05/08/2025
From a page I follow.
From Blacktop to Dirt Road
I was sitting at my desk typing when all of the sudden, I heard the silence.
After months and months of him crying out through a gurgled chest, I couldn’t hear him.
I stood up from my desk and adjusted my stethoscope. Walking into the dimly lit room and seeing his face, I knew it was near.
It has been a long 6 months taking care of Mr. Hudson. I don’t know if there had been anyone else I had taken care of who had endured such pain. He was a tall, handsome African American gentleman. His voice was deep and gruff, even when he would cry. His hands were worn from working and taking care of his family. He loved the Lord fiercely, and according to his kids, the man had a killer baritone voice in his church’s choir. Although he could never tell me those things or sing me his favorite hymn, his family had shared so much with me over those months he had been in my care.
I had taken care of him for so long that I knew his cries. He only said “Ouch” when he was having bladder spasms. He moaned when he needed to be turned. He yelled when I would finally turn him; but it wasn’t out of pain, only for fear of falling out of bed when he was moved. And he hummed in that low tone I had come to love when he wanted his hand to be held.
To know that someone was there.
But for the first time in months, I heard nothing.
And that was where I found him in the middle of the night.
But when I got closer, he had a soft rattle coming from his chest. His eyes were fixed on the wall, his breathing was shallow. I had wondered when this day would finally come. And to be honest, I had prayed that God would take him home and allow his physical body to finally rest.
And rest was soon.
But now that it was here, I found myself for a moment, begging God to keep him just a little while longer. Not for him, but for me.
Because I had grown to love to care for him.
But as I began to pray for his life to be spared, the Spirit softened my heart and I found myself offering Mr. Hudson to His will.
I sat down next to him. Just me and him, like we had sat so many shifts before. But this time, there was a weary peace in the room.
"Mr. Hudson?" I whispered. "Mr. Hudson, I think it's time." He rolled his sweaty head toward me, his eyes slowly following. He looked me straight in the eyes, something he had never done before.
I stroked his head and held his hand.
He just needed to know someone was there. Just like I had done so many times before.
“Mr. Hudson, it’s ok. It’s ok for you to go. It’s ok for you to be done. God is ready and waiting for you.” I cried as I let him go.
Not two seconds later, a tear fell from his face. That face I had grown to love.
And then that face turned from suffering to joy. He smiled. He didn’t even take another breath. He simply smiled.
And finally rested.
And just like that, he was gone.
Gone from me, but finally home.
I was only 21 when I had the honor of taking care of Mr. Hudson. But that man taught me so much about living and dying than anyone else could.
I’ve held the hands of so many and released people into eternity since that middle of the night holy moment since then. I’ve held people as they breathed their last and sing to them as they passed into eternity. I’ve bathed the bodies of patients I’ve loved and held their family members as they have wept into my arms.
I’ve said goodbye to more people than I can count.
But Mr. Hudson’s suffering had purpose for me. Not only did God hold him close while he suffered in that hospital bed, but God used him to be a constant reminder that eternity is real.
Because I saw the joy on his face when he saw Jesus.
I saw the rest when I closed his eyes and covered him in his sheet one last time.
I saw the hope of Christ when his family told me that seeing his Father was the greatest moment of his life he was looking forward to.
I think about Mr. Hudson everyday. His life and death reminds me that this suffering we have on earth doesn’t compare to the joy in the eternal Christ that we share.
And it keeps me humble when I think about the fact that I get to share Christ with you in this space.
Thank you for letting me virtually be someone who holds your hand in this life and prepares you for eternity, friends. Just liken with Mr. Hudson, I take joy in ushering you into the hope of Christ.
I might not be the one who tells you that it’s “OK to go.” But I want to be the one who gets you ready to go someday.
So, onward in truth and hope we go.
I’m holding your hand. I’m ready to walk with you.
*Happy nurses week to my fellow nurses!*
