Grave Things and the Gravity of Things

It's hard to say why I love them. 

The sterile hallways. The beeping and blinking monitors. The doctors and nurses that whizz past me in their green scrubs. Hospitals. I love them. 

I'm drawn to the transparency of hospitals. Drawn by the REAL, drawn by the NOW, drawn by the GRAVITY. 

You see, grave things, heavy things, reveal us as humans. Grave things peel away the superficial, the trivial and the facade, giving way to the raw and real. Unpracticed conversations, desperate touches, and "instinctual hoping" happens when people are faced with losing a loved one, or losing their own lives as they know them.

Time stands still in those rooms. The drip, drip, drip of the IV keeps pace with the prayerful whispers and the prodigal pleadings. When reality clearly is not in our control, we turn inward for answers. 

As Lazarus shuffled forward inside the dark tomb, we too find our reconning. What HAS happened, what IS happening, and what WILL happen to step forward? Grave moments remind us of the fragility of time. They remind us to be wise stewards of the milliseconds, and the years; in stark contrast to the gluttonous disposable hours we waste on lesser frivolous idols. 

Hospitals are sanctuaries to me. They are litmus tests of humanity, and mortality, compassion, and forgiveness. They are holy, grave places; places of remembering sacred gravity of life. 

When life feels pointless, nebulous, or routine, go there. Sit among those waiting in the ER, the surgical waiting rooms, the lobby. See the walking wounded, and be reminded.

There is a sacred gravity of things. Sometimes that reminder sets our heart aright and gives the trivial a needed burial.