I sit in a hospital room in Asia. The elderly Indonesian man has just been transferred there from ICU. I try to move a chair next to the bed so his wife can sit next to him. It is hard for him to move his foot over to make space for her. But he does it anyway and tells me to leave the chair alone and let her sit on the bed next to him. She looks at me and smiles.
“He misses me. It’s our anniversary today. 46 years.”
I wonder where each anniversary over the last 46 years have been. Today’s anniversary gift was being releasing from ICU. Is the lady—his beloved wife—happy or bitter about this sort of day?
He is hungry and when the nurse brings his food, the wife scuttles about to get the table pushed close to his bed so he can eat his light meal. She holds his hands and leans over him. They share a private moment together. I am welcome in the room, but as an observer only.
He is weak, he cannot stand or walk, he can barely move his legs, and his hands are minimally functional. Yet he holds her hands and leads in a prayer. A long prayer. This is more than just thanking the Lord for food. This is a couple who have been inseparable for over 4 decades. They come together before God’s throne in prayer.
“Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”
I think back to another prayer of two people holding hands. It was 15 years ago in Sudan. Ruta, the lady who cleaned my house and helped me watch my young children, sat on the front porch with my infant, my youngest son. She was feeding him his baby food.
I heard quiet mumbling and peered through the screen door to see Ruta holding Joel’s little hands in a folded position and thanking God for the food before she fed it to him. This was more than just a sweet moment. This was a sacred moment.
Ruta, a refugee from Eritrea, lived in a hovel of a home. She had recently lost her baby boy, also named Joel, in a tragic accident. Our two little babies would have been the same age.
And here she sat, taking care of my baby. Was she happy or bitter about this sort of day?
Her quiet spirit and giant faith were strong and steady. She trusted God.
“Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”
The village wife of an old Indonesian man who is dying. The refugee mother who has lost her baby boy. Simple prayers of thanksgiving for the very next meal. Who knows what the future will hold. But today, God’s provision is here and thankfulness overflows in quiet prayers whispered over hospital beds and pudgy baby hands.