Doctors and nurses at the Newton-Wellesley Hospital in Massachusetts must have wondered what was going on when, on the morning of May 25, a small group of visitors from New York helped the cancer patient in Room 415 across the hall and into the lounge, closing the door behind them. They must have wondered even more, thirty minutes later, when they heard our singing—when we burst out of the room to make phone calls, congratulate the patient, and set up a celebratory meal on a flotilla of over-the-bed tables. Curiosity got the better of them, and by the time we had all gone, at 4:00 in the afternoon, more than one of them had dared to ask—under the guise of checking a pulse or adjusting a dripping IV line—“What was going on in there? And why do you look so happy?”

Larry is 69 and is battling a second recurrence of lymphoma. He’s survived one cancer—he lost his bladder twenty-five years ago—and is now suffering the pain and indignity of kidney-draining tubes which protrude from his back and run into plastic bags. He’s endured two rounds of chemo and countless trips to the ER and the doctor’s office. No one can argue about the quality of care he’s gotten—the doctors at this hospital, situated in the tony western suburbs of Boston, all seem to hold appointments at Harvard and Tufts. But still he isn’t getting better, and on this brilliant Memorial Day morning, he’s a prisoner in his hospital bed, far away from the lobster rolls, the parades, the surf and sand of Cape Cod.

So what was going on in that lounge, and why is Larry still radiant when we stop by again to say goodnight to him and his wife, Marie, at 9:30 p.m.? And why, the nurses want to know, is he still awake at 2:00 a.m., crying, laughing, reading his Bible? The truth is, Larry was just baptized. Yes, we had to throw a bath mat on the floor to protect the carpet, and we made do with a plastic pitcher. And Marie had to shield his tubes with a rolled towel as we poured water over his bowed head in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. But there was no denying everyone’s joy as he boldly declared his faith, as we sang a hymn to mark the end of a decade of waiting, welcoming him into the world-wide fellowship of our church.

Two thousand years ago, Jesus promised his followers that if they only asked for it, they would receive his Spirit, and that streams of living water would then flow from within them. Until now, those words had been mostly poetry to me—beautiful, but hard to grasp and rarer to see. Now, as we could all attest, streams of water were indeed flowing from Larry, and everyone who saw him or heard him on the phone could see and feel and hear the joy of the new lease on life he had just been given.

Larry puts it this way: he’s been seeking community for ten years, and now he’s found it. He’s always had friends, of course—people he knew at work, people who came over for dinner, or for Bible study—but not people he could really count on as brothers, or depend on when things got really bad. Deep down, he hungered for unity, that holy sense of belonging to a body of believers which transcends emotional bonds and renders inconsequential the failures and foibles that so often estrange us from each other. Larry had come home, and even though he and Marie were in tears, they were rejoicing. Now they could face this ugly cancer, these exhausting infections, those ever-annoying tests and procedures and consultations with new hope, and with two thousand new brothers and sisters, spread over the globe from New York to London and from Sydney to Seoul.

Three weeks later, Larry is sitting at the kitchen table in his new apartment in Woodcrest, in upstate New York. The breeze is blowing the curtain open just wide enough to catch a glimpse of the mountains—the dark blue silhouette of the Catskills etched against a coral evening sky. He is home, and at peace, and he tells me he isn’t interested in what the specialists in Boston think; he’s not going back, not even to hear them out.

“I’m tired of being poked and prodded and tested,” he protests. “I just want to live. Even if it’s only for a day, a week, or a month. I’m not giving up. But I can’t face all of this alone, and I need more than medicine. What I need is community!” Agreeing, we are reminded of a passage we read in that hospital lounge—the words of Jesus, comforting Martha as she mourns the loss of her brother Lazarus: “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.”

 

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Your Turn. Tell us what you thought about this article:

Responses

community is everything. my question is however is community available when you join a particular group did he have a community of thousands before he was baptized or only afterwards...to me facebook perpetuates our fear of all of life's realities one being sickness and death....what did change was how the man felt about himself and his self worth, his life purpose, body, perspective of death. his baptism gave others permission  to change their disconnecting thoughts/behaviors and to fully embrace and love another human being. can we do that first,? accept that we are individual true expressions of God and to live our lives as god's. As son's and daughter's of God wouldn't we do what was done for this man anyway, and always to Love as that is what God is and as god's we are and as free agents to choose love first.

eunice

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Dear brothers and sisters,

Loving greetings and we read the article will great joy of heart! I am so happy to read of Larry's baptism and finding his place among the brothers. And we wish for him the overwhelming grace of God for whatever is ahead. Please share with him our love. And- thanks for sharing stories like this. They are an encouragement to us.

Warmly,
Michael and Wanda Harris family

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What a wonderful story! Indeed, it is in community where we really grow to become what God fully intends for us. James 5:16a.

Bill Harnist
Minneapolis, MN.

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Lovely story, reading it makes me long for community and for living one day at a time with my firmly holding the hand of my Father.

Tony Carey,
Limerick
Ireland.