Love That Demands More

I have a temper. A nasty one. I’m a firm believer in justice and the responsibility of every Christian to protect and love the people around them.  I’m also fiercely protective of my friends and the people under my care.  I do my best to harness these attributes for good, but I admittedly fall short more often than I succeed.

The last couple of weeks have been a lesson in love that I sorely needed but didn’t want to learn. Many of the details I cannot share with you due to privacy laws or common decency, and some details have been changed.  The lesson remains the same.

The last two patients that were randomly placed under my care in the last two weeks were carbon copies of people in my life, right down to the month and year of birth and unique mannerisms (Okay God, I’m listening…).  One was in really terrible condition, but every medical complication this person had could be directly linked to repeated poor lifestyle choices.  My job is to fix bodies. This person was systematically tearing his apart.

I like to think that I’m a pretty compassionate person. Compassion is a virtue that I value very highly. But for this person, I was struggling to produce a single shred.

I wish I could give you the background and details that would make all of that a bit more coherent, but the truth is that there’s really no justification.  By human standards-- even good moral standards-- I was well within my right as a person and a nurse to be frustrated with this individual. As a Christian, I should have recognized a bit more of my own story in the man who was drowning in his own mistakes and couldn’t save himself.

The second patient was admitted to the mental hospital for attempted suicide.  Again, the person’s history was riddled with poor choices and refusal to follow through with others’ attempts to help.  This person was (understandably) sullen and withdrawn and did not want to talk to me.  The feeling was mutual. It took several minutes to get anything beyond a one-word answer. Slowly, the patient began to open up and speak about the people in his life whom he felt he had let down, as well as those who had given up on him.  When the time came for me to go, I walked away with tears in my eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks that I hadn’t given up on him too. He was 19 years old.

My third difficult interaction was not with a patient but rather an individual I encounter pretty much on a daily basis.  The details are unimportant; suffice it to say we have incompatible personalities.  

If one of you is praying for God to teach me patience, stop it immediately.

There’s an intense amount of irony in all of this.  The first patient couldn’t save himself. Neither can I. The second had messed up and given up. But I almost gave up on him. The third… Well, to be honest, it’s an ongoing battle.  But love that falters in the face of resistance isn’t really love at all.  May I not be the one whose huge debt was forgiven that then turned around and demanded payment of pennies.  True grace doesn’t have a withdrawal limit. Neither does true forgiveness. May heaven help me remember it.

Because every conversation should have a good Africa link, let me wrap this up with a story from Kazembe. Once upon a time, I was fighting my way through brush that was taller than I was, carried along by the stream of hundreds of Zambians as we all headed to the river to see the Mwata perform a traditional Mutomboko ceremony.  The bank to the river was steep. I scrambled halfway up with difficulty, then turned and offered a hand to the kid behind me. He recoiled and sprang back, covering his face with his arms and falling backwards. My heart ached at his reaction.  No child’s experiences should train him to flinch from an open hand.  I waited, and a few seconds later the kid decided I wasn’t going to beat him. He reached up for my hand, and I pulled him up the hill.

May I always extend a hand of forgiveness and compassion.  May I not be the reason that someone fears an open hand. Amen.