Miracle
The first miracle attributed to the man called Jesus involved alcohol. Those who take a cabernet with Communion really appreciate that detail. And whether or not water actually turned into wine or if the author of John was intent on proving the divinity of a human being, it is still called a miraculous story.
Those of us who aren’t so sure of the idea of miracles as divine might also look at the tale of five loaves and two fishes that are said to have fed 5,000. Was it Godly multiplication or (and this is hardly an original theory) did the actual miracle come from 4,993 people watching one mother offer what little she had for herself and her six children and were moved to do the same? That’s more my kind of miracle – the unexpected that comes from human intervention.
It’s also the kind I’ve witnessed.
Tim and Becky reconnected in their 50s, Tim having been an old friend of Becky’s big brother. Early adulthood found them both in marriages that did not last and a hope that did. Love came quickly, followed by a proposal and a plan to spend their lives together on the beaches of Hawaii, where Becky called home. Her sun-kissed shoulders and long, blond locks would have caught anyone’s attention, but it was the tall, thin, salt and pepper, close-cut fellow with a balding spot on top who received her, “Yes.”
I don’t remember what brought them to Nashville, but I do remember what brought them to St. Thomas Midtown Hospital, the place where I served as a chaplain-in-training while trying not to ruin anyone’s spiritual journey – including my own.
It was Tim’s all-of-a-sudden-and-ongoing-and-relentless headache, fatigue, nausea, and confusion that took him from the Emergency Room to one of his own. And as quickly as the proposal came, so did the diagnosis. Brain tumor. Terminal. A couple of weeks terminal. Get your affairs in order ASAP terminal. Call your people terminal. You won’t be leaving the hospital terminal.
For Tim, getting his affairs in order meant saying, “I do” to the Hawaiian beauty he had known for decades and loved for only a few months. And even though “’Til death do us part” would come much sooner than hoped, it was Tim’s dying and Becky’s living wish to be husband and wife for as long as time would allow.
The Pastoral Care Director, Lewis Lamberth, was an Alabama-raised and Baptist-ordained minister, complete with an accent that substituted “h” for “r” when it came to “nuhses” or “flowehs.” He also understood what it meant to have limited time with a spouse, as he spent the week in Nashville serving patients and staff and flew home to Austin to spend the weekend with his wife. Having been in the work of chaplaincy for nearly 30 years, Lewis had seen his share of heartache and never lost the soft spot where it hurt.
Yes, he would marry them.
It’s fairly common knowledge that nurses are the backbone of medicine, the ones that understand patients and their needs best, as well as their stories. They take care of more than vitals and medication, including families. They see a need and get something done.
So it was with Becky’s bouquet and a small cake for the happy couple to share. After collecting donations from staff on the floor where Tim was declining as fast as he fell in love, they made sure Becky would have flowers in hand and a dessert to share with her soon-to-be husband. The hospital gift shop made sure it was beautiful. The cafeteria made sure it was sweet.
On the big day, the hospital chapel was warmed by dark wooden walls and dim lighting. The intimacy of a space where people often came for respite in the midst of unease served the same for the 10 or so staff members who were able to step away from the floor and into a celebration – even a hard one. Lewis stood in front, with an empty altar and cross in the background. Tim took his place to the right, guided by a friend behind the wheelchair that held his weakened body. Becky proceeded in a bright, flowery dress – very Hawaii – that hit just above her knees. She beamed and cried on her way to Tim, in love and in grief.
Given the reality of Tim’s decline and inability to be away from his hospital bed any longer than necessary, the ceremony was short, simple, and sacred. And when it came time for Tim to take Becky as his bride, the friend who guided him in the wheelchair, along with a nurse, helped him stand. It was heartbreaking and holy to watch him promise from this day forward, for better, for worse, to love and to cherish.
When they were pronounced husband and wife, Tim softly kissed Becky and leaned on the two men who had helped him stand to help him sit. And much like Becky’s walk down the aisle, the tears among us all coexisted in joy and sorrow.
There was no mysterious disappearance of a brain tumor, no short-term recovery that would allow a flight across the Pacific, no resurrection on the third day, but there were witnesses who saw a man offer what little he had for himself and his wife and were moved to do the same.
Kitty Eveling 