I heard a fly buzz.

I’ve been in this room before.

I’ve witnessed the cough that rattles against the rib cage of a dying loved one, the lungs which emit it growing ever closer to giving in altogether. I’ve seen the furrowed brow, knit in the confusion of a life passed too quickly and in the pain of feeling it slip away. I’ve seen the gaping mouth, lips dry and cracked, tongue purple and swollen and unable to form words of comfort to the heartbroken family members who stand at the side of the bed. I’ve seen the soul flutter behind glassy eyes like a trapped bird striving to break free of its decaying bonds of flesh.

I’ve heard words spoken as if they would be the last ever heard by that loved one. I’ve seen hands reach out to caress and hold old, withered fingers that grab blindly for some sort of reassurance. I’ve beheld eyes that brim over with love that words can no longer communicate, that perhaps never could be expressed before this point.

Watching someone die is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. But I count the time I spent with my grandfather before he passed away as one of God’s greatest gifts to me. You learn a lot about a person - and about yourself - when verbal communication is no longer an option, and when the time allotted on this earth to spend with that person could never possibly be enough. And since none of us know exactly what comes next, all you can do as he approaches the great chasm between life and death is to let him know that you’re there with him, and have the grace to let go when he has to continue his journey on his own.

It won‘t be long until Emma’s sister passes away. After ten years of putting off visiting Berthie, Emma finally made a point of getting over to the nursing home. During our first visit, Emma patted her sister’s hand and said in her small voice, “Who am I? Don’t you know me?” Berthie opened her eyes once and said, “That’s Emma, isn’t it?” before falling back into a stupor. After we left that day, she suffered a stroke that took away any ability to speak. Our visits now are silent, punctuated only by expressions of happiness, sadness, or despair that flash across Berthie’s tired face. I know it’s difficult for Emma to have to see her sister this way, especially after she neglected to see her for ten prior years of relatively good health. But I tell her how much it means to Berthie that she’s there now, that she’s a point of immense support for her sister at this time.

It doesn’t make it easier. But there’s so much to be learned from a person’s final days. I just hope that Emma forgives herself in enough time to see that.

Better People

This past weekend, Wilmore, Kentucky saw 18,000 Christians flock to its fields for Ichthus, a tremendous music festival fondly dubbed “Christian Woodstock.” I volunteered to do recruitment for CAP in the Global Village tent, and was really looking forward to being in the thick of the festive atmosphere that’s inherent in any event that celebrates music’s role in our culture.

The night before I set out for the festival, I’d been in a Richmond emergency room all night with a participant who was feeling “sick to her stomach.” Far be it from me to deny care, I hung with her in the hospital for six hours, and didn’t wind up getting back home to Jackson House until 11:30 that night. With a four o’clock wake-up call looming in front of me, I packed my bag full of clothes that, I believed, looked professional, but approachable. After three hours of peaceful slumber in my bed (a commodity which, I’ve since learned, I truly take for granted), I jumped into my CAP minivan and sped off to Ichthus.

I pulled onto the fairgrounds and was blown away by the sheer size of the event. Thousands upon thousands of tents covered the grass, and people straggled along the dusty roads that attempted to lend some sort of order to the overnight shanty town. I hadn’t the faintest idea of where to park so, being that there were no attendants and that no one really seemed to care very much, I pulled up on some empty grass, threw it into park, and left my trusty vehicle behind to explore on foot. I soon came across the rest of the CAP crew, most of which were slowly waking up from underneath an enormous white tent that was to be our shelter for the rest of the week.

I jumped into action fairly quickly. All of those professional-but-approachable outfits were cast aside without circumstance in favor of light blue t-shirts that read “Faith in Action” on the front. I manned the information table with a few different friends throughout the weekend, and I had the opportunity to meet a lot of really wonderful folks. Our fellow Global Villagers were a mix of better people, doing and representing awesome things about which they were truly passionate. Many of the individuals who inquired at our display told stories of mission trips, youth groups, and big plans - all in the name of God. In most instances, it was quite inspiring.

In many other cases, however, I was just plain freaked out. While there were a few bands with which I was familiar (Switchfoot, Relient K, Casting Crowns), on the whole, there were a lot of strange kids at this festival. Up until this past weekend, I hadn’t been acquainted with heavy metal Christian music. Oh, yes. It exists. And it’s loud. And obnoxious. Especially when you’re inside a tent. Furthermore, the individuals who adhere to this particular brand of praise and worship music all fit a fairly specific mold: dyed and heavily gelled hair, shirts with big lettering on them, skinny jeans, and neon plastic sunglasses. Add to this the ubiquitous “Free Hugs” signs and the scarcity of showers, and I was running pretty darn low on patience with the whole lot of them by the end of the week.

On our last day of recruiting, a friend and I were walking through the dust, soaked in sweat and loudly complaining about everything pertaining to the festival. Everybody smelled. We were hot and covered in dirt. The thought of going into that tent for another three hours was absolutely repulsive. More than anything, though, we were tired of having “God” shouted at us. For me, there is no reverence in a shirt that says “High Five If You Love Jesus.” There was little respect or gravity in the numerous “Virginity Rocks” tees. I felt as if, for all of the yelling, preaching, testifying, and singing, an image of this Christianity had been crafted, and everyone at this festival was trying to fit it. None of it felt genuine to me, and I was feeling rather cynical - even skeptical - about all of it.

As my friend and I finished up our rant, a boy came up to us. He was tall - taller than me - but had a young face that, at the moment, looked confused and worried.

“Excuse me. You all look nice. I’ve been goin’ through some tough times lately. I was wonderin’ if y’all could pray over me.”

My friend and I didn’t look at each other, but I knew that she was just as taken aback as I was. There were 17,997 other people on those grounds who would have been more than happy to fulfill this fellow’s request, and he picked the two pessimists in the sea of willful believers. Without much hesitation, though, we nodded our heads and each put a hand on the boy’s shoulders.

And I prayed for strength and courage for him to see his challenges through to the end. For the comfort to know that he is loved beyond all comprehension, and that he is not alone in any of his battles. For the grace to see God’s Hand in his struggles, and to find meaning in his suffering. For the faith that will undoubtedly bring him through to the other side. When I’d said “Amen,” the boy wiped his eyes, gave us a small smile, and walked away.

And I realized, as I walked away a little shakily, that I’d been praying as much for myself as I had been for him.

An Indecent Proposal

"Bridget, if I divorce my wife, will you marry me?"

I shook my head and smiled at the man-child sitting in front of me. A big guy in his early thirties, Jack is a sweetly simple fellow with an unruly head of brown hair and big blue eyes that look perpetually inquisitive. "No, Jack. That's very sweet of you, but my future plans involve a few acres in upstate New York, two big dogs, and a shotgun."

Jack's the son of one of my participants, and they're two of my favorite people to visit. His mom, Hannah, always greets me at her screen door with a big, toothless smile and a "Come on in, girl!" I usually like to try to end my day at their house; they have a porch that hangs above the road below, and I've spent many a relaxing afternoon sitting there with them, watching the wind blow through the trees amidst the chirping of their many birds. They're the kind of people with whom awkward silences don't exist. Just comfortable ones.

In April, Jack had asked Lucas and I to come over on a Saturday for a trail ride that's held annually at the Sugar Camp Saddle Club. Every year, thousands of people come to camp out there with their horses and spend the weekend riding the miles of trails around the area. We gladly obliged, bringing with us another volunteer, Alex, and plenty of food for a cook-out. It was a really wonderful day, spent talking, barbecuing, and looking at the horses and their riders as they trotted along the road in front of the house. It was plain to see that Jack was on top of the world to have the rare opportunity to entertain company. Before we left, we all signed a contract mandating Jack to quit smoking; if he didn't, and he lit up in my presence, I was given license to hit him. The contract still hangs on their refrigerator, to the great amusement of anyone who visits the house.

On this day, I asked Jack how his visit with his wife had been. She lives in Louisville, where she works in a nursing home and takes care of her aging father. Jack, meanwhile, stays in Owsley County to take care of Hannah. As a result, they only see each other once every several months. He said that his visit had gone well, but that he'd been mugged by three men after leaving the grocery store on his last day there. He crossed the room and had me feel his throat, which was still sporting a nasty knot from where one of the men had punched him. He never reported it; law enforcement isn't all that it should be down here. I was alarmed by the size of the bump, and begged Jack to schedule an urgent visit at the medical clinic for the following day. He's the kind of person that you instinctively want to protect from anything bad in this world. He nodded his head in response to my request, eyes wide, and promised that he would call the next morning.

Conversation then turned to their upcoming family reunion at Natural Bridge. They've been talking about it for months now, and they've graciously invited me to come. When I thanked them, Jack shook his head.
"You and Lucas are the best friends I've ever had," he said, nodding gravely. "I mean, I've had friends in my life, but I never met anyone like you two."
Hannah nodded in agreement. "There's some people who'll stab you in the back, then turn ya 'round and stab ya again. But you all are like family."
Jack grinned. "When you all come to visit after you leave here, don't do anything silly like stay in a hotel or nothin'. We got beds here. Don't make no sense to stay someplace else when you got friends with room."

I was truly grateful for their hospitality. Not because their living quarters are a grand show of luxury; on the contrary, rooms of their house are literally disintegrating off of the foundation. It was, rather, the authenticity with which they freely opened their home and their family to me that almost brought tears to my eyes. I can't imagine having a heart so pure and a capacity to love so great that I could generously accept - as Hannah and Jack have - relative strangers with such grace and ease. The only thing we've ever done for the two of them has been to sit and talk with them. But I've found that, more often than not, that's the only thing that human beings require to truly be happy: to know that they count.

As I prepared to leave, Hannah clapped a weathered and care-worn hand on my shoulder and shouted, "We better see you at that reunion, girl!"

I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Besides, there will be banjos.

The Hurricane Gang

A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to head over to Rockcastle County for a few days to aid in the disaster relief efforts that have been going on since flooding moved through the region earlier this month. CAP's Disaster Relief program, led by Sherry Buresh, was created at the time of Hurricane Katrina. Now, whenever there's a need for a response, emails are sent out and CAP and community volunteers spring into action.

I went over on Wednesday night and met up with several friends who'd been there since Sunday evening. We slept in a church that had graciously opened its doors to us for the week. As you can probably imagine, things are very touch-and-go at the home base of a relief effort. Any time I saw Sherry, she was pacing back and forth, puffing away on a cigarette and trying to figure out where, exactly, the individuals needing help were located. If you'd watched the news at all in May, you know that there's an obvious need for assistance here. The problem is that many of those who need the help - for reasons of pride or misinformation - haven't alerted the necessary authorities, so it follows to reason that organizers of relief efforts can't track them all down. Therefore, I never knew what I'd be doing until the morning of each work day. And, frankly, that was perfectly fine with me.

Thursday morning, I was told that I'd be working with Mark - an awesome volunteer from the Sandy Valley region - and five members of the O'Shea volunteer group. Now, working with an organization that has the word "Christian" in its title means that incoming short-term volunteers often come to us from church groups and Catholic high schools. The O'Shea crowd, on the contrary, was a phenomenal group of folks from the O'Shea pubs in Louisville. Tom O'Shea, the owner, was with me on Thursday; he owns the four restaurants and is honestly one of the nicest guys I've ever met. He's got five kids whom he's put through Catholic high school. One night during the week they traveled from Mount Vernon to Louisville to watch his son play baseball. In short, talking to him felt like talking to any of the dads I knew from the rink or the ball fields on Long Island. We went to a house in Richmond that day to clear out a basement. Luckily, there wasn't all that much in said basement, so we only had to move some boxes and a few pieces of furniture before hacking away at the walls. Afterwards, we covered everything in a bleach solution and called it a day before noon. "The O'Sheas," as we came to call them, had to hit the road early that day, so Tom asked Mark and I to accompany the rest of them to Berea from some coffee and good conversation. We gladly obliged their request, and spent some time at Berea Coffee & Tea enjoying their laid-back company, slinging one-liners and laughing loudly. It felt like we were at an Irish pub. Or a McCormack family gathering. Both good things.

The following day, I went with a different group of CAP volunteers to Casey County, where we'd been told there was a trailer that needed to be vacated of its furniture. We met its resident, Rodney, outside. He was a big man with a face that housed a permanent smile over a neatly trimmed white beard and tiny eyes that had deep laugh lines etched into their corners. He'd only lives in his trailer, which he rented, for a year; that's when he'd lost his job in Cincinnati and moved down to Kentucky with his wife who, at only sixty years of age, has been battling Alzheimer's for over a year now. All of his furniture had been destroyed or contaminated by mold after the "Five Hundred Year Flood," and we had to clear all of it, jumping over holes in the rotting floor as we moved over the water-logged carpet. The outlook was pretty bleak for our friend. But he hung in there with us all day, helping as much as he could and never complaining once. He looked at the experience as a test of sorts, and had complete faith that everything would work out in his favor, despite the fact that his landlords appeared to be entirely insensitive to his situation and seemed to be taking advantage of him and his wife. Reader, I fell in love with Rodney; his sense of humor and fiercely optimistic attitude were inspiring. The privilege of going through a lot of his personal items with him - hearing his stories and being his audience - was an absolute gift. When the day came to a close and he had to go pick up his wife at her adult day care center, he gave me a bear hug that threatened to wring the tears from my eyes.

Just down the way from Rodney's trailer was a trailer belonging to another man named Bert. Bert was sixty-eight years old, had been completely slammed by the disaster, and was working diligently the entire time we were at Rodney's with nothing but a pair of torn latex gloves and an old surgical mask. It was evident that he had put a lot of work into his home; decorative paneling lined the walls and wood floors ran throughout. As we pulled off the sheet rock, though, we could see that the water had already done its worst. Mold had infested absolutely everything, and we believed that it would only be a matter of time before the trailer was condemned. Bert must have had an inkling of this, too. When I spoke with him, though, he only had wonderful things to say. He said that this daughter hadn't spoken to him for several years but, upon hearing about the floods, she'd driven to him immediately and spent three days working in his home with him.

"Everything happens for a reason," he said to me, slowly and emphatically. "I'd gladly take all of this in return for my daughter speaking to me again. I'm a blessed man." He smiled a beautiful, genuine smile and said, "And you folks are the answers to my prayers."

He looked around the gutted remnants of his home and said, almost to himself, "Everything I wanted to get done today is done 'cause of all of you. Ain't no way I coulda done this without you all. You came in here like a hurricane." The thought seemed to strike him, and he stopped surveying the wreckage and let his hopeful eyes find mine. "Hurricane! Can I call you guys the Hurricane Gang? Is that alright?"

I couldn't think of anything that was more alright at that moment.