sometimes when i pray

Sometimes when I pray, I have a hard time believing anyone's listening. I sit there and I talk to the sky or the ceiling or the floor, and it's a mind-bending exercise to think that my words are getting past clouds and carpet.

Yesterday, I did a lot of praying. I had switched a shift with a friend, so I came onto the wards in the morning not knowing where I would be assigned. I headed down to my familiar territory (A and B Wards) to find my name missing from the assignment list. Groaning inwardly, because max-fax is anything but my favourite kind of surgery, I backtracked to D Ward to discover my fate for the day. I was expecting twelve hours of chlorhexidine mouthwashes, smelly penrose drains and NG feedings. I was less than excited, but when I poked my head through the door, I was handed a report sheet with just one name on it: Alimou.

The last time I worked in the ICU here, I cared for two small boys who were too sick to save. It’s been close to six months since I’ve really had to think about communicating with a freshly trached patient or managing metabolic acidosis or weaning ventilator support. Add this to the fact that Alimou was from Guinea and spoke not a word of English, and you’ve got one former-PICU nurse running scared.

I got report, and before the night nurse left, we prayed together. I assessed my poor befuddled patient and I prayed over him. The anesthetist came in to consult and write orders and then came back to pray with my patient and me. Friends stopped by to check on me and to let me know that they were praying. I took him off the ventilator, attached the trach collar and prayed for him to breathe. I put him back on the ventilator and prayed for him to come out of his confusion.

Does anyone else see the theme emerging? The thing is, I’m a PICU nurse. (Or I was, when I got a paycheck.) ICUs across the board attract a certain personality, and mine fits right in; I’m used to going to work and feeling like I run the world, like everything is in my capable hands. But I walked into that ICU yesterday knowing full well that I couldn’t care for Alimou on my own. It was a humbling feeling. Looking at lab values and not knowing right away what to do. Having him wake up, scared out of his mind, and searching desperately for the words to calm him but coming up with nothing. Waiting and watching and worrying. So I prayed, and God answered. Because that’s what He does. Around eight in the evening, Alimou started breathing on his own, was able to come off the ventilator and started looking at us instead of through us. Paul got it exactly right when he was writing to the Ephesians, referring to the God who can do so much more than we can even imagine asking.


Milton, the pastor who’s been a patient with us for about a month now, (the one praying strong prayers for my Liberian husband who hasn’t shown up quite yet) gave testimony at ward church this morning. Standing in flip flops and a hospital gown that flapped open in the back to show his plaid boxers, he looked almost comical. Nothing like the pastor who preaches to the president. But then Milton started to pray. His voice thundered, belying the fact that he’s been trapped in the windowless hull of a hospital ship for the last four weeks. He prayed for the doctors and the nurses and claimed God’s wisdom and healing power for our hands. He thanked God for allowing the tumor to be removed from his leg. He stood there, and he praised God that he had been given his dignity back. And we believed in that dignity, because you can’t help but listen when Milton prays.


So I’m going to remember Alimou and Milton when I’m praying now. When I feel like I’m coming up against a brick wall or whispering words to the wind, I’ll think of these two men. One trying to jump out of his bed, calmed by the prayers of a desperate nurse, and the other standing tall in a threadbare gown, striding confidently up to the throne of grace. Because God listens. And that’s a startling truth.