A Little Visitation

It's been an insane, surreal couple of days. Unfortunately, I don't mean that in a good way.

I spent the long Memorial Day Weekend vacationing in Pittsburgh at the first-ever Phatmass Phamily Reunion, which I'll write about some other time. It was a wonderful trip full of new friends, fantastic food, and plenty of grace.

As it turned out, I needed that grace in spades this week. When I got home, I found out that my grandmother, who's been ill for almost a decade, had taken a sudden and very serious turn for the worse while I was away. She remains critical in the hospital tonight, and combined with the injuries from a recent fall she's not well at all. Please keep her in your prayers.

The "hospital rhythm" is something my family is very good at. Every few years as my grandmother's illness exacerbates, we sink back into a flow of hospital visits, odd meals and odd moods. It's gone on for so long that in some sense, it almost feels normal.

But I never get over the hospitals, the nurses, the fall risk bracelet or how sad she seems there. Her pain makes me hurt. And I am the sort that tries to run from and ignore and drown my pain by any means necessary.

Needless to say, then, visiting her in the hospital is a very difficult thing, especially now that I'm older and can choose to go on my own.

My boyfriend suggested we visit her the other night, but I blanched at the idea and brushed it aside, saying I'd see her Saturday when I visited with my Mom. But after he went home that night and I laid in bed thinking about her, I felt neglectful and a touch guilty. So the next day, I told my boyfriend of my change of heart and we trudged down to the hospital.

Seeing her was fine – it's the hospital setting that I find difficult. I chattered with her aimlessly for 20 minutes or so, eager to avoid the empty, awkward silence that likes to descend on me when I don't know what to do.

From that difficulty, though, came something profound.

I made her laugh in that 20 minutes. And I brought joy to her face and, I'm sure, to her soul. Real joy. The kind of joy that God breathes into us and wants to show us every day.

It hit me like a ton of bricks when we left the hospital room, that sense of rightness in my gut. I had forced myself beyond my comfort zone of selfishness to truly give of myself to her. And the results made not just her day, but mine.

As we walked to the parking lot, I smiled at the people we passed. And they smiled back. I gave them a reason to smile.

That's how simple it is to bring God's joy to the world. On this feast of the Visitation, I always find myself reflecting on the joy Mary brought to Elizabeth's heart when she came.

God's joy is everywhere. All we have to do is open ourselves to sharing it, just like Mary did.