I knew the hospital well. I had gone there many times to stand with parishioners in times of distress and uncertainty. But never before had I been called there to be with a member of my own family. The drive from New Orleans to Baton Rouge was the longest drive of my life. Traffic was still backed up from the accident. I took every back road and side street I knew, but it still took far too long to get there. But, finally I arrived. After parking, I entered the ER and approached the desk with fear and trembling. “Stinson?” “Who are you?” “Her husband.” “209b. Through the double doors to the right.” I approached the room not knowing what to expect, and fearing what I would find. I found room 209. Two gurneys. Two people. One I knew was not her. One I hoped was not her. I walked over to the desk. “Stinson?” “Who are you? “Husband!” “209b. Right there on the gurney.” She was not moving. Her face and body covered in blood. Her neck in a brace. Her body trembling from trauma. Her eyes filled with fear. I kissed her and told her I loved her and that everything would be OK. “Don’t leave.” “I’m not going anywhere.” “The surgeon is on his way,” the nurse informed me. “We’ll need to move her to the trauma room. You’ll need to wait in the hall.” So there I stood for what seemed like hours. There were other people coming and going, but I paid little attention to them. At that moment, I felt more alone than I had ever felt in my life. Many times I had gone to stand with people in there darkest hours and here I stood in mine, all alone. What a strange twist of fate. It was then that I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw a elderly woman standing there with me. “Hi. My name is Rosie,” she said in a gentle, upper Midwestern voice, “no one should ever be alone at a time like this. Can I pray with you?” I didn’t know what to say. “I’m a pastor,” I replied. “Even pastors need prayer,” was her response. Ironic, isn’t it? A pastor more comfortable being present with others than having others be present with him, far more comfortable praying for than being prayed for. She began to pray. Her hand never left my shoulder. Honestly, I don’t remember a word she said. But I do remember her hand on my shoulder. And I remember recalling the words of Psalm 23, the appointed Psalm for the week, a Psalm I was preparing to preach on the following Sunday, “even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not fear, for you are with me.” Rosie’s faith-full “Amen” validated the truth of that scripture and embodied the divine presence in my life in the midst of one of the darkest valleys I have ever travelled through. Rosie was a living reminder of the power and presence of God in my life. Her presence with me reassured me of God’s presence in that moment. “I will not leave you, nor forsake you.” Each day my wife gets better and better. Healing and wholeness will come. God is truly present with us. And it was Rosie, this dear woman from Wisconsin, a woman I will probably never see again in my life, who reminded me that Christ calls us to be living reminders of God’s presence in the lives of others, even pastors. Thank you, Rosie, for reminding me of this. Thank you, Rosie, for being present.