The past few weeks have spanned lifetimes. Even when all seems spent, there is more to engage. More to witness, hold, and give back as offering. Poured out, yet not finished.

“Why?” ask some. “How?” ask others. So much is mystery. Is it fate, generational trauma, microplastics in the water, God’s will? All answers are possible, except maybe the last one. How could God will birth defects, developmental difficulties, depression, and suicide?

Even without kneelers and screens, the exam rooms become confessionals. Heads often bow. Stories of domestic violence, drug addiction, homelessness, and loss are at first whispered, then continued in a torrent of words that must break free. There is unspoken trust that somehow, we will know how to respond, if not with absolution, at least with solidarity, and perhaps some solace.

It is a sanctuary, the exam room. Suspended from the practical busyness of picking up children from school, paying rent, juggling bills, and trying to sleep—despite the hard ground that cannot cushion a body—the clinic space exists in a separate realm. Time stretches, as years are divulged between 30-minute slots.

There is, naturally, ritual. Welcome, call and response, petition, praise, message, and instruction for going forth into the world. We process together to the door, pause again, and embrace. It is a service of Presence.

They come from diverse backgrounds—immigrants in head scarves, tribal members with beaded jewelry, wealthy couples in designer clothing, trans parents with plural pronouns. The labels are paper gowns. History and physical, diagnosis and prescription vary. But all require a measure of faith, hope and love. These vital signs allow healing to incarnate in the person before us. Miracles occur. Manna, loaves and fishes, water into wine—all take new forms as days are survived, community gives shelter, and the future sees possibility.

Much is left undone. That is also part of the sacred mystery. Despite the fortunate few for whom miracles and medicines cure their ills, so many are still beyond the balm of Gilead. Social determinants of health is a handy term that keeps the fault outside our walls. Still, why this bleeding woman, and not that one? She followed all the rules, made the sacrifices, never missed an appointment. And out there, behind Wal-Mart, what about them? The children in tents surrounded by needles, the girl on Facebook who is missing, the parents who do not view our medical proclamations as good news. What about their healing?

There is more than can be imagined. More need, yes. But for now, it is time to turn my gaze to the sacred. I look in the brown eyes of the child in her lap, and we smile. We blow bubbles, throw kisses, and laugh at our silliness. I hold the baby in my arms, and the whole universe dances within her. There is more than can be imagined.