Reanastamosis

Reanastamosis.

I have just learned this word. It is a great word. Today I sit in my study, watching the Downy Woodpecker swoop onto the suet feeder next to the Titmouse pecking away at the cracked corn, and the word means everything to me.

All because I became disconnected.

It began over three months ago when my wife and I joined our extended family for a Thanksgiving reunion on the little island of Barbuda. The first two days were lovely, and I was feeling rather youthful and vigorous as we enjoyed the sun, the water and the swooping Frigate birds in the sky above us. Then on Thanksgiving eve the peaceful interlude suddenly was shattered. A pain tore through my torso that felt like a sword had been driven through my mid-section. We found a ride to the humble Hanna Thomas Hospital in Codrington, a village of approximately 1200 people 30 minutes away over a bumpy dirt track. The doctor and nurse observed me for twelve hours. They concluded they could not help me. My condition was growing worse. My family and friends were uncertain what the next step was. The van drove me back to our lodge. I yelped in pain as the driver negotiated every bump.

I felt disconnected from my family, from my friends, from my body and yes, even from God in that moment.

I was rushed to the plane and flown to Antigua. There at the hospital I saw a world of disconnected people. The triage nurse was concerned for me as soon as she saw me, but she looked around the emergency room with her eyes as if to tell me, “you are urgent, but so are these other twenty people who are in crisis around you.” I saw one man lying quietly with what looked to be a compound fracture. A diabetic struggled in the corner awaiting treatment. The nurse said that it was urgent that I get on an IV drip, but there were no extra IV poles. She turned to the nursing mother who was feeding her dehydrated child and asked her if she would share her rusty IV pole with me. The young mother graciously invited me to sit next to her and her little infant. I waited for what seemed to be an eternity when the doctor called me into his office for an exam. I had to climb over a man who was suffering a Grand Mal seizure. The doctor apologized that he had run out of space and that he would have to examine me on his desk, as another patient was on his examining table.

His assessment was not an encouraging one. I would have to be evaluated by the surgeon. He asked me, “Have you eaten any rich foods or drunken alcohol in the past 2 days?” I acknowledged that, yes I had. He looked disgusted. His one look consumed me with shame. His eyes suggested that my self-indulgence was wasting his precious time and the meager resources of the island. Had I not been so self-centered, his time could have been spent on the people who really needed support and care.

I felt so very, very disconnected.

There was another problem. No bed was available in the hospital. And I might need surgery soon. I had no idea what I should do. My friend from Antigua quietly suggested that he knew a private clinic that would care for me. Once again, shame overwhelmed me. I wanted no special treatment. There were others who had needs every bit as great as mine. Why should I go to a private clinic?

I felt so very, very disconnected.

We went to the clinic. When they admitted me the surgeon checked me promptly. He looked very alarmed. He informed me that he would try to prepare the operating theatre for surgery that evening, if not it would be at sunrise the next morning.

Surgery? I was stunned.

I had thought he would give me some strong antacids and send me home. But instead he informed me that my diverticulum had either ruptured or was close to rupturing. He could not wait. It was a matter of life or death; he could not release me. He explained to me what would be involved. He would go in and disconnect the sigmoid section of my colon and see how far the infection in my system had spread. Depending on what he observed he would remove a section of my colon and leave me with a colostomy.

I felt very disconnected. In fact, I was about to become physically disconnected. Literally. Denial began to set in. “I am only 53 and in good shape!” Then I started to get angry. “I have cared for myself, and even been careful about my eating.” Then I started to bargain. “God, get me through this – I still have to care for and love my wife and three sons – and those precious granddaughters need me.”  It became very scary as I watched the power on the island go off, as it frequently does. Images of a power shutdown during my surgery gave me a haunting reminder that I might not survive. I suddenly became quiet and depressed. Then, as if a dark cloud over my heart was lifting, I began to accept my circumstance and respect that I could do nothing about it. The nurse used tender words to me as she prepared me for surgery.

I felt more disconnected than ever.

The following days were a blur. The surgery was successful. The surgeon informed me that the rupture had indeed caused significant peritonitis in my intestinal cavity. I was flown back to the Pittsburgh area where the local hospital helped me to fight pneumonia in my lungs and helped me adjust to life with a temporary colostomy. In a few days I returned home and began to cope with my condition. I was disconnected and trying to figure out what that meant.

I wanted my time of recovery to be filled with rich and wonderful times of prayer. But that did not happen. I was low on energy and inept at listening to others, to myself and to God.

My wife, Mary, said that I was a good patient. I did not think so. I felt incapable of doing anything. I felt disconnected from myself and from those for whom I wanted to care. It was a rough three months.

Gradually I began to name what I was feeling: I was disconnected. Others tried to help me start listening to others, to myself and to God. They held out hope for me that I could reconnect. One colleague, Dr. John Reed, who also directs a Doctor of Ministry program at another seminary, sent me an e-mail devotional on 1 Peter 5. In it he wrote these words: “The proud carry their own burdens and are crushed. The humble throw their burdens on the Lord and are refreshed. As a saddle is thrown on a horse and the rider leaps into the saddle to put all his weight on the horse, so we are to cast our burdens on the Lord.”  My heart grew with excitement. I saw hope that I could listen, again.  I could get beyond the feeling (and reality) of being disconnected. But I had to surrender my pride including all of my own issues with shame, control and what I thought a responsible Christian looked like.  To reconnect I had to depend on the grace of God.

The phone rang soon thereafter. My tests had been reviewed, and the surgeon had cleared me. A reanastamosis of my colon, that is the reconnecting of the pieces within me, was scheduled. I felt a certain survivor’s guilt, reminding myself that many people have had to live with a colostomy for a lifetime some of whom were renowned Episcopal preachers. The prospect of the surgical pain involved did not deter my exhilaration.  I was joyful about the prospect of reconnection.

There has been much within me that was disconnected in recent months, and I am sure that the physical disconnection was a symptom of other more significant disjuncture. I do not believe that I am an isolated case. As I look around the wider church, inside of ECUSA and outside of ECUSA, I see so many who feel like I did. They are disconnected. And sadly, the Church must face greater disconnection in the days ahead as the church struggles.  We have all become disconnected, from others and from God.

But it will not be that way for ever. As we surrender to the Grace of God, all of our inadequacy will be met with the sufficiency of God’s love in Christ for us. This is our hope. This is also our challenge.

Reanastamosis.

The Rev’d Henry L. Thompson III, DMin (Laurie) is the Associate Dean for the Doctor of Ministry Program at Trinity Episcopal School for Ministry in Ambridge, Pennsylvania where he teaches liturgy and pastoral theology. He is the treasurer for the Association of Doctor of Ministry Education (ADME) and currently serves on the Standing Commission on Liturgy and Music (SCLM).