Over the years I have participated in a lot of hospital vigils. Because of my work as a pastor, I am invited into moments in the lives of people that not too many others get to see. Of course, doctors and nurses and hospital workers are involved in the stories of their patients every day, but there are a lot of people who don’t have much experience with health care institutions. It seems natural for me to go into a hospital, to gather additional information about the condition of a patient, treatment plans, and other aspects of care. I know how to find waiting rooms, coffee at odd hours of the day and night and am at home in the hospital environment.

As a result, it is easy for me to forget that others don’t have the same experiences. Often having a loved one in the hospital means confusion and disorientation. There is a lot of “lingo” in hospital speak. Outsiders don’t always catch the meaning of the jargon that gets tossed around. Hospitals have unique protocols and spaces with limited access. Just navigating the corridors of hospital buildings can be daunting. Add in a floor with an intensive care unit and things get even more confusing.

But the real hard part of having a loved one in the hospital is that you are already frightened by the health condition of the one you love. It is serious, otherwise you wouldn’t be dealing with the hospital. You feel vulnerable because you know that you need help. You are not able to provide care for your loved one alone.

One of the roles I assume when I walk through such experiences with families is that of a calm voice that can answer questions and explain what is going on. Because human bodies are complex and treatments have varying success rates and timing is not always consistent there are a lot of questions that I cannot answer including the most critical one: “Is he/she going to be all right?”

There have been a few times when I have been on the other side of the equation. Fortunately hospitalizations have been infrequent in our family. But there have been enough to know that my emotions can get pretty frayed.

I have been thinking about the process lately because in addition to the usual routines of my work, I am keeping track of two medical situations that involve friends and family in other parts of the world.

In Australia a friend is traveling the slow and frustrating road of stroke recovery. We think of stroke as something that happens to the elderly, so when it strikes a young person we are surprised. The first few days were filled with questions about survival. Our information was relayed primarily by telephone and e-mail, so we didn’t have all of the details, but I know the rough sense of a hospital intensive care unit with the patient receiving assistance with breathing from a machine. The treatment involved induced coma to allow her brain to recover and the family had sort visits interrupted by long stretches of time in a waiting room where the mind wanders to the worst-case scenarios. We all learned to look for small signs of improvement. The report of a squeezed hand or a smile was music to our ears in the first few days. Like any other crisis, we set aside the budget and made phone calls without thinking about the cost.

As the days pass, however, a bit of the reality of the rest of our lives begins to sink in and we develop some shorthand about our communications to allow the family to spend more time at the hospital and less time on the phone communicating the news. E-mail is a great assistant in this phase of the process. We know there is a long road of recovery ahead and we don’t know what, if any, permanent disability will remain.

What is most amazing is the sense of being part of a world-wide prayer vigil. Because of the many time zones in which we have common friends, we know that prayers are literally being offered at every hour of the day and night. Because of the wide diversity of the people who love and care for this family, we know that there are many different understandings of God and many different theologies about the nature of prayer. Somehow these differences don’t matter. We know that we are not telling God what to do. We know that we do not control the outcomes by our prayers. But we also know that we are not alone and that the family is supported by a world-wide network as they travel this journey.

Meanwhile, back in the US, but still at a distant location, a sister-in-law is recovering from injuries sustained in a bicycle accident. Some days don’t turn out the way you expect. It was that way for Susan’s sister as she took off on her bicycle Saturday morning to meet a friend for coffee. Less than an hour later, her husband received a call from the hospital. By the time he got to the hospital they were preparing her for a helicopter flight to a level I trauma center. It turns out that none of her injuries are life-threatening and that it is likely she will fully recover from them all, but there are many injuries. She has a broken wrist that may require a surgical repair, a hip fracture, a broken nose, two black eyes, and a thin skull fracture. Already she is out of intensive care and resting in a regular room. A week will make a big difference. But there are months of recovery that lie ahead.

In all of these things we are more than witnesses. We are participants, even if we are miles away. In seminary we spoke of the transcendent power of love as a theoretical concept. In life it is a reality. Love is bigger than the physical distances that divide us. We do not have to be in the same room to share the same vigil. We can share worries and fears over long distances. We can witness the amazing power of healing while occupying different continents. We are connected.

And, at times like these, those connections are more valuable than the power of words to express.

Copyright © 2012 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.