It was one of those stories that caught my eye while I was looking in a newspaper for something else; a story with the words “children’s disappearing organs” all in one headline. Curiosity piqued, I stopped my browsing and read on. The article went on to say that a number of British hospitals had been routinely removing the organs from deceased children without the consent of the parents. The story related the plight of one woman who, upon learning of this discovery, called the hospital where her infant son had died and asked if that had been done to her baby.
It had.
Forty years ago when the child had died.
What put this mother’s story in the body of the commentary was her announcement that the hospital still had the heart, lungs, and esophagus of her child, all safely stored in little glass jars. The hospital then reportedly asked if her she wanted them back.
This mother was quoted as saying that the startling news would have been easier to deal with had the organs been used to saved the life of someone else’s child. But she failed to see what good had come out of her son’s organs floating in glass jars for forty years. She was wrestling with the question of whether or not she should retrieve her son’s organs and conduct a second consecration service to bury those tiny remains alongside the rest of him. This thought kept plaguing her. Her child had been buried without his heart. He was empty inside.
I remember being intrigued by this mother grieving anew the loss of her child because he had been buried without his heart. I could imagine her distress but I could not relate to it. All that I had in common with this woman was that, like her, I love my children with all my heart.
With all my heart.
Perhaps this is where I begin to understand.
When we consider what we believe about the human heart, it begins to make more sense.
Anyone who has studied the rudimentary facts of human anatomy will say the heart is an amazing organ, a ball of muscle and tubing that begins beating within the human embryo within three weeks of conception. Loyal like a dog, it is driven to beat, even when illness or an accident dares it to stop.
We know how crucial the heart is to the life of the body. When someone’s heart arrests, rescue workers don’t slap the head and yell to the brain, “Make the heart work!” They coax the heart to begin beating again by doing what it does, knowing that if they stop, the fallen person will certainly die.
Maybe this is why we give the heart so many unrelated responsibilities. It is, for the most part, very dependable and absolutely crucial to survival. We attribute our powers of reason and intellect to the brain, but when it comes to love, passion—even envy, anger, and hatred—these we assign to the amazing little pump that beats beneath our ribs.
It has always been this way. Even the oldest texts of Scripture, which predate almost any other printed record, command us to love God with everything we’ve got, including our heart.
We all seem to agree that our deepest feelings come from a place that is incapable of producing thoughts. There is no gray matter, no brain tissue in the chambers of the heart.
The fact that we believe the love we have for people originates somewhere within the folds of “the old ticker” is no more evident than the time of year when heart-shaped, Valentine decorations abound. Take a peek inside the average greeting card tailored for Valentines Day and it’s hard to miss the significance we place on the heart as the seat of emotion.
Even though we have simplified the symbol, choosing a symmetrical, non-chambered, unplumbed cartoon to represent the real thing, it is pretty obvious the human heart is the address for our best—and worst—intentions and affections.
