Holy Deception

When I entered the dimly lit hospital room, my mother was sleeping peacefully. Always a petite woman, she seemed even smaller, dwarfed by the hospital bed, almost like a child’s doll.

I planned to sit with her for the night so if she awakened, she’d know I was there. But it had been a stressful flight from California, so I went to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. Threading the maze of hospital corridors, it took a while to find the cafeteria and even longer to find my way back to mother’s room.

I was surprised as I entered mom’s room to see a nun sitting beside her because we aren’t Catholic. But, it was a Catholic hospital run by the Sisters of Charity, so perhaps not unusual. The nun rose, we whispered introductions, and I thanked her for visiting. Then she said, “Would you like to pray together for her?”

Now I am not a particularly religious person. Raised a Methodist, I had long ago switched my affiliation to the Church of Sporadic Spirituality whose major article of faith is: “Who knows, but hedge your bets and be kind.” We have only One Commandment: Thou shalt not sin— excessively. We’re theologically very flexible.

But this sweet nun had asked me to pray with her and I wasn’t going to decline, so I took mother’s hand and we prayed silently.

When I opened my eyes, I looked at mom’s pale face cushioned on the pillow. I hadn’t noticed before how much she’d changed in the nine months since I’d seen her. She was not just small, but frail now, even shrunken. She just didn’t look like herself. In fact, she wasn’t herself. This was not my mother. In my exhaustion, I had entered the wrong darkened room. I was holding the hand of a perfect stranger.

As this dawned on me, a priest entered the room. I sat paralyzed with embarrassment. There were whispered greetings, but I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t move. I resisted an urge to laugh, while at the same time I felt mysteriously bound to this stranger. After all, Sister and I had prayed over her and I had done so with sincerity, pagan that I was.

I startled when I felt drops of water, but it was just Father sprinkling us with Holy Water. Holy Water? Holy Cow, I realized, it’s Last Rites. I choked back a snort of laughter and bowed my head to hide my face. I had no choice. I could not abandon this stranger now. More importantly, I didn’t want to.

I hoped they would forgive my deception. Did it matter that Sister and I had prayed for different reasons, she to her God and me to whomever? Wasn’t it more important FOR whom I was praying rather than TO whom? I folded the stranger’s hand in mine tenderly. At times like this, we can all use a little help from our friends, whoever and wherever they are. Besides, surely the Pope wouldn’t begrudge a little holy water sprinkled on a fallen Methodist. I was sure I needed it more than the poor soul’s whose hand I held.


Susan Matthewson
Copyright 2009