A sterile room with a plain beige wall,
the guard-railed bed groaned up tall,
then screeched down, mattress frame locked.
Convertible side-tables, vanity mirrors,
a monitor machine, pulse remembered.
The stick of the needle was the real sin,
or the stick of the bandage that tore my skin.
O God, how can this happen? There must be a reason.
The blood lady came with a bright red scarf
in white starched slacks, “I'll map your heart.”
The green smocked x-ray tech ordered,
“Hold this cold board right up to your chest.”
The long-haired cleaning girl came washing,
“Just stay put while I'm mopping.”
O God, how can this happen? There must be a reason.
The ward nurses buzzed the room with care.
How do they keep their Clairol hair?
Some pain is routine, some horrific;
to help the hurt, pharmaceuticals prolific.
Doctors in white coats came once a day rare,
visit the patients scratching their hair.
O God, how can this happen? There must be a reason.
But last, the old visiting chaplain stopped to talk.
“I ministered these forty-four years to injured and sick.”
So long, so weary, his voice grew thick.
To lighten his load, I held his hand quick.
“I prayed for the dying; I prayed...the wounded.”
He fumbled his word, so I prayed instead.
How amazed he felt his heart burn within.
A tear from his eye dropped to his chin.
For all his years to these hospital shut-ins,
no one ever prayed for this elderly chaplain.
So this is the reason. This is the reason.
-- a true event--
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