That doctor never saw it coming. 

The NERF dart whizzed through the cool air of the ICU, across the room and the hallway, over the charge nurse’s head, and into the arm of a playful PICU doctor, who playfully went down in a heap. From the place where that dart started its transit of the ICU floor, a five-year-old little boy named Colton sat with a wry smile and then erupted with a laugh. It was his first laugh in months, it seemed, but it was the laugh that brought comfort and (more encouragingly) hope. His laughter was like a prayer to God, as though it was an act of gratitude for finally feeling okay for such a long time while battling his chronic liver failure and liver transplant failure. And it was a gift that had been in the works

His laughter was a culmination of many visits and check-ins. As a chaplain, I watched videos with him and asked him about his favorite characters. We talked about his stuffed animals and how they felt about being poked today or whether they liked always having their doors open with passersby. In his presence, his parents and I enjoyed a “communion” of animal crackers and bottled juice, joined by those same stuffed animals. Sometimes Colton sat quietly in his bed, and I just sat there with him alone, giving his parents a break from the room, giving him the silence and space to be himself and reflecting to him that I was safe. I couldn’t make him talk through all those visits, but I could show him that I was a presence he could trust, and that I saw him as he truly was and not what I wanted him to be. 

And so, the dart fizzed and hit, the doctor cringed and fell, and Colton laughed and then asked me if I could pray for him. In that moment, I was honored that he had shared his laughter, and then I was just as honored that he invited me to share in prayer. “What would you like me to pray for?” “I want to laugh more”... and after a longer silence, “that God can be with my family.” Laughter was sacred. Prayer invited more of that sacredness. That’s what prayer is: not a demand of healing or a laundry list of tasks or a divine wish list, but an expression of the experience of God. In this boy’s case, it was the laughter wherein he experienced God and wanted more—more of that kind of presence of God in his world. It wasn’t laughter for the sake of laughter, but laughter that expressed a sacred courage that God’s love was there too. 

That doctor never saw it coming, and honestly, neither did Colton. May we too continually be surprised with the moments of joy in our care that reflect God’s presence in the world!