The Visitor
Dianne Holland

It was his eyes--large, round and deeply sunken into his sallow face. They followed her from the moment she tapped on the door of the barren hospital room. There were no flowers, no cards, just an empty table, faded yellow curtains and cold steel instruments sticking out of the dingy wall behind his narrow bed.

He was pitifully thin, fully clothed and flat on his back amid rumpled, faded blankets. He was in his early fifties, she guessed, uncomfortably unable to extricate herself from the penetrating gaze. She wasn't sure if she should smile. His penetrating gaze de-emphasized the uncontrolled, incessant thrashing of his head, arms, hands, chest, hips, legs and feet, each seeming to be a separate part of what was a human whole. It was not just a tremor or a quiver, but a raucous vibrating. She stooped, breaking the incessant stare to retrieve a fallen pillow from the too shiny hospital floor. Vexatious emotion flooded her being as she too carefully placed the discarded pillow at the foot of the bed.

Dear God! What do I say to this man? An inner prayer, a plea, reverberated from hair to toes.

He smiled through vibrating lips. She sat on the bedside chair, struggling to regain her composure.

Shake-shake-shake. There was little sound in the small room, but the deafening shaking resounded from every corner.

"How long have you been like this?"

"Brain-tumour-diagnosed-six-months-ago. Be-gone-in-a-few-months." The words were staccato.

"I'm a church visitor." Pause. "You're still smiling."

"My-son-told-me-about-Jesus-just-after-I-got-sick. I-trust-Him-now. Everything's-okay."

"Then you'll be ready to go home?" How would he understand this question? Home to his family? Home to heaven?

The incessant shaking amplified as his vibrating grin enhanced the glow of his rich brown eyes. He grasped uselessly at the bed rails. "I'm-ready. 45-years-old-and-ready-for-heaven," he quipped.

We talked about being ready.

"Would you like me to pray with you?"

The intense depth of his enormous pupils deepened. "Ple-ase." The word was pregnant with desire for reassurance.

She closed her eyes. Silently she asked: Lord, what do I pray? What words can I form that will bring value to this man who has only just learned to trust You?

"Fill my mouth with worthwhile stuff and nudge me when I've said enough"? No, Lord! How can such a frivolous thought come right now! Help me! This man is deathly ill. He's at peace--and I don't know what to pray.

"Praise me."

She praised, and His words surged from her heart.

" . . . in Jesus' name. Amen."

Resounding stillness! She smiled humbly into the man's glowing, awestruck eyes. The shaking had ceased. The eyes followed her in wonder as she backed from the room. Tears. Thank you. Thank you, Jesus.

Dianne Holland is part of the visitation ministry at Willingdon Church in Burnaby, B.C.

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