A View of the Forest

As I walked into the majestic church the bell was tolling. Steady, soft, ominous, it rang its monotone melody with a notable sense of purpose. As I scampered inside I was struck by how full the nave was. Sneaking into the very last pew on the left – for some reason the side I always sit on – I gazed upward. The gothic arches form a weave which, while architecturally similar to the underbelly of a great ship, is visually similar to the way the branches of tall trees interlace and form a canopy above a dense forest. The trickling beams of light from the stained glass often forms lasers of dense light, the way sunbeams pierce through leaves. On this day a few hundred of us faithful souls gathered in the nave of a gorgeous church to honor the life of a dear friend. As the incense rose upwards and the noonday sun intensified, little lasers of light dotted the congregation. I wonder, sometimes, what God thinks of us there, gathered in His church, honoring one of His servants. Sifting through the canopy of the church and the incense, His omnipresent vision piercing through, dancing among us like a firefly – momentarily intensifying and then shifting – He looks at all of us. Does He pity us for mourning something as petty as a human life? What does such a think amount to when compared to the eternal divine? Of what is my friend’s life when weighed against the resurrection? But no. Our God’s own son has gone before us into death, so He knows exactly what it is to lose a loved one. To feel the emptiness in our gut; to wonder incessantly about the prospect of eternal death. I utter softly: Dear God, have mercy on your servant Richard. Hasten your guardians to his side, and usher him into your courts; have mercy on his soul, and, if it be your will, I pray that he may spend this very day and all days forward with you in paradise. It becomes clear to me as the service continues, as the choir chants and the organ thunders…the business of building God’s kingdom on earth was entrusted not to angels or archangels, but rather to humans. To us. And so we must go onward, in the confidence of His love, to do His work while we still can. So go. Go to work. Let us make our time count.

On Call

There’s nothing quite like being on call. As I write this I am all alone in my little call room. As call rooms go it’s fairly comfortable – I have a bed, a bathroom, a TV, a desk with a computer…everything I need, really. Some calls are insanely busy – a hectic continuation of the day, with hardly time to swallow a drink of water before the morning arrives. Other calls are slow – a strange calm blankets the place. It’s not exactly the calm before the storm, but rather more like the eye of the storm – there is destruction swirling all around, which inevitably will blow my way. There are two aspects to call that I’ve never gotten completely used to. The first is the waiting. The pager will eventually go off, or the phone will surely ring. The door will knock. Someone will need something. When? Soon. At least, probably. Knock and the door shall be opened? Sort of, only I’m the one opening it (which may be very anticlimactic for some!). People ask questions of me – all sorts of questions, all day and night long – because they need to. Otherwise I wouldn’t need to be here. I remind myself that it’s an honor. The second is the loneliness. As a surgical resident, like it or not – and it turns out – I’m alone quite a lot. I don’t necessarily mind it, I guess. I can think, write, catch up on things…all alone. I’m getting pretty good at it, though something tells me I’m being prepared for something. I’m haunted by an old man who worked at a little restaurant near where I went to grad school. I went in late one night for a dinner, and while I normally went in with my classmates this evening I was by myself. He noticed this and made a comment about how I was alone – “but you’re supposed to be alone, I think,” he added. It struck me as an odd thing to say – perhaps he knew something. And so what will this call bring?