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there's a right way to go and a wrong way to go. I see all the suffering going on in the nursing homes and it really eats at me. I just find it really hard to accept as necessary. It looks wrong to me and I question, What mistakes are we making? This next story is offered to give you some insight into that opinion. Now remember that Alice wasn't identified as religious and was too far gone to have a part in this, even to know what was going on. This was in the days when we all had incinerators in our back yards. The time was Summer, 1964. I call this story, NO WAY TO DIE They found Alice a short distance from the incinerator, laying in the ashes of what had been her clothing. Half-burned garbage was scattered about. There she had lain for several hours in the Summer sun. My landlady, Mrs. W., told me what had happened. Four months before, her mother had gone out to the incinerator to burn an abundance of garbage. She was wearing a thick robe. When the fire was burning well, she opened the lid to stuff more paper in. The fire came roaring out, spewing burning paper up and outward. Her robe caught fire. The poor old woman was helpless to do anything but scream in pain and terror as the flames quickly surrounded her. She was nearly dead and in a coma when they found her. Over eighty percent of her body had been burned. Now, four months later, on a Thursday, I had called Mrs. W. for a rake. It was Autumn, my yard was disappearing under a blanket of leaves, and I was too poor to afford simple tools. Mrs. W. apologized, saying she had to go visit her mother in the hospital, but she could bring it on Tuesday. I naturally asked, "What's wrong with your mom?" That's when she told me about her mother. There was more. Alice never came out of the coma. The doctors gave her no chance of ever regaining consciousness. But, being doctors, they did what they could. She had diabetes and couldn't heal. They tried skin grafts anyway. As expected, those were sloughing off. She had two heart problems. Her heart would soon fail. Of course, there was her age, 72. Their conclusion: she couldn't possibly last more than two weeks. The sadness of the situation was punctuated by her little dog who wouldn't eat, waiting all this time for his best friend. He too was dying, pining away. So my landlady had the heart ripping job of putting the little dog to sleep, of getting her mothers affairs wound up, and preparing for her funeral and burial. Perhaps she could be buried with her dog. I forgot about the rake. "Would you like prayer for her?" I offered. "Yes! By all means!" It was a heart crying out for harbor in a raging storm, more desperation than faith. But then she thanked me as people do when they know someone cares but can offer only a bandage to heal a broken heart. I called my friend Marilyn who promised to call a few of her pals. We would all fast and pray in agreement. Our meeting was spiritual. Putting my lunch aside, I began to pray, to cry out for that poor old lady. "People must die," I prayed, "but this is not the way." I pled with Him, "When Alice dies, let it be in her strength." I asked God to save her from this death, to heal her and make her healing a testimony of His love and power; to show her family and friends, her doctors and nurses that he cares and is able to work when reason offers only despair. "Your Word Father, says that by the stripes of Jesus we are healed." This was the theme and tone of our prayers. I worked, wept and prayed until two o'clock that afternoon. Suddenly, like a waterfall flowing over me, flooding around and through me, I was drenched with joy. I was totally unprepared for it. I didn't understand it. And I still cannot describe it. It was glorious, awesome, electrified with love. It was "unspeakable and full of glory." I knew Alice was healed. All I could do was thank God and gratefully eat my lunch. As I mentioned, I called on a Thursday. The following Tuesday, as promised, my landlady brought the rake. "How's your mother?" I asked. She raised her arms, waving them above her head, and exclaimed, "It's a miracle!" Friday night her mother came out of the coma and talked with Mrs. W's brother. By Saturday she was her old self and her memory was restored. Sunday morning she rose from her bed and fed herself breakfast. All of the staff knew this was impossible. But acting like this, and eating . . . double impossible! They had to see it. Naturally they wanted to examine her. The more they looked, the more amazed they became. Her skin grafts were healed and according to one doctor, were the best he had ever seen. There was no sign of diabetes and her heart wasn't bothering her. The doctors and nurses all agreed, "this cannot happen; we have no explanation." "They cannot understand," she said. "Well, we do, don't we." We couldn't afford a rake, but no amount of wealth could have purchased that unspeakable joy. It came through Jesus. With it came forever love and life. It surpassed anything anyone could dream or ask. Incidently, her little dog couldn't find enough tail to wag. It may still be going. We have all been burned. Misery is no respecter of position. Some people exist in a living death. Some lives and hearts are disfigured beyond recognition. For all, there has been scaring from those burns. The burns are failure, rejection, sin and loss. The scars are hatred, fear, despair, and often, physical and mental illness. Sometimes we are the cause of another's hardship. Like Alice, the burns can be healed along with all the scars. We have to realize that even though we lay in the ashes of a living death there is healing. We don't have to understand it or be prepared. We have only to ask in faith. That's why I question death by suffering. What do you think? |
