Medic At Midnight

           For most of my childhood our neighbors were boys.  So, I played with the boys.  They would seek me out early on Saturday mornings and during the long summer months.  They liked to throw balls, play with dirt, shoot cap guns, race on bikes and play war games.  I went along with their ideas until they became more aggressive.  Occasionally we would compromise by playing house or Indians in the woods.  Pick up kickball and softball games were always a favorite.  I must admit, I really enjoyed hitting home runs and beating the boys in races.  I was taller and a year or two older than all of them, thereby giving me an advantage, for a while.  

Then there came a day when the dirt bombs came out.  I was completely unprepared and caught off guard.  As a mother of boys, I get it.  I am sure they had been plotting their revenge for years.  We will beat her at something one day - just wait and see.  

One morning I came out to play and I was hit by a hard ball of dirt.  It hurt, and there was no apology.  In fact there was laughter, even as more dirt clod missiles were being launched in my direction.  I was bewildered.  What happened?  I left and went into the house. 
From then on it was war, and they wanted my full participation.  I fell for their assurances that “no one would get hurt.”  But soon I realized that this aggressive competitiveness was the new norm.  

My two younger sisters were great playmates if we were acting out our own version of American Idol or playing with Strawberry Shortcake dolls.  But, I wanted to play outside.  I couldn’t avoid the boys forever.  I needed to come up with a strategy.  How to play with the boys but not be a mercenary.  That’s when I thought of Clara Barton.  

I had a fascination with Clara Barton and Florence Nightingale.  My daughter has said many times that she would be a nurse if she were alive during one of the World Wars.  I understand.  I felt the same way.  

Snap the Whip by Winslow Homer

So, the next time the boys came calling I strode out and laid out my conditions.  I would be the Red Cross.  They were skeptical at first but agreed to give my idea a try.  So when neighborhood war broke out they carried their wounded to the Red Cross nurse hiding in the shade of the crepe myrtle bush on the side of our house.  I would asses the situation, apply a tourniquet or administer “medicine” - completely pretend of course, I had seen the Mr. Yuck commercials!  I would then give them my advice for the best way to sneak through enemy lines on their way back to home base.  I realized I had found my neighborhood calling.  As an 11 year old, I was nurturing and counseling my friends, even if it was in a pretend game.  

Fast forward almost 35 years.  I am not playing war games with the boys in the neighborhood anymore, but I am living through my own daily fray.  The shots start firing early in the morning, and I am still seeking refuge late at night.  I am a woman who nurtures and cares and provides and councils from sun up to sun down.  I have to keep my head about me and remember where I am.  I face bombardments, low supplies, and unclear information on a regular basis. 

         Like any war time nurse, I know where I am needed.  I have held the hand of my husband late at night when painful memories come back to him, I have found the last bit of chocolate to assuage my son’s hurt feelings, I have washed and scoured more bed linens than I can count, I have stayed up late at night reading about how to help the wounded heal and I have dropped what I am doing when the siren calls.  

Night of the Annual Bombardment by Michele Taber

Like other war time medics, I catch sleep when I can, I cry into my hands as I recall the pain I have witnessed, and I live on automatic.  I sit on edge, waiting for my name to be called.  I come running, not knowing what I may find.  Will I be ready?  Will I have what I need to help?  Will I be able to put someone else’s needs before my own?  Somehow I am always there and somehow I find a way to help.  But none of this is by my own power.  I know where my help comes from.    
But unlike real life medics and military nurses, I watch out for the spiritual care of others more than the physical.  I am there to nurture and nurse souls.  I listen to people’s hearts, hold hands, share out of what I have lived and read and know about the Helper.  I get things wrong.  I can gut it out and make wrong decisions, wearying and burdening myself in ways I don’t need to be. 

       And so, I need to live in verses like “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. ²⁹ Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. ³⁰ For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” Mt. 11:28  

and “⁶ Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, ⁷ casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you.” 1 Peter 5:7. 

And "Have you not known? Have you not heard?  The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth.  He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. ²⁹  He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength. ³⁰  Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted; ³¹  but they who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.” Is. 40: 28-31. 

And "For I will satisfy the weary soul, and every languishing soul I will replenish.” Jer.31:25

Like the medic at midnight, I need some time alone to pray and cry and praise with open hands, to be filled by God Himself.  He fills those who come thirsty and empty with good rich food, food that satisfies the soul.  All I need is found in Him.  I have tried other, lesser loves, and they pale in comparison.  A. W. Tozer says, “without doubt we have suffered the loss of many spiritual treasures because we have let slip the simple truth that the miracle of the perpetuation of life is in God… that life is not God’s gift only, but His very self.” -The Pursuit of Man.  

I Look to the Hills from Whence Cometh My Help, collage, by Nimmi Hutnik

I, you, all of us need His very self. This is how we become beautiful. The godly women of old became beautiful as they hoped in God.  They came to the Lord in all of their need, to be filled with the sustaining power of God.  There is no greater beauty than to fear the Lord, to surrender to His ways and let Him love us, even as He makes us more like Himself. He gives us life out of His own.  All things come from Him and through Him.  

We do not need to fear the terror of night nor the arrow that flies at mid day.  We can rise and go when called for, for we dwell and live and abide in a shelter, the Lord Almighty Himself.  

~ Your Fellow Sojourner