Having received a rebuke in a comment from my good friend Ernie Burgess about my last post (A good and a bad news story) I take his point and this week tell the story of a congregation that took a risk and reached out to a family in need. It’s a story of simple Christian love, of dedication and sacrifice. Of pain and of healing. It’s a story of growth as God’s people made themselves vulnerable by stepping into the pain and grief of a family they hardly knew.

Actually it’s not my story but another from Kate Bradford. I’ve told a couple of Kate’s stories on this blog. They’re about Christian people connecting with people in hard places. Here’s a reminder of just one of them about “Chattering the gospel.” You can also see a lot of Kate’s thinking on Chaplaincy and theology at Blogging Chaplains.

Here’s Kate’s story:

As I stood at the grave side, in the fading light and drizzling rain, I watched the large backhoe push dirt down onto the small wooden coffin that contained Mira, a little girl that I had cared for about two years. I spoke to the pastor of Mira’s family who was standing close by; I expressed my gratitude to the pastor and his church for caring for the family in so many ways over this time. As a hospital chaplain I can care when the family is in hospital but, there are always so many needs we cannot meet.

The pastor replied, ‘Thank you, you know… we took a risk, a big risk. They (Mira’s family) had only joined our church a few weeks before she was diagnosed. We did not really know them at all. You know it was very hard, in fact a massive challenge for our people but as a church, we tried.’

The pastor’s modest statement seemed to me to be a huge understatement concerning the care that I knew his church had shared with Mira and her family. They had walked together in fellowship with Mira’s family every step of the way, every week over the following two years. And I imagine they still do into an unknown and difficult future without Mira.

Mira was the youngest child of a Christian family recently migrated to Australia, arriving as refugees from a conflict in South Asia. I met six year old Mira and her family in the Emergency Department. As a protestant chaplain, I had been called to support the family while the possibility of a shocking diagnosis for Mira’s illness was given to her family.  I was part of a team that cared for Mira and her family over the next two years until her death. Mira’s mum and I talked of extended family in a distant land, cultural differences, church, God and the blessing of faith. I watched Mira’s mum cling to Jesus, drawing strength from him to face each day. Towards the end when Mira’s pain was unbearable Mira would ask people to pray to Jesus, ‘Please pray, Mummy.’

Over the two years most of our conversations ranged over normal life events, issues concerning juggling a seriously ill child with the rest of the family: schooling, study, work, housekeeping, and the endless rounds of medical appointments. Through these conversations I learned of a church with members who phoned regularly, prayed regularly, provided transport to and from medical appointments, cooked meals and made it possible for the older children to attend youth group, collecting them and returning them home in heavy Friday night traffic every week.

At Mira’s funeral the whole church family, Mira’s Sunday school teacher and children from her class were there to support the family and say their own grief stricken farewells. All were sobbing and faces streamed with tears for a beautiful girl that we all loved. Her parents had chosen the reading from 2 Sam 16:16-23 to express a painful reality melded together with a future hope. ‘Now [she] is dead why should I fast? Can I bring [her] back again?  I shall go to [my child], but [she] shall not return to me.’

The whole congregation mourned together with them.

I cannot convey how profoundly sad Mira’s funeral was that day, but it was also bittersweet and beautiful. It was a glimpse into a community of God’s people being God’s people in an abundant and risky way.