MATTHEW, WHO MADE EVERYTHING LESS TERRIBLE
An ode to the helpers, the heart holders, and how we can offer even a little bit of light in all this darkness.
When I lived in the hospital with my son, Lou, I always looked forward to visits from Matthew the chaplain. A chaplain offers spiritual support to families, and when I first heard that “the chaplain” was coming, I imagined an old man in robes with a long beard. But Matthew was in his thirties, and with his Vans and ever-present messenger bag, he looked more like a grad student than a spiritual advisor. Once I even saw him at Chipotle! My point? A real human, just like us.
Matthew would stop by early in the mornings to play Legos with Lou. At first, I’d panic, worried I had to play hostess or entertain Matthew in my pajamas. But I didn’t have to do anything. Matthew was just there to be with us. He’d make Lego cars, grab the pink puke bucket just in time, and together, we’d watch the morning sun reflect off the East River.
Mornings with Matthew (sounds like a Netflix show, right?) gave me a second to catch my breath. Even the weak hospital coffee tasted better when he was around. Perched atop the Lego-like recliner chair that doubled as my bed, I’d hold my little paper cup, warming my palms against its sides. With Lou occupied and happy, I could finally check in with myself. I’d stretch my legs, feeling the heat of that wild sun, pleasure even. As a caregiver, my own body was enduring a new set of challenges — lack of sleep, exercise, hospital food — and these mornings allowed me to drop deep within. Lou loved Matthew as much as I did. Finally, someone was coming not to poke or prod, but to play.
Despite being a chaplain, Matthew never talked about God, or asked me about my faith. Maybe he did with some of the other families, but he instinctually knew that wasn’t what we needed. I don’t know what Matthew did when he wasn’t at the hospital. I think he had a husband. I knew he liked Chipotle! But he selflessly left his story at the door, and in doing so, I loosened the grip around my own.
As the months went on, we three settled into a rhythm, and I found my heartbeat synching up to that rhythm, too.
How to be a Matthew in this world? To offer light, without dismissing darkness? To offer hope while full knowing the chances might be slim?
Oh Matthew, where are you?
I think of you when the morning light is too bright, when it refracts, or when the shadows are too much.
I think of you whenever Lou has scans, or I have scans, and I’m more scared than I let on.
I think of you when Emmylou Harris sings, “Where Will I Be?” because when you were around, I was brave enough to not know the answer.
I thought of you just this morning, when the news brought more images of suffering, and I felt helpless, unsure of how to help. I felt afraid for the world, for things bigger than my self and my family’s story.
As the sun came pouring in, I held my coffee in my hands, warming my palms in what I guess you could call prayer.
A MEDITATION
May the Matthews reach the world’s darkest places. May we find the Matthew within and without. May we drop our stories and just be, and feel safe in the being.
Matthew, if you’re out there — at Chipotle?! — thank you.
Readers, feel free to share your stories, or honor the Matthews in your life in the comments. I’d love to meet them, too.
xx Alexa
TWO QUICK THINGS!
The above news came to me when I was sitting at the breast clinic getting labs and trying not to freak out! It was a good check-up and I left grateful for my health, and amazed that you’re all showing up for my stories every week. What a privilege. You made my day!
Note! THIS SUNDAY’S PAID SUBSCRIBERS WRITING AND MEDITATION WORKSHOP WILL BE POSTPONED to the end of the month due to technical glitches. I will send the new info out with more advance notice. Apologies for any inconvenience as I get my footing here on Substack. Thank you!
I love when people highlight those around us who make the world a brighter place. I think when we focus too much on the negative we become negative. So thank you for sharing Matthew with us.
My son went to rehab after brain cancer surgery, and he spoke often about a night nurse who would stay and talk with him in the wee hours when he couldn't sleep. They didn't talk about his cancer or treatment; they talked mostly about food. My son was hungry all the time because of steroids for brain swelling, and this man would describe all of the delicious barbecue he made when he wasn't working at the hospital. Even though my son became vegan at diagnosis, he delighted in hearing all of the juicy, meaty details.
I never learned the night nurse's name, and my son is not here anymore, so I can't ask him. This nurse's presence provided comfort to a young man whose life had changed profoundly and irreversibly, and I am grateful. Maybe his name was Matthew, too.