by Betsy Duffey
“What are her vital signs?” he asked as he hurried into Kate’s room.
Nurses were checking the monitor connections and IVs.
“BP: sixty over twenty. Pulse: one ten. Oxygen saturation: sixty.”
“Ventilator pressure?”
“Normal.” The nurse’s voice was laced with frustration.
“Suction the trach tube,” Dr. Belding said.
The nurse was already disconnecting the tube.
“Nothing—no blood or mucus,” she said as she suctioned.
The resident doctor entered.
“BP dropping—forty over zero,” the second nurse yelled.
“Give her more fluids,” Dr. Belding said, his voice beginning to reflect some tension. “And get some meds on board.”
He signaled the resident, who immediately gave instructions to the nurses. The room was a swirl of activity.
“Is there an airway problem?” the resident asked.
“No, ventilator pressures are fine.”
“Heart attack?”
“No, she’s too young,” Dr. Belding said. “Probably a pulmonary embolism.”
“But we’ve been giving her heparin,” the resident said.
“That’s no guarantee.”
“Blood pressure: zero,” the nurse said.
“Start CPR,” Dr. Belding said. The resident was already on the bed, leaning over Kate. “And find the family.”
One nurse ran from the room back to the nurses’ station. She flipped through the chart, trying to find John’s cell number.
The room remained eerily quiet as the resident compressed Kate’s chest and one of the nurses pumped air into her lungs with the Ambu bag. Dr. Belding watched with arms crossed and brow knitted.
The compressions and pumping continued. All the while the faces of the people in the room showed their distress at the direction things were going. They had cared for Kate McConnell for six weeks now. The little blond lady on the bed was real to them, even though she had not said a single word.
Around the room the walls were covered in scripture verses. Some printed from people’s computers, some written out. Many in Kate’s own handwriting.
“Don’t let her go,” the resident said, pleading with himself.
The nurse and resident switched positions and continued compressions.
“Keep going,” the nurse said, her face red from exertion.
Time seemed to stand still as they continued their silent efforts to save the woman on the bed.
Finally Dr. Belding said, “How long have we been doing this?”
The nurse checked the clock. “Forty-five minutes.”
“Has there been any response on the monitor?”
The resident said, “No. No pulse. No blood pressure. No evidence of a heartbeat at all.”
“Then we need to stop. She’s gone.”
The small crew of nurses and doctors stood still for a moment, unable to make the shift from rescue to relief.
Kate’s small body lay still on the bed. Her hands rested on the quilt that she had made years ago for Matt when he was a baby. Beside the bed were flowers, many flowers from the friends and family who loved her. And cards—cards that had been taped to the wall, waiting for Kate to wake up and see how much she was loved.
“Find the family,” Dr. Belding said again, and the small group began to pack up their equipment and disperse. All was quiet.
* * *
KATE FELT RELIEF. For so long the machine had kept air moving in and out. Now it had stopped, and a sense of release and peace flowed through her. Around her were the dear people who had cared for her body so diligently over the past six weeks. She could see the sadness in their faces. She wanted to speak to them, to thank them, to encourage them, but she became aware of light shining around her. She could see the walls of the small hospital room, but above her looked like sky, open and blue.
The light shone brighter and brighter, until the hospital room disappeared and there was only light, more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. It was so bright that she wanted to look away, but so lovely that she could not. And music flowed, soft and warm, surrounding her.
The light became brighter . . . brighter . . . brighter, and suddenly Kate McConnell saw Jesus. She gazed at his beauty, like nothing she had seen or even imagined. She felt suspended and motionless before him.
She was vaguely aware of some earthly movement behind her, and she thought briefly of the two people she loved the most in the world: Matt and John.
“Will they be all right?” she asked wordlessly.
Jesus nodded.
“I’ll care for them. You can come now.”
Kate reached out to Jesus, and as she exhaled her last breath on earth, she was lifted into her shepherd’s embrace. Her final earthly thought was the last line of the twenty-third psalm—I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
* * *
JOHN SAT IN THE SMALL CHAPEL feeling the closeness of God. The last six weeks had been the hardest of his life. First the accident, then the weeks in ICU, and the cards and visits and endless casseroles from friends. Most of all, it was the love of Kate’s church friends that moved him. Two men from her Sunday School class had brought over a freezer and set it up in the garage. Every day dinners and food appeared in the freezer. He and Matt quickly became the microwave kings.
The stories. As they sat, often for hours in the ICU waiting room, friends would stop by and pass the time. The conversation would turn to Kate and a story of a meal delivered, prayers given. One woman who had been going through chemo told how Kate had come over to clean her bathtub. Her eyes filled with tears as she related the story. John saw a different part of Kate’s life—a whole support system of genuine care and love and faith.
I want that faith, too, John prayed silently. I want to be part of that family. I want to love like that. And I want that for Matt.
Prayer came so easily for John now. He remembered driving to the hospital that first day, unable to form any prayer in his mind. As he sat in the quiet of the chapel, he felt a closeness to God that was new and real. He could almost feel the arms of God around him, comforting him.
He took a deep breath of release.
Then his phone began to vibrate.
* * *
MATT WAS IN THE GIFT SHOP when his phone rang. His father.
“Yes,” he said into the phone.
“You better come up to the room. Something’s happened. The nurse just called.”
“What?”
“They didn’t say. Come up right away.”
Matt took the stairs two at a time. He pushed open the door into ICU and saw the crash cart and the faces of the team. Dr. Belding stood outside the room, shaking his head, talking to John.
He ran the last steps to the room.
His father’s strong hands grabbed his shoulders.
“She’s gone, Matt. She’s gone.”
Matt could not move. He could not go in the room. The world had just shifted and would never be the same.
“No.”
His father’s arms wrapped around him and held him tight.
Father and son stood in the embrace, leaning on a strength outside of themselves.
* * *
FOR KATE, time was gone. Space was gone. Jesus was everything.
She gazed down at the world. The picture looked so much bigger than she had imagined. As she stood beside Jesus with his view of the world, she could see so much.
A young man stood beside a girl who was wearing a red beret. It was Chris from the dry cleaner’s! He and the girl were singing songs of praise in a worship service not too far from where Kate lived. The smiles on their faces spoke of an abundant life with God. On the girl’s finger was an engagement ring.
Kate smiled with joy at the transformation she saw in the young man.
She turned to another scene.
A soldier was resting on his crutches, knocking at the front door of a ranch house in North
Carolina. The door opened, and an older couple spoke to the man, then embraced him. The spirit of comfort and peace hovered around the three, and tears flowed freely as the soldier shared with them stories of their son, Tater, and his testimony of faith.
Next, Kate saw a young girl in Turkey, running to pick up the mail. The girl’s face reflected the freedom and excitement of knowing the true God for the first time. She ripped open her package and pulled out a book. Immediately she opened it and read, in her own language, the title: The Holy Bible. She quickly turned to Psalm 23 and read verse two. He leads me beside still waters. Her eyes filled with tears of joy, and she hugged the Bible to her chest.
A Frenchman appeared. He was standing in an art gallery in England, staring at a painting titled The Good Shepherd. The man’s face reflected peace and joy as he pointed to the gate and the sheep and enthusiastically discussed the painting with his friend. They laughed and talked of all kinds of restoration.
Kate saw the hills and dales of Ireland—an idyllic setting with miles and miles of pastureland filled with sheep. A young redheaded man in the field leaned down to kiss the small baby in the sling wrapped around his chest. The man tenderly led the sheep down the path to home, all the while holding tight to the baby.
Jesus turned to Kate. “Do you understand?”
Kate looked at him, unsure.
“The twenty-third psalm. You sent it out,” He said. “So is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.”
Kate marveled at all the people, living in the power of Psalm 23. They flashed before her in scene after scene, and she knew it was a result of the copy of the psalm that she had so carefully written and prayed over.
“Your word,” she said. “It was all about your word.”
“There’s more,” Jesus said.
A small urban church appeared. A minister was preaching about walking through valleys. He spoke with authority and conviction, as if he himself had been through a valley. His wife looked on, as did a full house of the poor and needy who were thankful to have him.
In the next scene a young woman with many tattoos sat in the front row of a church. She sang with the congregation, her arms lifted heavenward. Her face was set with confidence as she sang. The music ended, and the girl stepped forward. She gave her testimony with power and courage. Other young women listened eagerly to her words, needing her hope.
Kate’s heart was full to a point she had never experienced on earth. She praised Jesus over and over as the scenes continued.
A scene of Africa unfolded, a young woman running down the red dirt road as a huge orange sun rose over the plains. She ran fearlessly and confidently. Young girls ran beside her, trying to keep up. As she ran on, they stopped and spoke to one another. “We can be like Kioni one day. God takes care of her. He can take care of us, too.”
Then Kate saw a large Italian family gathered around a long wooden table. The older gentleman sitting at the head of the table was holding the hands of his wife on one side and his brother on the other. “And we thank you for once again watching out for the Liberatores,” he said, and he squeezed the hand of his brother.
A young Chinese student entered the doors of a church in Los Angeles for the first time. Several other Chinese students moved forward to greet her. In her own language they began to tell her about the God who anoints and protects.
In a small restaurant in New York City a businessman sat with his daughter, talking about all the blessings in their lives. The man was laughing as he told the story of his cross-country flight with a woman named Judy, who had opened his eyes to what makes a person’s cup overflow. His cell phone rang. Without looking at the phone he hit the silence button and shoved it in his pocket. He and his daughter left the restaurant arm in arm.
Finally, a white-haired woman sitting at her computer was printing out a finished document. Suddenly she stopped and grabbed her chest. The woman’s eyes grew large with amazement, and Kate knew exactly what she was seeing.
“Walk me home now, Jesus,” the woman said. Then her eyes closed. A moment later the woman, glowing and radiant, moved past Kate. “Carl,” she said moving toward a man who was also glowing. Their joy was supernatural. Kate knew that feeling.
“So many,” Kate said. “So many.”
As she watched, the view expanded. There were thousands of cards, her copies of scriptures, all over the city, all over the country, all over the world.
“I never knew,” she said in amazement. “I never dreamed.”
“There’s one more,” Jesus said.
“One more?” Kate asked. It was already so much more than she had imagined.
Jesus pointed, and Kate turned to see her own son, Matt.
* * *
A BREEZE RUFFLED MATT’S HAIR as he stood beside his mother’s grave. His father’s hand rested on his shoulder. Matt was wearing his navy peacoat, and his face was streaked with tears. Dry leaves blew by, and the air was warm for December.
Matt knelt and touched the flowers in front of the stone.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said. “I’m sorry, God. Give me one more chance.”
He wondered if God could hear him. He hadn’t cared about God in so long. He used to be indifferent, then so angry. Now he was just sorry. If only he could talk to his mother one more time.
“Just one more chance,” he repeated, looking up at the dark clouds above.
He thought of his mother and all that she had wanted for him. If only he had another chance to tell her, yes—to tell God yes.
Matt was staring at his mother’s name, so neatly etched on the headstone, when the wind began to swirl. Some leaves blew by, and out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw a flash of white. It was a piece of paper, tumbling across the graveyard toward him. He paused, mesmerized by the moving paper—the gentle way it curled and rolled and took on a life of its own. Then the paper whirled up and caught on the edge of the roughly hewn headstone of his mother’s grave.
Matt stared at the paper. He couldn’t explain why, but he knew it was for him. With calm anticipation, he reached out and took the paper. It was worn and crumpled and badly stained with what looked like blood and oil and water—maybe even grass or coffee. When he flipped the paper over, he could barely breathe. Written neatly across the top, in his mother’s handwriting, were the words The Shepherd’s Song, Psalm 23.
How could it be? Where had it come from? Matt looked around in amazement. He saw no one. He lifted his eyes up to the sun emerging from the clouds and let the rays warm his face. Peace washed over him.
“Dad,” he called. “Dad, look.”
John knelt beside Matt, and together they looked at the paper.
Matt began to read, pausing with each line.
The LORD is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.
He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for you are with me;
your rod and staff, they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
He stopped. He could not read the last line. He was overwhelmed. His mother was with Jesus “in the house of the Lord.” He remembered her peace and the strength of her faith.
“Yes, Jesus,” he said. “I want you to be my shepherd.”
It was as if the clock had turned back to that moment six weeks ago when he had first pulled the psalm from the pocket of his coat.
“Thank you, Mom,” he said to the grave. “The Lord is my shepherd.”
He looked again at the paper. The psalm was
different from the last time he’d read it. Yet it wasn’t. They were the same words as before, only now he was different. The arrogance was gone—his anger and sadness had evaporated. He was hearing with new ears.
He looked up and said, “Mom, this is what you wanted me to know all along—the Lord is my shepherd.” And he knew it was true.
* * *
HIGH ABOVE, Kate finished the last line of the psalm for him, “ ‘And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ ”
Her joy was complete. Her work on earth, done.
“Well done, good and faithful servant,” Jesus said.
Kate remembered praying, “Let my life count,” and she knew her prayer had been answered.
She turned from the earthly scenes and took the hand of Jesus, ready to dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
The Shepherd’s Song began in a small coffee shop in Madison, Georgia, when we met and prayed for God to reveal our next writing project.
We had been meeting at Perk Avenue, a coffee shop halfway between our homes, one day a week for more than a year and had made the decision to use our years of writing skills and publishing experience for God.
The idea for The Shepherd’s Song was different from what we had done before. Betsy had read Psalm 23 that morning and was drawn to the thought of how that scripture could change lives. We discussed the challenge of writing this book for adults, since our previous experiences had been in children’s books and it wasn’t something we knew how to do. We knew we would have to rely on God, which seemed perfect in light of the whole premise of Psalm 23.
The writing process turned out to be quite different from what we were used to. In previous books we had worked on separate chapters, compiling the book at the end. This time we gave each other access to our writing and worked together in a true collaboration. In the story of François, Laurie used her research skills to write the details about the work of an art restorer in Paris. Betsy, drawing on her counseling experience, layered in the story of François’s wife and his grief over her death. Together we edited and refined, and the layering and surrender went on throughout the process. By the end, we could no longer even distinguish our individual voices.