In the middle of my bout with COVID,
as I lie awake just before dawn,
wishing I'd stop coughing, sweating, etc.,
she appears–
Sophia–
dress in purple scrubs
with a stethoscope around her neck.
"How's our patient doing?" she asks.
"Miserably," I answer.
She sigh, nods, sits on the edge of the bed.
She rests a hand on my forehead;
"Fever," she says. "Chills. Aches. Depression.
Not pleasant."
I close my eyes;
her hand is cooling, soothing;
the urge to cough lessens.
"You are healing.
You may not feel it now, but it's happening.
Most make it through, you know–
most, but not all–
those we gather to our heart–
too many we've gathered."
Only Sophia can offer–all at once–
both comfort and perspective.
"But right now,
it's okay to acknowledge
how very nasty it it.
There's no virtue in denying personal suffering.
If you can't claim your own,
you won't allow it for others.
It's the root of compassion."
I thought of all the platitudes I've thoughtlessly offered,
mostly to make myself feel better–
It could be worse.
Think of others suffering more than you.
You'll be fine.
–when what I could have said (allowing God's voice)–
I'm sorry.
I'll sit with you.
–and maybe:
What do you need right now?
"Hey," she says, seeing into me,
"now you're adding guilt
to the grossness of COVID.
Give it a rest."
I smile.
So does she.
"Thanks," I say, and,
"Can you stay awhile?"
And she does.
We watch the sky slowly lighten
from pink, to pale blue,
the dark outline of the trees shift
from grey to green.
I doze, finally,
and when I awake,
she is gone,
the imprint of her hand–
the blessing–
still on my forehead.
Text and image © 2022 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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