Empty Eyes

We throw around the word "hope" all the time, but have you personally ever seen someone who has lost it? Sure you have - you've seen homeless people on corners, or maybe a prostitute trying to make a dollar.  You know it, how?  You can see they've lost it by looking into their eyes - the eyes tell the story. 
A car filled with five of us drove over six hundred miles in a day to get to my little girl's Teepa in Nashville last Friday.  Everyone in that car was convinced that we might find a man struggling to stay alive after a bone marrow transplant early this month - his name is Tom Hudson.  It took less than five minutes and one look into his war torn face to realize that the drive was worth it.  His eyes were deep and dark and can only be described as "empty."  As he squeezed my hand I found myself staring into his eyes overcome with such a sense of loss, a tear streamed down the right side of his cheek.  Unknowingly, I found myself so empathetic that my heart began to ache and my anxiousness from the night before returned.  The experience broke my heart.
How does a vibrant man full of life and a golf game most men envy turn into a man with empty eyes unable to eat?   He lost hope.  The eyes told the story.  Not the hope of Jesus and a resurrection, but the hope of living.  The hope of right now.  The hope that says, "today is gonna be a good day."
His days had not been good.  His days had been filled with hospital trips and tons of medication.  His days involved no activity, no stimulating conversations, just making it.  His days had been filled with the key theme being "survival."  Waves of displeasure - nausea, chills, anxiety - episodes to grit your teeth through to survive.
Most of our time in Nashville he remained this way, surviving.  But the night before we left Eden pulled out the Wii and brought back a sense of his past normal, playing games with his grand-daughter.  With each game, he became more involved.  I watched as the dark, empty eyes regained their vision of living.  He laughed. 

It was obvious that he remembered all the late nights playing Wii with us and wanted to return to that life of enjoyment.  His hope was returning, yes, food was to follow.
As hard as it was to pull away on Monday to make the trip home, the reality that we brought the antidote for empty eyes - visions of time with your grand-daughter - comforted all of us. With hope I am convinced we will have Wii nights once again with Teepa right here at home!