Scripture: Mark 5:35-43
While he was still speaking, some people came from the leader's house to say, "Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?" But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, "Do not fear, only believe." He allowed no one to follow him except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. When they came to the house of the leader of the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. When he had entered, he said to them, "Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping." And they laughed at him. Then he put them all outside, and took the child's father and mother and those who were with him, and went in where the child was. He took her by the hand and said to her, "Talitha cum," which means, "Little girl, get up!" And immediately the girl got up and began to walk about (she was twelve years of age). At this they were overcome with amazement. He strictly ordered them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.
Reflection Questions:
When does your life feel unalive? Where are you in need of resurrection? What would it be like for you for Jesus to take your hand and raise you up?
Five-minute Story:
I have another Clinical Pastoral Education story to share with you this week. The hospital where I did my C.P.E. was a level one trauma center. Ambulances rushed people there in severe conditions at all hours of the night. I know this to be true because I experienced it first hand starting on my first overnight on-call.
It was about nine o’clock in the evening when I knocked on the door of the ER social worker. A near-retiring age African American woman sat at her desk looking through a phonebook. She was scratching a number on a scrap of paper. “Can I help you?” Her voice was quiet. At first glance, she seemed fragile. I would find out that like her words, this woman was a powerhouse.
After introducing myself as a chaplain student, I offered my help. Moving a stack of papers off a chair with stained and ripped upholstery, Georgia* invited me to sit down. Instantly I knew that I was sitting in the presence of wisdom, patience, and greatness. Georgia’s welcoming smile did not cover up the years of struggle and hardship that she witnesses and endured.
Within a few minutes, we received word that a teenager was just brought in by ambulance. He was hit by a city bus and was in critical condition. The family had been notified and were on their way to the ER. Georgia quickly showed me the private waiting room that was attached to her small office.
Without much time passing, the family filled the space. Georgia’s job was to be present with the family until someone from ER could give an update. She made sure that they all had water and coffee. It was going to be a long and challenging night for them.
The family’s wait was cut short by bad news. A somber doctor spoke in a hushed tone to Georgia. The report was not good; the young man died from his massive injuries. All three of us - with me in the rear - went into the grieving room.
As soon as the boy’s mother heard the doctor say what no mother should ever have to hear, she collapsed in uncontrollable wailing. The doctor left and Georgia began her work of comforting. In a manner that was gentle and yet filled with resolve, she encouraged them to let their feelings out.
My back was literally against the wall - I didn’t know what to do. Drama permeated. The situation was raw, painful. At that moment, I learned that there are times when words fail and you need to resort to actions of the heart. An empathetic touch on a shoulder. A sympathetic nod of the head. Encourage others to express what they must without correction. These were the on-the-job lessons that Georgia taught with the agility of a dojo master.
Eventually, we walked the family into a sanitized operating room to see the teen’s body. There were more wailing and disbelief. Unable to be much help, I opened my book and recited one of the printed prayers. Georgia walked with them another hour, getting them set up with a funeral home and additional grief care. She was a real Angel of Mercy - unable to take away the pain; she nonetheless brought compassion, grace, and care in the midst of unimaginable horror.
*I used the name Georgia throughout this story. For the life of me, I couldn’t recall this inspiring social worker’s name. Given the passage of time and the fact that UMDNJ closed in 2013, I was not able to research it. Wanting to honor this social worker’s service, I just had to give her a name even if my deficient memory would not cooperate in the manner.