His Hands: A Tender Mercy

My job is far from glamorous. I am kicked, slapped, pushed, pulled, bit, spit on, and called some indecent names. I clean up all bodily fluids, usually on a daily basis. And occasionally I wear oatmeal. It's normal.

But I know I'm on the right career path. Because at the end of the day, no matter how frustrated I may have felt, a part of me can't wait to go back. That part of me knows that my clients have bad days. They're human. They have their own unique perspectives. They want to be loved, respected, and understood. They want autonomy. They want to be heard. They're more than a paycheck.

Yesterday as I cared for them the thought reoccurred to me that with my profession comes great responsibility. I am caring for the children of God in some on their most vulnerable moments. The moments of frustration and anger, grief and pain, embarrassment and fear, the unknown and the inevitable. I practice The Healer's Art daily; I care for people physically, emotionally, and spiritually. In caring for my patients I learn more about my Savior and in doing so I have the privilege of becoming more like Him. 

I love my job. 

Because along with all the aggression, messes, and name calling-- there are those perfect moments when you know they're grateful for you: When I wake them up in the morning, and they spread their arms wide exclaiming, "Mommy!". When they say "I love you", when they sing and dance to the Beatles, when I make them pancakes and that wide grin shows up on their face, when they laugh at me and say "you silly", when they prefer me over any other caregiver because I listen to and understand their sign language, when they cry for me when I leave, and every other one of these moments that tugs at my heart strings--  my love for them grows. In these moments, I am no longer just Jessie. I have the opportunity to be the hands of our Savior. 

That's why I'm a nurse.