Selah

My handsome husband and another good friend sat to my left, the three of us all past recipients of a notable international scholarship for post-graduate studies. The banquet tonight was held in honor of our professor and others who had invested their lives in service. We were to be presented, and in preparation, I pressed my favorite teal sweater against my pink lace top. The names were called and all eyes turned to the smiling men who stood up beside me. My name was not mentioned. I sat quietly smiling while I clapped along with the rest of the crowd. After the program a man approached me to ask my name, wondering if perhaps I’d been someone he knew in college. A person beside me offered clarification to his question, explaining enthusiastically that I was my husband’s wife.

Later that night I gazed at the woman on the other side of the mirror, any remnants of glamor washed down the drain or hung carefully on the hanger where the elegant clothes usually live. The face of that forty-five year old reflection, whose life I live, looked tired and seemed to feel sad and quietly invisible to everyone, even me. The tight space between myself and me left no room for truth, so I slipped into bed without us noticing.

In the dark there was nothing to distract clear thinking, and sleep refused my company. Truth appeared and the Selah, the weighing and measuring of that which has real value, drew my thoughts to a woman I have never met. Her name is Dolores and she works in the hospital.

In heart surgery there are many on whom my husband relies. There is the anesthesiologist, the Physician’s Assistant, the perfusionist, the O.R. nurses and the scrub nurse and tech. The operating room is a flurry of activity where hours of intense operating and life threatening decisions surround one precious human. Eventually the patient may meet and thank many members of the team who worked tirelessly to repair the heart, but few will ever meet Dolores. For when the room is quiet and everyone is gone, Dolores comes to clean. There is little recognition for Dolores, but to Dennis she is significant and he could not operate without her willingness to serve in an excellent, invisible manner.

I am so happy to know Dolores’ name, the basis of which is Latin and means sorrowful or Our Lady of Sorrows in reference to the Virgin Mary. It relates to her willingness to serve even when she knew the sacrifice that was to be required. So when I battle my pride and wonder about my life, it is Dolores to whom I look for encouragement. The crowd, the honors, the image in my mirror, they are nothing compared to the joy of serving the little faces that daily shine at me. Selah.