April 27, 2022
Sweet Angels in Hell: A Prayer
O Lord, sweet angels in hell, thank you for my
sweet angels in hell,
sweet angels
who accompanied me from
Good Friday
through hell itself unto
Easter morning,
and beyond; from
death
to
life,
and the hell that was in between;
all hell breaking loose,
the pain,
the fear,
the terror;
well, ok, maybe not death,
but you could have fooled me, not
able to breathe,
suffocating,
nothing worse;
but
sweet angels,
hope,
bringing me through,
the hope that is
you,
but also you
in disguise;
respiratory Ronda rescuing when
no one listening,
no one paying attention,
no one knowing what was happening;
Dr. B
saving me
from the clutches of incompetence,
saying, “What is this man doing here?!
Get him to ICU!
Stat!”
and that was that;
sweet angels in hell
waiting for me,
Hope waiting,
a nurse named Hope
nursing me through the night;
and a nurse named Frimmy
arms tattooed with butterflies,
butterflies enfolding me all around,
Christ Our Hope enfolding me (from the
beginning our symbol),
the people there with me;
and yes,
drugged up,
Avitan apparitions,
Dopey really dopey,
but hey,
cut me some slack,
no food or water for five days (and more after that),
had a right to be delirious,
seeing a granddaughter takeover ICU,
telling them she knew what to do,
she would save her Dopey;
so ok
a little out of it,
but still,
I knew what was real,
death’s dank darkness real;
sweet angels in hell;
a wife,
prayers and tears,
unceasing
through the night,
somehow carrying me
throughout the night;
a daughter,
wouldn't give up,
never gives up,
my little Pit Bull
who chomped on
and wouldn't let go
until somebody did something;
another daughter
crushing grief still crushing,
back in another ICU where
death claimed her love,
talking to him,
needing an answer,
hearing him say, “He’s not gone. He's not gone”
and so,
able to hold on,
hold me.
Then:
morning!
And Lord, now I know better than I have ever known
what your hope is like
in all it's many disguises;
know
that it's not
what we can do
for ourselves but
what others do,
giving us
what we cannot
give ourselves;
knowing that we are encircled with
a love we do not deserve;
something catching us when
we are falling,
a hand in the dark
we keep reaching out for even though
no hand there,
yet reaching out anyway
until at last
a hand takes our hand
and we know that we
are safe.
And more appearances still, Lord, Jesus
eastering up everywhere
like in Jerusalem long ago,
“Children, have you any fish?” and
fish was what I ate first night home,
not connecting, then:
of course, sustenance,
for all the long nights
and empty nets ahead;
and you,
in all the cards and texts and messages,
you,
in disguise,
sustaining, nourishing, strengthening,
But it’s not just about me, O Lord, but all of us,
all of us needing such hope
as all hell breaks out
in the Ukraine, on our streets, in our own lives;
and so,
move the nations to
encircle the Ukraine
with strength and support
that they would be victorious;
move us as a people to
encircle our nation
with healing and kindness
that we would be a nation again;
move us as human beings to
encircle one another
with our love and our prayers
that the ill and dying and grieving and homeless and hungry
be lifted in new life.
O Lord, what language can I borrow to thank you,
dearest friend,
for your pity without end; and
for the sweet angels you send;
oh, make me
thine forever,
and should I fainting be,
let me never, ever
outlive my love to thee;
be my consolation
when I must die;
and may these eyes, new faith receiving,
from you never move,
for those who die believing
die safely
in your love.
Amen.
