I could make this a rant about the western sensibility when it comes to a word like therapy, but I will resist. I will simply state that in looking at this space I don't get a strong sense of healing.
And yet . . .
As I think about this little 6x10 room with a curtain for privacy (look at the right edge of the picture to see the curtain), and the IV drug hanging coatrack I realize that healing does take place in this room. With its pseudo comfy chair for the patient receiving the semi-specific toxins that target the cancer cells, this room is a bizarre space.
As I sat in this little room with my mom, I started thinking about the hundreds of people who have sat in this little room before us. I think about all of the fear, anxiety, and sadness that has dwelt in the hearts and minds of the people who have sat in this space. I wonder how many tears have been shed in this little cubicle with it's semi-private curtain.
I wonder what happened to the other people who shared this space with my family. They have no idea that we are even here, and I don't know who any of them are either. I wonder, if, amid the tears, they had hope.
I realize that the space doesn't scream out therapy and healing, but then maybe that's our job. You see, when we bring the light of Christ into a space, no matter how sad, dark, and dismal it might be, it becomes a place of healing and hope.
We don't often take time to reflect on the space which we inhabit, or our call to transform that space into a place where heaven and earth meet. Where are you sitting right now? Who has sat there in the past? We don't think about these things often. But maybe, if we did, our hearts might become a little more soft toward the people who are hurting all around us.
Maybe then we could bring just a little more healing into our world. And maybe, just maybe, the place in which we dwell would become a therapeutic space--wherever it is.
And yet . . .
As I think about this little 6x10 room with a curtain for privacy (look at the right edge of the picture to see the curtain), and the IV drug hanging coatrack I realize that healing does take place in this room. With its pseudo comfy chair for the patient receiving the semi-specific toxins that target the cancer cells, this room is a bizarre space.
As I sat in this little room with my mom, I started thinking about the hundreds of people who have sat in this little room before us. I think about all of the fear, anxiety, and sadness that has dwelt in the hearts and minds of the people who have sat in this space. I wonder how many tears have been shed in this little cubicle with it's semi-private curtain.
I wonder what happened to the other people who shared this space with my family. They have no idea that we are even here, and I don't know who any of them are either. I wonder, if, amid the tears, they had hope.
I realize that the space doesn't scream out therapy and healing, but then maybe that's our job. You see, when we bring the light of Christ into a space, no matter how sad, dark, and dismal it might be, it becomes a place of healing and hope.
We don't often take time to reflect on the space which we inhabit, or our call to transform that space into a place where heaven and earth meet. Where are you sitting right now? Who has sat there in the past? We don't think about these things often. But maybe, if we did, our hearts might become a little more soft toward the people who are hurting all around us.
Maybe then we could bring just a little more healing into our world. And maybe, just maybe, the place in which we dwell would become a therapeutic space--wherever it is.
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