Sunrise

  1. Just recieved this via E-Mail from a friend. Wanted to share. Hope some of you get the same warmth I did.
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    Finding Your Easter Sunrise
    By Cindy Bollinger

    There is a stopping point in the North Carolina
    mountains called Pretty Place. Pull off the main road and
    follow a dirt one to a clearing, and there stands an open-
    air chapel on the side of the mountain. Simple concrete
    benches encompass a stone pulpit. The area is open on all
    sides so you can see the breathtaking beauty of the
    scenery. A feeling of reverence permeates the place.
    People talk quietly, as though in church, in this wonderful
    place of solitary reflection.
    At Easter time about twenty years ago, a group of
    friends and I decided to attend the sunrise service at
    Pretty Place. I had always wanted to go but never managed.
    I was an emergency-room nurse and had to work on this
    particular Easter Sunday, too, but worked it out to go to
    the service, and then go to work my shift. We got up about
    2:00 A.M. to make the drive to Pretty Place. We arrived in
    the dark, parked and proceeded toward the chapel. A huge
    gathering of people collected in and around the chapel. In
    darkness, a simple nondenominational church service was
    held including a hymn, a prayer and a short message.
    I was content just to sit and enjoy the tranquility,
    the smell of earth and pine, and feel the coolness of the
    morning air on my skin. I heard the birds and the sounds
    of the woods around us and enjoyed the pleasure of being
    with my friends. The sky lightened as the day broke and a
    glowing orange ball began to appear as if it was rising out
    of the earth. One minute there was a gray canvas and the
    next, a glowing sphere of orange, yellow and pink rose,
    filling the sky. Then, more quickly than they had come,
    the crowd took their leave to return to the real world. I
    headed for work.
    I arrived feeling peaceful and ready for the day. The
    ER was quiet, too. Since there were no patients, I began
    cleaning and restocking.
    I heard the familiar announcement, "patient in the
    hall," and then the sound of a male voice calling for help
    in desperation and panic. I entered the hallway to see a
    man carrying a small, limp, breathless child. Traces of
    blood and discoloration smeared one side of her pale face.
    No other wounds were visible. The man handed me the little
    girl dressed in a frilly dress, lace-trimmed socks, patent-
    leather shoes and a crushed Easter bonnet. His words
    spilled out. He couldn't see her when he backed the family
    van out of the driveway. She was dressed and ready for
    church. She saw her daddy leaving. She ran behind him.
    She only wanted to go with her daddy.
    I rushed her into critical care, leaving the father in
    the hallway. Someone would come shortly to get him to fill
    out the paperwork and show him to the family waiting room,
    not the usual waiting room, but the small, softly lit,
    private waiting room where families and friends await bad
    news and pray desperate prayers for the lives of their
    loved ones.
    As the call of Code Blue went out over the hospital
    loudspeaker, a team gathered to do all that was possible to
    save this child. Her Easter clothes were cut away and she
    was intubated. We began CPR, started an IV, and gave her
    drugs to attempt to restart her heart and lungs. It soon
    became obvious her neck was broken. We continued to
    resuscitate her, doing everything within the power of man
    and medicine. We couldn't give up the life of this small
    child. Often a knowing, an intellectual process, says
    there is nothing to do, but the heart pushes us beyond this
    knowledge to try anyway. So try we did.
    After the hopeless resuscitation ceased, I slowly
    removed the tubes with tears in my eyes, a huge lump in my
    throat and heaviness in my chest. We took care of the
    details of preparing her body for death and for her family
    to see her. The emergency-room doctor went to the family
    room. His words to the father started with, "Your little
    girl is dead. There was really nothing we could do, but we
    tried." He talked, trying to explain what had happened.
    He listened for a little while to give the father a chance
    to respond.
    The cry we heard coming from this man as he was given
    the news still touches me at the core of my very being.
    Some of us have experienced the misfortunes in life that
    enable us to understand the pain and loss this man must
    have felt.
    It's been twenty years since that Easter Sunday. I am
    married now and have four children of my own. I traded in
    the job of being a nurse for that of being a full-time
    mother and homemaker. Not an Easter has passed since that
    I do not remember that little girl in the arms of her
    father on that Easter Sunday. I can always recall the pain
    and agony of that father's cry at the news of the death of
    his daughter. Now, as a parent, I understand that cry in a
    way that I couldn't at that time.
    Medical personnel must learn to deal with the pain and
    suffering of others in order to do their job. We witness
    human misery, loss of limb and life, loss of family and, at
    times, the horrible unspeakable things that people do to
    each other. My saving grace is always that when I remember
    that little girl dying, I also remember the profound
    experience of being at the Easter sunrise service. I'm
    glad that on that morning I made the effort to go. I
    remember the magnificence of that sunrise there on the side
    of a mountain and the awe I felt taking it all in.
    I experienced two opposite ends of the spectrum of
    human emotion that day - wonder and despair, life and
    death, joy and suffering, breathtaking beauty and profound
    sadness. I wrap the beautiful memory of the sunrise
    service around me to protect me from the hurt I felt at the
    death of the little girl. That memory of the sunrise was
    the armor I carried into battle that day as I went to do my
    duty in the ER.
    As a nurse or a doctor or anyone who deals with pain
    and suffering, we must care for ourselves in order to serve
    others. We cannot give water to others from an empty well.
    We must take time to refill the well - to find our Easter
    sunrise.

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    ken
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  2. 3 Comments

  3. by   kaycee
    Thanks Ken, that was very moving.
  4. by   hoolahan
    yes, thank you Ken, it is beautiful.
  5. by   live4today
    Hi Ken,

    Thank you for taking the time to share such a beautiful story! It truly warmed my heart! (((HUGS)))

    Hi hoo!

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