During ICU rounds one morning I learned that Elyse, in her late 50s, had been admitted the night before.  She’d been diagnosed with advanced breast cancer four years earlier, but it had gone into remission after a brutal course of treatment and she’d been in good health since.  However, her breathing had become more labored over the past month, and after simpler remedies failed, a chest scan in the ER revealed a large mass pressing on her lungs.

Leaving rounds, I noted a man wearing a “Jesus is My Rock” T-shirt entering Elyse’s room, and I left them to their time together.  I returned later to find Elyse alone, getting an IV line placed by her nurse.

“Greetings, Elyse, I’m one of the chaplains here.  I can come back in a few minutes if you like.”

Elyse waves me in, with her nurse’s encouragement.  “I’ve been hoping a chaplain would come by.  I would really like prayer.” 

“I’m happy to do so.”  I walk to her side, and observe her staring at her left arm with trepidation as the nurse searches for a vein.  “Would you like me to hold your hand while he works?”

“That would be great.”  I take her hand and suggest that we settle into silent prayer, and Elyse relaxes quickly.  Before long the nurse finishes his task, and Elyse thanks him warmly for his skill and tenderness. 

As usual when someone requests prayer, I ask Elyse what she would like me to know about her faith.

“I’m a Christian.  I was raised Catholic, but when I was 18 I ran into a bunch of crazy Pentecostals and that’s where I’ve made my home ever since.  You know, though … I’d always thought I understood what it meant to have a relationship with God, but it wasn’t until I got breast cancer that I really experienced it.  It was the best thing that ever happened to me.  All my family and friends were upset about my illness, of course, and it’s not like I wasn’t, but I felt so grateful that it had brought me to a new place in my faith.”

“That’s really helpful.  Can you say a little more about what changed, what feels new?”

“It’s hard to describe.  It’s like, the moment I got my diagnosis, I felt this powerful presence within me and outside of me, letting me know that, whatever happened, I was not alone and I’d be OK.”

“I understand.  It’s a shame that it seems to take a crisis to open us fully to God’s presence, but it sure is wonderful to feel that strength in a time of need.”

“Absolutely.  And that comforting presence has never left me.  So now I’m sitting here, and I’ve got this new tumor or whatever.  The tests aren’t back yet, but they’re telling me that surgery seems unlikely.  That’s probably not a good thing.  I don’t want to hear the word ‘terminal’ when the doctors come back in here this afternoon, but I’m preparing myself that I might.  Still, somehow, I’m feeling OK, that I’m in God’s hands and I’ll be all right.”

“I really appreciate your sharing that.  I’m happy to lead us in a time of prayer—let me know how I can best pray for you.”

“I want to pray that the presence of God that I feel today never leaves me, and that that same presence be felt by all in my family—that they might know that whatever happens to me, God will be with them and they will be all right.”

And so we prayed together about these things …

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I am always in awe of those who confront end of life with courage and grace, and I learn so much from spending time in their presence.  Both Elyse and Clark, the self-described atheist from my post “The Science Teacher,” manage to do this beautifully while coming from seemingly opposite faith foundations.  How do they do this?  And are their faith foundations really so different?

Courage isn’t courage if there isn’t a measure of fear, and Elyse certainly felt fear.  “I don’t want to hear the word ‘terminal’ when the doctors come back”—and who among us would?  She knew from personal experience how difficult the path of treatment might be, yet also understood the consequence of not pursuing treatment.  She knew the fear her loved ones felt at the prospect of losing her, and she had her own fears about leaving this life that had brought her so much joy.  She held her fear openly, but it did not overcome her.  Elyse displayed great courage.

Similarly, grace (as I intend it here) isn’t grace if there isn’t some adversity to which it is a response.  It’s easy to be gracious when there is no personal injury, but much less so when learning that life may be coming to a premature end.  While acknowledging the reality of her loss, Elyse’s primary response was gratitude, focused less on what was being taken from her than on what she had received.  Elyse exemplified grace, from her kindness to the nurse sticking a needle into her arm, to her reflections on her treasured family life.  But what stood out from all of these was her gratitude for God’s steadfast love—what many call the greatest gift of all.

Courage and grace are steady companions; in my experience, one rarely finds one without the other.  There’s a reason for this, I think.  A favorite text of mine says, “perfect love casts out fear.” (1 John 4:18)  Accordingly, to perceive and acknowledge perfect love is to acquire the strength to overcome fear.  To me, it is the meaning of grace, and it is the source of courage.

What is the source of this love that casts out fear?  Elyse named it God, and expressed it in the context of the Christian story, as do I.  But Clark’s response to his own adversity was quite similar.  He named the source of the love he felt “the universe,” and he located that love within his personal experience of the universe.  Despite these differences, the quality of love and gratitude that I felt in Clark’s presence were made of the same substance as Elyse’s, and so were the courage and grace he displayed.

In The Science Teacher I remarked that “true faith … is the embrace of all that we don’t know, coupled with beliefs that enable us to step forward toward the unknown.”  This resonated with many readers, and I’ve continued to reflect on this as I’ve pondered my experiences with Elyse and Clark.  The world’s great faith traditions give us teachings and stories leading toward that embrace, but participation only provides context—as Elyse said, she’d thought she was a Christian until crisis brought her to a new understanding of her faith.  Clark, on the other hand, rejected immersion in any faith tradition, but cultivated within himself the seeds of faith that came to fruition in his time of crisis.

“In the end these three remain: faith, hope and love, and the greatest of these is love.” (1 Corinthians 13:13)  I believe the truth of this teaching is not confined to any faith tradition, and that it is accessible to all who listen carefully to their inward teacher.