change of shift

Nothing quite compares to the wondrous, sweet relief that consumes every sinew of my being at six thirty in the morning.

The twelve long hours of the night shift are over -- almost -- and the prospect of a good day's sleep galvanizes my caffeine-weary mind into action.

My patient assessments are all charted, vitals recorded, I and O's (fluid intake and output) tallied, and the last thing left for me to do is a final round among all my patients to flush their IV lines and give their insulin shots.

And then they arrive, one by one, trudging out of the dinging elevator doors, ready to take our places. Clutching their clipboards, the day shifters wait patiently in the break room, like ducklings waiting for a good day's breakfast.

I don't know about my fellow night nurses, but the experience of changing shifts refreshes me just as much as a tall glass of iced water in a hot Texas summer day.

So as I mindlessly go on with my work, passing medications, turning patients, cleaning wounds, starting IVs, checking charts, writing telephone orders, there's a part of my subconscious that greedily counts down every second, every minute, until the clock strikes thirty minutes before seven.

Surely this must be what the psalmist is describing when he writes, "My soul waits for the Lord, more than the watchmen for the morning, indeed, more than the watchmen for the morning." (Psalm 130:6)

Isn't there a thought that dissolves the darkly brooding clouds of the stress of daily life more quickly, than the vision of the End of Ages?

When our God will wipe away every tear from the eyes of His people, when He will once for all vanquish suffering and evil and death into the lake of fire, when heaven and earth are renewed with life invincible, when we will see and know our Love, face to face?