The Mocking Sun
© Patty Fitts. All rights reserved.
“No matter how eloquently spoken, or sincerely intended, words tend to trivialize the pain.” These words were part of my prayer at a memorial service for the children who had died during 1996 at the hospital. I had begun to learn the truth of them during my training as a chaplain two years before. I spent hundreds of hours in the emergency room and on the floors of the hospital, talking with patients and holding the hands of tearful family members.
On a bright, sunny, spring morning all was quiet when suddenly the helicopters roared from the sky. The stretcher held a sixteen-year-old boy who had been taking his girlfriend for a ride to the beach. A car veered in front of his small, new pickup truck. He swerved sharply and the truck flipped. He was found lying in the grass, unconscious. I watched from the door of the trauma unit as the doctors and nurses vainly tried to find a way to make feeling return to his legs.
I went with the young resident to the “quiet room” to speak to the family: a mother and father, still far too young. “A vertebra in his back has been crushed. I’m afraid that the injury is permanent. You may go in to see him after they clean him up.” As the doctor turned and left me alone with them, the anguish and fear were palpable. There was talk of miracles and prayer, of faith and hope. What do I say? What word or words will make them feel better?
As I listened to them, I discovered that the boy was a baseball player, a pitcher who had major league scouts watching him already. The more they described him, the more I felt the enormity of their pain. As others before, they spoke in terms of fairness, as if his clean-cut youthfulness had somehow earned him and exemption from tragedy.
Silently, I thought of the many areas of theology they touched upon, from God’s character to issues of providence. Was that what they needed? Should I counter their accusations against the person of God? Should I use my vast knowledge of Scriptures and experience to put into perspective their pain? Were these doorways through which I should take God’s message of salvation and redemption? Or should I remain silent? I chose the latter. (Thank God.)
Whether it was the suddenness of pain in the emergency room or the cruelty of pain on the oncology floor or the mystery of pain on the infectious disease unit, I found that people’s responses were similar. No one thought it was fair, and no one liked it. Emotional defenses erected to stem the pain were useless. Denial worked for a while, but reality soon took over.
Anger deflected the pain only momentarily. The object of anger was fleeting. More than anything else it seemed that pain was lonely. As families would go to the cafeteria to struggle with even the idea of eating, the chatter of the crowds took on a grating annoyance. It was as if their minds were screaming in rebellion, “Doesn’t anyone here know what is going on? How can you all act as if life were normal? I am hurting. Take notice.”
It is this anonymity of pain that is so terrible. It does not matter that in other parts of the hospital others feel the same way. The ache in the stomach, the heart that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, the utter hopelessness; they seem to be all-consuming. Yet nurses, doctors, visitors, all walk by without so much as a nod of recognition. Neither do they hear the silent screams.
It is the “long black night of the soul.” The blackness outside matches the darkness within. It seems as if light will never shine there again. Surely the sun will not rise tomorrow. Surely it would not taunt with its brightness and warmth. Others must share the pain. They must know what it’s like. So the waiting. They’ll see. Tomorrow, they’ll all see whose pain it is that causes they world to remain in darkness. They’ll come and beg for mercy. They’ll know the pain.
The crying goes on into the night. It seems the tears will never end. Then suddenly there is stirring into consciousness. Could it have been sleep? What is that coming through the window? It can’t be! That wretched sun is mocking. It is rising high in the morning sky. It brightens the whole world. Noises enter the room, the hustling and bustling busy-ness of the hospital in the morning. Life is going on.
As a chaplain, I have seen scores of people go through this. I can’t prevent it. I can’t even share their journey. In a small way I can affirm them; I can be one, at least, who will take notice. Hopefully, there will come a time when that mocking sun will become a beacon of hope and life. They will also have to come to that on their own and in their own time.
© John C. Fitts, III and Bereavement Publications, Inc. All rights reserved. This story first appeared in 1998 in Bereavement Magazine (now Living With Loss Magazine). It is reprinted here with permission of the publisher.
On a bright, sunny, spring morning all was quiet when suddenly the helicopters roared from the sky. The stretcher held a sixteen-year-old boy who had been taking his girlfriend for a ride to the beach. A car veered in front of his small, new pickup truck. He swerved sharply and the truck flipped. He was found lying in the grass, unconscious. I watched from the door of the trauma unit as the doctors and nurses vainly tried to find a way to make feeling return to his legs.
I went with the young resident to the “quiet room” to speak to the family: a mother and father, still far too young. “A vertebra in his back has been crushed. I’m afraid that the injury is permanent. You may go in to see him after they clean him up.” As the doctor turned and left me alone with them, the anguish and fear were palpable. There was talk of miracles and prayer, of faith and hope. What do I say? What word or words will make them feel better?
As I listened to them, I discovered that the boy was a baseball player, a pitcher who had major league scouts watching him already. The more they described him, the more I felt the enormity of their pain. As others before, they spoke in terms of fairness, as if his clean-cut youthfulness had somehow earned him and exemption from tragedy.
Silently, I thought of the many areas of theology they touched upon, from God’s character to issues of providence. Was that what they needed? Should I counter their accusations against the person of God? Should I use my vast knowledge of Scriptures and experience to put into perspective their pain? Were these doorways through which I should take God’s message of salvation and redemption? Or should I remain silent? I chose the latter. (Thank God.)
Whether it was the suddenness of pain in the emergency room or the cruelty of pain on the oncology floor or the mystery of pain on the infectious disease unit, I found that people’s responses were similar. No one thought it was fair, and no one liked it. Emotional defenses erected to stem the pain were useless. Denial worked for a while, but reality soon took over.
Anger deflected the pain only momentarily. The object of anger was fleeting. More than anything else it seemed that pain was lonely. As families would go to the cafeteria to struggle with even the idea of eating, the chatter of the crowds took on a grating annoyance. It was as if their minds were screaming in rebellion, “Doesn’t anyone here know what is going on? How can you all act as if life were normal? I am hurting. Take notice.”
It is this anonymity of pain that is so terrible. It does not matter that in other parts of the hospital others feel the same way. The ache in the stomach, the heart that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, the utter hopelessness; they seem to be all-consuming. Yet nurses, doctors, visitors, all walk by without so much as a nod of recognition. Neither do they hear the silent screams.
It is the “long black night of the soul.” The blackness outside matches the darkness within. It seems as if light will never shine there again. Surely the sun will not rise tomorrow. Surely it would not taunt with its brightness and warmth. Others must share the pain. They must know what it’s like. So the waiting. They’ll see. Tomorrow, they’ll all see whose pain it is that causes they world to remain in darkness. They’ll come and beg for mercy. They’ll know the pain.
The crying goes on into the night. It seems the tears will never end. Then suddenly there is stirring into consciousness. Could it have been sleep? What is that coming through the window? It can’t be! That wretched sun is mocking. It is rising high in the morning sky. It brightens the whole world. Noises enter the room, the hustling and bustling busy-ness of the hospital in the morning. Life is going on.
As a chaplain, I have seen scores of people go through this. I can’t prevent it. I can’t even share their journey. In a small way I can affirm them; I can be one, at least, who will take notice. Hopefully, there will come a time when that mocking sun will become a beacon of hope and life. They will also have to come to that on their own and in their own time.
© John C. Fitts, III and Bereavement Publications, Inc. All rights reserved. This story first appeared in 1998 in Bereavement Magazine (now Living With Loss Magazine). It is reprinted here with permission of the publisher.
