NeuroDivine

A Benedictine reflection on presence, care, and quiet connection during dialysis

Psalm 32 | Isaiah 8:1–15 | Matthew 6:1–18 | Rule of St Benedict, Chapter 36

Friday arrives with its quiet liturgy. I prepare—not for a procession, but for connection. The line in my chest is readied, linking me to care, to rhythm, to the slow grace of being sustained. This is not dramatic. It is deliberate. It is dignified.

Psalm 32 offers shelter and mercy. “You are my hiding place,” it says. And I feel that—not as escape, but as enfolding. God does not remove me from dialysis; God meets me in it. In the hum of the machine. In the steady presence of Otto beside me. In the quiet companionship of those who serve with gentleness.

Isaiah speaks of stumbling over the cornerstone. I know that stumble. I’ve tripped over expectations—of health, of neurotypical grace, of what strength is supposed to look like. But the Lord of Hosts is my sanctuary. Not because I am unshaken, but because I am willing to be held.

Matthew 6 reminds me that prayer is not performance. My dialysis is not a spectacle. My fasting is not for applause. But in the secret place—here, beside the machine—I meet God. In silence. In stillness. In the pulse of the pump that sustains me.

And then, the Rule. Chapter 36.

“Care must be taken of the sick, as if they were Christ in person.”

I read that and I feel seen. Not managed. Not pitied. But honoured. My needs—my autistic rhythms, my sensory preferences, my quiet dignity—are not burdens. They are invitations to grace.

I hear the gentle correction too:

“Let the sick not annoy their sisters by unnecessary demands.”

And I smile. Because I know I ask for consistency. For the same chair. The same order. The same way of being met. But I also know that these requests are not whims—they are my way of staying grounded. And I trust that those who serve me do so not out of duty, but out of love.

So today, I offer my dialysis as liturgy. I offer my presence as prayer. I offer my vulnerability as participation in the Benedictine rhythm of care and community.

And I remember: I am not forgotten. I am not alone. I am not a disruption. I am Christ-in-person, being served. And I am also the disciple, learning to receive with grace.