Eddie, my cousin, is waiting for a heart—a heart from someone else. His heart condition is such that he has no other options, although a pump was inserted next to his own heart to relieve the stress on it.
It has been a long wait. Since before Christmas he’s been getting used to having the pump work alongside his heart, doing as much exercise as he can and eating right, occasionally being shocked by the defibrillator and brought to the hospital for adjustments in his medication to control the heartbeat.
And now, he’s waiting for the heart, in the final stretch. His body is sending signals that he can’t wait much longer, and the doctors have put him high up on the list for available donors—victims, no doubt, of an unexpected calamity themselves. Amy keeps us all up-to-date on the wait, sending messages out daily.
So, we pray for him now, more than ever, which helps us deal with our anxiety for him, and helps us stay alert to the presence of a loving God in our own lives. We’re not praying to remind God of anything—God certainly is much closer and aware of Eddie than we, even close relatives or family, could ever be. We’re praying out of our own need to draw near to Eddie and hold him in our own hearts, and be one with him in speaking to God out of our fears, doubts and, yes, even anger and an outraged sense that this shouldn’t be happening to someone so wonderful and relatively young, much younger than many of us.
Eddie is always smiling, it seems. He smiled broadly when I visited him last year, although on his bright features he let some tears fall as we talked, over the story of some tensions in the family. He was so glad to see me, only about a month after my own father passed away, and he could see so much of my father in me, he told me. That was comforting to me, to know that much of my father is in me, that I am someone who reminds Eddie of my wonderful Dad.
His own dad was someone delightful to be around, too, an uncle who holds a special place in my heart for consoling me when I was about 13 years old—a confusing age, when I didn’t know whether I was too old to cry or too young to mourn the loss of my grandfather. He held me in his embrace outside the funeral home, and said, “You beat me out the door by two steps,” meaning that he was looking for an opportunity to cry, too, and mourn the departure of his own father.
This was a tremendous affirmation of my feelings, and I am forever grateful for that healing moment in my life. I never forgot it. In a moment of heartbreak, my uncle, Eddie’s father, let me know that it was okay to cry. I’ve been getting to know and appreciate my feelings ever since.
Obviously, Eddie has the same gift, letting himself express emotions while smiling, and appreciating the rightness of it. I hope and pray that his own heart, bruised and struggling, may soon leave a space for one more vibrant, so that whatever tragedy lay behind its arrival, that person’s loved ones may be consoled by the generosity of lending more time to another wonderful person, deserving of a new chance at life, and at consoling the heartbreaks of those around him when the need arises.
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