Easter awakening

A mother asks, What in life is more realistic than faith?

- DELORES BATES

I LEANED OVER the hospital bed in which my 18-year-old son, Art, lay in a comatose state that seemed like death. Tubes fed him through the nose; a machine breathed for him, breaking the stillness of the room with its mechanical gasps. I moved my lips close to Art’s ear and whispered, “Honey, I had a dream last night, so beautiful it seemed real. Two magnificent angels stood by your bed. It means you’ll be healed, I know it.”

Did he hear me? Can the soul hear when the body is asleep? Art didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge my words. If only he would open his eyes! Just that, Lord.

Before the accident two nights earlier, this limp form had been a strapping high school senior, the star captain of his football team and the finest son a mother could ever want. Proud of the body God had given him, Art didn’t drink or smoke. He held strong values and went to church regularly. His dream was to play professional football and set a good example for other young people.

But now doctors held out little hope that he would walk or talk or do anything productive again. It was as if Art had gone on and left his broken body behind. Could that be true?

On the evening of January 1, 1989, Art had attended a dance with some friends. When his father and I went to bed that night, a cold rain beat at the windows. I’m usually a sound sleeper but at about 1 a.m. I awoke with a start and shook my husband. “Arthur,” I said, my heart racing, “I’m afraid something terrible has happened to our boy.” Before I could get back to sleep, a call came from St. Vincent’s Hospital. Art had been driving his friend's home when a pickup truck turned into the side of his car, slamming it into a tree. One of Art’s passengers died. The others weren’t badly hurt. But Art lay close to death in the emergency room.