A priceless summer memory

Ah, summertime! There’s nothing better than warm sunshine on bare skin, the sound of an ice cream truck coming down the street, or a relaxing day at the beach. We all have special summer memories that melt the worries of the world away.

But I have a summer memory that’s far from ice cream cones and sandy beaches.

A few years ago, I was serving as a children’s pastor and looking forward to a joyful hospital visit with two parents and their brand new baby. But soon after the little girl’s birth, things went very wrong.

Due to complications at delivery, Sarah¹ suffered brain damage. I sat with her grief-stricken parents. I tried to explain to her siblings what was happening to their sister. As the day progressed, we realized Sarah wouldn’t survive. Machines kept her alive, pumping blood and filling her lungs with air. But her brain no longer functioned.

The family was forced to make the most difficult decision of their lives. Should they allow doctors to shut off the machines and let their daughter die? And if so, when? Amidst the noisy machines and busy hospital staff, they wondered where God was. They wondered if faith had any bearing on their tragedy.

In the end, Sarah died peacefully, just two days after she was born.

It’s a memory that doesn’t quite fit with typical carefree summer recollections. But does a medical crisis ever fit? In this issue of the Herald, we pull ourselves away from August barbeques and family vacations, and enter the world of medicine and ethics. We explore how doctors and hospitals fit with the church and Christian faith.

Often, when we connect medicine and faith, we focus on the big issues: euthanasia, stem cell research, genetics. It’s easy to theologize and discuss medical ethics on a broad, impersonal scale.

But, often, smaller medical dilemmas – the ones closer to home – can trip us up and leave us with more questions than answers. We wonder what God has to say – if anything – about these personal issues. We wonder where to begin in the decision-making process.

What happens when the family of an elderly patient with Alzheimer’s disease learns that grandma has cancer, but begs the doctors not to tell her? Should the doctor disclose the diagnosis to the patient or adhere to the family’s wishes?

What happens when a physician prescribes the wrong, non-life-threatening, medication for a patient? Should the doctor apologize and admit fault, possibly jeopardizing his career, or go on as if nothing happened?

What happens when a newly married couple doesn’t have the financial resources to start a family, but feels that artificial birth control is against God’s design? Should the couple simply depend on less reliable forms of contraception? And can they even share their feelings with others in this age when the pill is widely accepted and used?

Christians daily face these types of questions. But the answers aren’t easy.

There are many grey areas in health care that the Bible doesn’t directly address. But that’s not what we want to hear. We long for black and white solutions. In the midst of medical crises or dilemmas, we want to eliminate guesswork.

Unfortunately, health care and faith don’t mix that way. As Christians, we’re called to adhere to biblical values, but aren’t always promised clear solutions. Faith requires us to walk delicately through difficult, complex medical situations, realizing there may not be perfect answers. Faith requires us to wrestle with God and listen to his voice. Faith requires us to face doubt and ambiguity with grace and sincerity.

But faith also offers us an extraordinary gift when dealing with health care. In an era of impersonal machines, sterile biomedical laboratories, and mind-boggling genetic discoveries, faith points us back to individual human beings. Faith reminds us that each life is valuable.

Despite complex choices and questions that may stump us, faith urges us to keep sight of the people behind those medical dilemmas.

I’m reminded that baby Sarah’s life, though short and fraught with difficulties, was priceless. And that’s a summer memory I’d like to keep.

1. Not her real name.