hands, quickly recalled algorithms, kind and patient words, smooth procedures, safe roads. 

And when the helicopter was cancelled and all was done for human souls to do, I prayed that they would find peace in that knowledge.

I prayed in gratitude for the gradual returning of my heart.