Brought Together

I spent most of September 1983 in the waiting room of Georgetown hospital's cardiac unit. Millie Bender, a longtime member and pastor at Sojourners, had a heart attack on Labor Day. Double by-pass heart surgery followed, and the weeks at the hospital turned into a vigil.

A hospital waiting room can become a kind of community. A particular sort of bond develops between those who are sharing many of the same emotions and find themselves spending hours and days together. The loved ones of waiting-room companions also become important to you.

The night we rushed Millie to the hospital, a young man was in the waiting room. He and I and Joyce Hollyday were the only ones there all night. No words were spoken that first night, but a connection was made. We later learned that his 20-year-old sister was suffering from a rare blood disease that was threatening the functioning of her heart.

In the days that followed, we met the mother, father, and other members of the family. We never had long conversations, but we would often ask how the young woman was doing, and they shared concern for Millie. Without a lot of talk, there was real compassion and support for one another.

Right in the middle of our hospital vigil came the "arms bazaar." The Sheraton Washington Hotel was hosting the annual Air Force Association's huge weapons exposition, and we had been planning a large protest for months.

Inside the hotel the weapons of modern warfare were on display--Pershing II and cruise missiles, the B-l and the MX, lasers and fighter planes--and all the buyers and sellers were gathered for the deadly auction. Outside, 1,000 church people assembled in the street for a Sunday worship service that would begin a week's vigil for peace and justice in the shadow of the hotel.

I was to preach that day, and I came right from the hospital. From my pulpit on the pavement, I spoke, with Millie very much on my mind, about the fragility of life and of the tremendous threat to life posed by the weapons a few steps away.

AFTER THE SERVICE I returned immediately to the hospital. When I reached the waiting room, I saw the father of the young woman sitting by himself with his face in his hands. He looked up as I walked in. I could see in his face that
something had happened.

The successful business executive who always seemed strong and in control didn't look that way now. His face was full of fear and pain. "How is she?" I asked. "They say she is dying and won't last through the night." He was quivering, and I wasn't sure what words or gestures would feel appropriate and supportive to a man like this. He stood up, and I put my hand on his shoulder. The grief-stricken father simply collapsed into my arms and began to cry and cry. There wasn't much to say. I just held him as he sobbed.

Later I learned who he worked for. The father of the dying young woman was an executive with a defense contractor, one of the largest weapons manufacturers in the country. I'm certain that his company was showing its weapons systems that week inside the Sheraton Washington Hotel at the arms bazaar. I had preached against the weapons and held a grieving weapons-maker in my arms--all in the same evening.

Politics normally keep people like us apart, but very real human pain had brought us together. I couldn't help being reminded of the apostle Paul's words, "We wrestle not against flesh and blood..."

There were great lessons for me that night--and also a little bit of hope.

Jim Wallis is editor-in-chief of Sojourners.