March 2007

My team took care of a six year-old with terminal cancer until a week ago. The child died. We knew this would come, but until the death we could pretend death would bypass this family in that corner of our hearts where the unbelievable meets pleading to Someone somewhere to make it go away.

This child was (yes, the word now is “was”) so beautiful and precocious. One set of grandparents already gone, the child wrote a letter last year to them saying how much they were looking forward to meeting them in heaven long before anyone knew what was growing deep inside. I find such comfort in that letter–I pray the family does as well–and have a vision of the child being welcomed into Love’s embrace with the longed for grandparents waiting to take this child by the hand.

I cried when I heard last Wednesday of the child’s death. The death felt sudden somehow. I saw the look of shock, grief, dismay, concern, pain and resolute understanding on the faces of my team. This is not to say we did not believe the child did not have terminal cancer. We did. This is not to say we believed the child would be given a miracle. We did not. We are just human beings who despise seeing children die, and still just do not want it to be the case. We are also human beings who know that children do die, for we have been in this place before.

As many times as I have been there, I do not like going back. Inconsolable. Yes, that is the best word to describe the terrible pain. I feel it in my gut as a caregiver. What can I say? What can I do? I can only be. I can only love. I can only care. I can only remember.

When I was a Chaplain in North Carolina, I saw so many children die I lost count of their faces. Some still come back to me–even now as I write this–and I pray for their parents and loved ones who continue on without seeing them grow up. I count the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years they were with us and name it “blessing” even as their deaths continue to be “loss.”

Let me call out those I do remember:

• The baby in the bucket.
• The baby who waited two weeks for her Father to be found in Afghanistan and brought home before she died.
• The teens–two from one family, one from their best friends’ family–who died in that wreck.
• The boy who got drunk to celebrate getting out of rehab and getting a new car. Your father taught me an important lesson about hope in the face of destruction: We pray for a miracle because it is all we have, even as we are so angry with God (or at least our view of a God in control of every aspect of our lives) for not stopping the terrible thing from happening.
• The twins of the one I cared about. May your adopted child continue to bring you blessings and the trees flourish in their honor.
• The baby with the perfect old lady hands.
• The little boy who I prayed over in the operating room.
• The teen with Cystic Fibrosis.
• The girl whose mother was an inmate.
• The girl whose mother donated her organs after she was stuck down at the bus-stop.
• The boy whose parents just could not donate; they were too grief stricken.
• The girl whose body was in limbo as her brain held onto only the tiniest expressions of life.
• The baby the mother beat.
• The children set on fire by their mother’s boyfriend.
• The children tossed from the van on the family trip from Virginia.
• The children tossed from the van on the way home from church.
• The baby my flight crew brought in and just melted when he died.
• The baby killed by her father.
• The boy who knew he was dying for so long, but his parents never wanted to talk about it.
• The baby with no arms or legs. I will never forget escorting your wailing family out of the NICU.
• The baby I bathed before putting in the box to be buried at home given how poor your Mama was.
• The ones I have forgotten, may God remember for me.
• The child who died a little past midnight on my Team, Wednesday, March 21, 2007.

Sweet Honey In the Rock sings “We Are” on their Sacred Journeys CD. Here are the words in honor of all the children I tended and their loved ones, and for all who have lost a child and all the dreams that go with them into Love’s tender embrace:

For each child that’s born,
a morning star rises
and sings to the universe
who we are

We are our grandmothers’ prayers
We are our grandfathers’ dreamings
We are the breath of the ancestors
We are the spirit of God

We are
Mothers of courage
Father of time
Daughters of dust
the sons of great visions
Sisters of mercy
Brothers of love
Lovers of life
Builders of nations
Seekers of truth
Keepers of faith
Makers of peace
Wisdom of ages

We are one.

Recently I started putting more of my CDs into my iTunes…to the point I will need to buy even more memory for my Mac sooner than later! As I unpacked all my Chicago Boxes I found old friends buried in the midst of discs now labeled “What the Hell Was I Thinking When I Bought That?!” Did I really need One Bad Pig just because they had a cool Johnny Cash cover? I think not. So as each CD loads into my computer I journey back to when I fell in-love with a particular song.

I hear Alanis Morrisette on Under Rug Swept as I drive through the mountain pass between Asheville and Knoxville on my way to Tammy Wayne’s in Nashville. I listened to “You Owe Me Nothing In Return” about 100 times on that trip. I kept thinking about how much Miss Audrey loves me like this and how I hoped to find someone to love this way one day…not to mention being loved this way by him.

I’ll give you countless amounts of outright acceptance if you want it
I will give you encouragement to choose the path that you want if you need it
You can speak of anger and doubts your fears and freak outs and I’ll hold it
You can share your so-called shame filled accounts of times in your life and I won’t judge it
(and there are no strings attached to it)

You owe me nothing for giving the love that I give
You owe me nothing for caring the way that I have
I give you thanks for receiving it’s my privilege
And you owe me nothing in return

One of my favourite first lines to a song comes from Hal Ketchum’s “You Lovin’ Me.”

You said, “Someday I’m gonna break your heart”
the first time that we met
Were you warnin’ me, just seein’ how close I’d get

I wonder sometimes if these words describe me…do I play games to see how close men can get? I think I want to, but my longing for love is so great that I give into the closeness of having someone beside me, and then I am left stunned when they are no longer there. I lose my own compass somehow. In my relationship with The Bean, I would hear these words in my head from him sometimes. He just had so many walls around his heart…so many places where forgiveness had not yet healed, but pain had festered. The last time I thought about these words came one night–just two weeks before we split–where we lay in his bed talking until almost 5 in the morning. He let me into these places of pain…that is all I can say about it…I still protect him… So, I thought of these words and that they no longer applied. I was wrong.

Then I found my cds by The Choir. Damn! How I love their music. I saw them play a couple of times in college. Those boys were coooool. Of course, I am sure they now have mortgages, kids out the wazoo, and minivans, but back in the day they were the hippest of the new emerging Alternative Christian Rock bands to come along. God this line is so f-ing catchy:

Tie your shoelaces to my shoelaces
I’ll tie a rope to a tree
See how the wind whips happy fool faces
come blow away with me

I always loved Over the Rhine’s “Like a Radio.” The song haunted me about love, desire and also put in my mind a thought about how we treat our things better than people.

I’ve walked the streets to your door
To find just what’s in store
I see you
You and many others
In your clean well-lighted place
Where I would find disgrace
But I do
Know I’d find contentment
Just to be your furniture
I need nothing more
In the thick of the night
Take me out of the cold
Let me sing inside
Like a radio

Then there is Suzy Bogguss’s “Diamonds and Tears.” I think this could be my theme song right now:

Spent my life looking for
Happiness like it was buried treasure
Somewhere behind the secret door
Surely there were riches beyond measure

I would take my sanity to task
Walk across broken glass to find it
And no mountain top was left unclimbed
Before I ever took the time to look inside me

These dreams of mine, these precious years
Oh how they shine like diamonds and tears
The slow grace of time, the joy and the fears
Oh how they shine like diamonds and tears

Oh sure, there was love
And of course I thought it’d be my salvation
And in a way, I guess he was
There’s always room for higher education

Yes, I have said and heard the word goodbye
Felt the blade and turned the knife sideways
But I’d crossed bridges while they’d burn
To keep from losing what I’ve learned along the way

These dreams of mine, these precious years
Oh how they shine like diamonds and tears
The slow grace of time, the joy and the fears
Oh how they shine like diamonds and tears

Lastly, I found my Sweet Honey in the Rock CD with “We Are” on it. I wrote a prayer based on this song in Seminary. You just have to listen to it…

For each child that’s born,
a morning star rises
and sings to the universe
who we are

We are our grandmothers’ prayers
We are our grandfathers’ dreamings
We are the breath of the ancestors
We are the spirit of God

We are
Mothers of courage
Father of time
Daughters of dust
the sons of great visions
Sisters of mercy
Brothers of love
Lovers of life
Builders of nations
Seekers of truth
Keepers of faith
Makers of peace
Wisdom of ages

We are one.

I watched the news this week of Elisabeth Edwards’ cancer metastasizing to her bones and was shocked by how no one said the word “terminal” at any point. “Treatable, not curable.” Does that mean Elisabeth Edwards will die from cancer? Yes, mostly likely she will. I would call that terminal, even if she will live longer than six months, which is the gold standard for coming on Hospice.

But we hate that word–terminal–and what it means. Terminal grounds us in there being no more extraordinary curative measures that will stop a disease process all together. Terminal means that eventually the inevitable will happen. Terminal means that we might prolong this inevitable course, but there will come a point where we will only offer comfort–spiritual, emotional and physical–and nothing else as you die. Terminal means death is on its way.

The New York Times had an interview with her where she said the following:.

When asked about the suggestion some have made that the continuing campaign is an act of supreme denial about her cancer, Mrs. Edwards looked momentarily struck. Then, with her husband looking on somewhat tensely, she hurled back: “Absolutely! I am not giving it anything. If it expects to be the boss of me it’s gonna have to earn that.”

She added, “I am denying it control over how I spend the rest of my life.”

“We made the choice to live,” Mrs. Edwards said. “We don’t want to do it surrounded by a veil of tears.”

Such interesting words, “I am denying it control over how I spend the rest of my life.” Is that possible? The answer simply is “no.”

Even now, on a daily basis she must contend with the cancer. Pain, fatigue, life-extending treatments, and that nagging guttural fear knowing it is eating her alive. The circle of loss will be with her daily. She will look at her children and count the seconds. She looks at her husband and wants so much for his future–the Presidency, no less–and knows that her body has the capacity to destroy both of their dreams. She looks at her lifetime love and knows she will bring him unspeakable pain because she will leave him. Leave him to mourn their parental loss of their eldest son Wade alone. Leave him to be both mother and father to their other three children. Leave him to face his political destiny without her, something he has never had to face before.

I do not think denial is possible in this place. Terminal can be called incurable, but its truth looms nonetheless. Death can escape the verbiage but not the heart of the matter. So why deny cancer its due? Because cancer, even terminal cancer, does not mean you have to give up living in the other places it is not encroaching. I completely understand.

One thing working with the so-called “dying” has taught me is that there is no such thing as “dying.” There is only life, life, life, life and then death. Despite all the ways in which we make that spiritual transition–for even my atheist patients journey in their mind’s farthest corners prior to death to search and heal and say goodbye–death is in a moment. Life is all those other moments leading up to it. I understand the heart of what Mrs. Edwards desires. She desires to focus on her life–and all that it contains, including this cancer–instead of just focusing her attention on death’s door.

I do not know why we die when we die, and I say this as someone who has been with others as they die hundreds of times. I do know we only have once chance at living though, so for whatever time we have embracing that life, life, life is the very best and most we can hope for. To do anything else would be denial of our fundamental purpose on this planet…to live and to live and love well.

Hey guys! Check out the two new “Politics” links below. With one you can see which Presidential Candidate most closely represents you and your views. With the other you can see where you really are politically speaking. Think you are a Conservative? Maybe you are a Libertarian. Think you are Liberal? Maybe you have more in common with Margaret Thatcher than you realized!

I scored Left of Ghandi, for the record.

On Sunday, I got up at six in the morning with Emma and began to cook. My aunts (Aunt Charlyne, the one with terminal lung cancer and Aunti Sandi, the one she now lives with) were set to arrive a mere 12 hours later, so I needed to get started! Time was a-wastin! I planned a fully home cooked meal in their honor, given that my one aunt should start chemo on Thursday. I bought most of my groceries at Whole Foods, including organic lean beef for my beef stew. Fresh rosemary, French butter (does it really taste better?), Russian Banana potatoes, the finest chocolate, organic raspberries, etc. I made the beef stew from scratch, used Julia Child’s master recipe French rolls, and finished with a lovely flour-less chocolate cake with raspberry sauce. By the time I crawled back in bed for a short nap at 11:30 am, the bread was doing its second rise, the stew was cooling for being refrigerated, and my finger was properly smashed in a battle between the bottle opener and the bottle where my finger lost!

Despite almost passing out, I pressed on with my cooking. I tasted the stew multiple times. I added more Worcestershire, a splash of vinegar, some Dijon mustard. I kneaded the bread, trying to keep both blood and cotton ball fragments out of the dough. I chopped the chocolate, measured out the sugar, began the sauce, found my candy thermometer, and turned the AC down to seventy degrees. I vacuumed. I dusted. I cleared the paperwork off the dining room table and put it in neat piles away from where they would notice. I picked out fun china; I posses around 10 different ones, so this is not an easy task! Napkins, glasses, silver, serving pieces, all placed just so in-order to welcome them with sight as well as smell.

I could not help but think of Babette’s Feast as I laboured. In the movie, Babette has run away from Paris, where she worked as a renowned chef, as a political refugee. She finds work cleaning and cooking for two elderly Dutch spinster sisters. She cooks rather bland pitiful fare due to their preference. The sisters avoided pleasure all their lives out of devotion to God. (Of course, if God wanted this type of dutifulness, why did God create an entire world for us to delight in? But I digress.) There is no colour, no joy, no flavour, no mirth, no spirit (or Spirit?) to their lives. For many years, Babette toils in this grey existence, but love flourishes within all three of their lives even in this world of grey tones. After winning a small lottery, Babette plans and creates a beautiful meal for the sisters and their fellow congregants. This Feast does not just serve to delight and astound their senses, but also to pour out Babette’s love on the sisters for their kindness to her. Babette’s Feast is indeed a form of Holy Communion, which never should focus on strict table laws, but always on an open table of love and community. Babette works for days to create her Eucharist, and she selflessly pours her whole heart, body and soul into each and every dish. The delight the sisters take over each morsel left me both jealous–although I am not too sure about the Turtle Soup served–and open hearted at the love flowing between everyone at this meal. The grey banished in the light of love’s myriad of colour.

Jacqueline’s Feast could not compare when it came to epicurean delight, but I did manage to knead love into every roll, sprinkle compassion into the stew, and stir mirth into the cake batter. We sat down, with a short prayer by me. I passionately prayed that God would be with us, and especially with the person most deserving of winning at Super Boggle. My Aunt Charlyne said. “Nice try, but prayers cannot help you now.” We all broke out laughing.

See, I have only beat her at Super Boggle and Trivia Pursuit one time apiece. In a recent email to her–where I urged her to consider not doing the chemo at all–I reminded her of these two seminal events. I wrote her saying:

In my mind I go back over my whole life experience with you. My first memory? Being out on the horse farm with you and calling you “Aunt Charlyne.” You told me that you were “nobody’s aunt” and to call you Charlyne. I guess I am a true Osborne Woman–headstrong and all–because my whole life I have completely ignored you and called you “aunt” anyways! (laughing) You are not just my mother’s sister, but you are my aunt, and I love you. You have a place of honor in my heart, and my experiences of you are real. I remember the family times when you would be pissed off (The Trinity-as I like to call Aunt Frances, Mother and Aunt Gail-can be a real pain in the ass and very self righteous sometimes.) and the wonderful fun, humor and intelligence you brought. Of course there is also my fear of your amazing game-playing abilities. I can still tell you the year and the holidays that you have ever been beaten at ANYTHING by me! Christmas 1989 Betsy and I beat you at Trivia Pursuit on a Sports and Leisure question (our biggest weakness) where the answer was Martha Graham, whom I had just studied in my college Humanities class. Then in 1997, again at Christmas, I beat you at Super Boggle. All my friends know about this and that I figured the only way to even the playing field between us was for you to get Alzheimer’s! Not that I would wish that on you just to be able to beat you, but it did cross my mind! (really laughing now)

Jacqueline’s Feast ended with me and Aunti Sandi being shown our hats by the Whiz, but also with being able to say and hear, “I love you.” What joy to hear her laugh, throwing her head back and cackling! How fun to see her reach for her third roll and smear it with lots of good butter! How precious to show both of

them my Granddaddy’s newly recovered chair sitting in my Living Room, and to show her where I put the antique dresser they drove to North Carolina to get for me back in 1991. Most importantly, what a wonderful sacred moment with those whom I love, especially the one who has spent so much of her life separated from us all.

I spent a good part of Monday crying–and here I am at it again–over how precious her time really is and how much I want each one of her moments to be poured to overflowing with more love, care, good food, laughter, family, games, and joy than she can handle. She has spent a lifetime without enough, so I figure it is high time she gets too much. (See my other post about this.)

So many of us are starving, like my Aunt Charlyne, for more love, more joy, more kindness, more understanding. I really believe in being the very thing you think is lacking in the world. Too many mean people? Be kind. Too much noise? Be quiet. Too much media? Turn off the TV. Too much fighting? Be peaceful. To much pain? Love more. Not enough time? Spend what you have loving and holding and cherishing before you miss the chance.

And of course: Chocolate batter on the spoon? Call “fins” and lick it up!

(”Fins” is a family expression akin to “shot-gun” or “dibs.”)

I am so tired. Never having had a young puppy before, not to mention a job and being an old lady celebrating anniversaries of her 28th birthday since last century, I had no idea! I behold the sunrise every morning, every day. In fact, more sunrises graced my mornings this last month than all of the months of my life prior. Often, I get to see the morning sky without the sunrise–we are up just that early! I get up and pee–Mama’s first around here–and then fetch the pup crying, “I gotta go. I gotta go. I gotta go. Mommmmmieeeeee. I gotta go. I gotta go. I gotta go.” Of course the fact that she really would rather not go outside due to being afraid of it does make this a bit tough, but out we go. First time we pee and poop. Times two though five we go to pee again, otherwise I am on my hands and knees cleaning up the floor. I hate cleaning up the floor, and not just for the obvious reason. My puppy is addicted to the cleaning spray and would prefer I just squirt it into her mouth. I think she has the Alcoholism gene because she also really loves it when I take off nail polish, so I figure the lure of these things is all about the alcohol. Not only does the pooch love the hooch (ha!) but she also loves cayenne pepper. I found this out when I sprinkled it on the wood of the sofa she thinks would be fun to teethe on, and instead of her crying and backing away, she licked it up. Thankfully, I also know now that she hates mint. Needless to say, my house is minty fresh these days.

You may be asking yourself why in the world I would put myself through all of this torture. Trust me! At five in the morning, I too am asking myself what the heck I got myself into. Then I see her cute little panda marked body bouncing around and melt. She really is a love, and she is putting a lot of F.U.N. back into my life. I needed the fun and her as my teacher. I can be sooo serious sometimes. Plus, knowing she was coming into my life really helped me to start planning for my future and stop looking back over my shoulder at the painful past with The Bean.

Those early morning wake-up calls ground my whole day towards taking care of her, and in so doing I also take care of my own soul. As we played catch this morning at eight, instead of our usual 6-6:30 stint. What a God-send she woke up at 7:30, with a tiny bit of encouragement at 5:30, 6:15 and 6:45, given that I was on-call last night and went to a death until almost 3 am! So in my sleepy haze tossing her ball down the hall and praying to not hit the china cupboard, I started to think about what I am learning from little Emma. Here are my musings:

• The adage “don’t bite the hand that feeds you” is really smart. When she nips at me, I wish the wrath of the puppy gods upon her cute little deranged head with the sharp needles for teeth! We can all nip at our bosses about this and that–my favourite nips center on the antiquated systems that make everything take forever to do, coupled with “productivity” requirements (Yes, even Chaplains have quotas!)–not always taking to heart that if they had a magic wand they too would fix the DOS system that makes their life a living hell as well.
• Toys are fun, but even more fun when you play with someone else. Emma never steals things that are not hers unless I am ignoring her. She demands attention, that is for sure, but she also has a lot more fun when we play together. Take me: I always went to the movies by myself over the years. Even when I was in High School! But now I really just like going with a friend, especially Paparazzo. So much more fun to talk about it with someone and share the experience. This holds true for me and bike riding as well. I go further, have a better workout and enjoy myself more. I guess I am not as much of a loner as I embraced at an earlier time.
• A good day includes eating both your meals and some yummy treats, pooping and peeing, walking around outside, being curious, playing with friends, and loving on those around you, so do not worry too much about all the other complicated stuff. Granted, Emma is cared for because I get up and go to work, etc. She has an easy life, which I lecture her on when she is a pain in the rear-end. But she also shows me that keeping things more simple can lead to a really amazing walk on a cool evening or some precious cuddle time with a wiggly puppy in my lap. The Internet or TV are never as wonderful.
• Kiss, kiss, kiss is always better than nip, nip, nip. In our world, Emma kissing me is always better than when she is a mouthy puppy. The Bible puts it this way,”A kind word turns away anger.”
• Jump into the arms of the one you love. My heart fills up with sheer glee when I see her bounding towards me, leaping into my lap and arms, and snuggling in to get close. So often we see those who matter the most to us and say, “Hey.” That is it!???! How much better to just fling our arms around them, hug them tight, and say, “I am so much more happy now that I see your beautiful face. I love you.”
• Naps are good. This one is self-explanatory, and causes a great deal of jealousy around my house. I put her down for a nap and sulk away from her crate. Pitiful!
• Napping with another warm body beside you, even better. I need to work on this in my personal life as well as my puppy life! She prefers napping in her bed than in mine. Plus, if she is in my bed, she insists on checking my head for fleas. “Mommie is not a puppy,” gets said around here quite a bit. Mommie also knows that just any warm body will not do in her bed. Only one encasing the heart of a man who really loves me for who I am will do at this point. I am glad I get that now.
• Accidents happen. I keep thinking of that old Bissel ad that said, “Life is messy; clean it up.” Shit happens; we all do it! I try to focus on cleaning things up and moving on with life over getting all upset that it happened in the first place.
• Forgive. Forgive. Forgive. She is growing up and has to learn the rules, test the rules, and grow into accepting the rules. I try to be as consistent as possible, and fair. Sometimes I just mess up on the Mommie end, and often she messes up on the baby end. I must forgive her in order to wipe my heart clean of my anger at the “mistakes” and to be open to loving her fully again, so I might train her to be the dog I want her to be. I also have to forgive myself for not always doing the right thing or for getting overwhelmed, etc. A girl has to work, ya know? Grace has to be the cornerstone of all of my relationships–even the one I have with myself–in order for them to grow and flourish. Forgiving the nicks along the way means that I understand pruning as being a part of life.

Emma and I are both growing up around here, and I am honest with myself about that.

In honor of this being “Social Workers Week” or something like that, I want to honor the Social Workers I know and love:

First let me honor the LCSW in North Carolina that I started seeing just before my thirtieth birthday. I began working at UNC Hospitals doing paid on-calls, and I felt I needed someone to help me process my work. I also wanted to look at why I pushed sex away and the boys it comes with.  I can see myself clearly at that time, so confident in my inner strength and so fragile when it came to my outer self.  I wore my shirts buttoned all the way up, save the top button.  (A big change from college 10 years before when the top button would have also been snagged.)  Hair done, make-up in place, but always on the outside shielded by body fat and clothes.  They did not, however, protect my core from longing.

I remember sitting there in her office listening to her ask me why I had come to see her, taking a big gulp of air and blurting out, “I am about to be a thirty year-old virgin, and I do not want to stay that way forever!” She really helped me to process how I thought of my body, how I saw myself as a whole person, and to embrace the sexual woman within. I asked myself some rather hard questions with her, and she supported me in finding answers from within my own ethic and sense of my spiritual commitments. With her help, I embraced my abilities as a chaplain, my femininity, my desires for my life, and my dreams for my future.  I also had sex for the first time and began a really important walk out of the walls surrounding me and towards my own inner vision of myself in the world.  Finally, outside and inside began to merge.

Then there is my friend Darling.  She works in a similar setting to my own now, but she has also been around the Social Worker block helping troubled kids and families. What an amazing woman she is! She lives for the thrill of working hard to help people. God forbid she get bored on the job–or in life for that matter!  That woman loves the go-go-go pace and has the heart to keep at it. She gets it, and not just about those she helps (including her friends) but also her clients. I trust her radar, even if she did think that The Bean would be back. Everybody is wrong sometimes…I won’t hold it against her! Mostly, what I love about her is that she knows herself and her own places of weakness, pain, growth and strength. She can articulate the ways she has had to grow up, and she never puts you down for needing to grow up too. She will kick your sorry rump if need be, but not so much that you doubt yourself or her friendship.  If I need a practical and hilarious take on my life, I turn to Darling.  I call her my “Relationship Sponsor,” from my fictional group Relationships Anonymous.  She really needs to start this up for real because we are all so screwed up in the head about relationships it seems.

Lastly, I want to honor my Team Social Worker. She too just gets it…I think it is a requirement for Social Workers! She sees that there are those we can really help and is not afraid to step into the fray and do what needs to be done. She is practical and diplomatic. She can roll her eyes with the best of them. She is dedicated and works very hard. She will move her schedule around to help get things facilitated and will stand up to a family or patient in such a way that they might even from time to time thank her. She is smart and kind, which is sometimes a hard balance to keep. She really cares about the staff on our team, and I know that love and care is something one cannot buy with a paycheck.  I know how blessed I am to have her to be both a colleague and a mentor.

Mostly, these woman demonstrate something really important to all of us…they deeply understand and live by the knowledge that life is a process. There are no quick fixes, cause if there were they would be using them to make their tough jobs easier! No. They willingly walk beside people with both practical and emotional problems and provide comfort to them as the pain of the process unfolds. Change is terribly hard. Transformation from worm to butterfly requires shedding all that was past in order to unfurl into what is possible. These three women never look at anyone in the pain of the cocoon of change and judge that or demean that process.

So here is to them and to all of the other Social Workers out there leaning over our cocoons and whispering into our ears and hearts, “Change little butterfly, change.”  I honor you.

 I get to “do” funerals at least once a month as a hospice chaplain…what fun. I must admit I sometimes wonder what people think when planning these affairs, so I want to offer some helpful tips.

1. Have a positive attitude about what the heck you are there to do!  You are there to remember, grieve and celebrate someone’s life.  Just as their life had many different elements–sometimes they were great to be around, sometimes they were a pain in the ass–so should the funeral.  Embrace the final send-off as a time to really speak honestly about them and their life.  You cannot hurt them.  They are dead.
2. Do not be afraid to laugh and cry.  A continuation of the above advice.  Funerals where there is both laughing and crying heal broken hearts.  Funerals with only tears tear at everyone.  The funeral begins the season of grief for those close to the deceased.  For those especially close, laughter helps them to embrace the beauty of  the life lived at the same time they mourn its loss.  This point holds especially well for funerals for children.  A few, “I never thought  we would potty train little Ben.” goes a long way in opening up all the parts of the heart broken when a child dies.
3. Remember that after a certain age the following: They were old.  They were going to die.  Everybody dies.  PERIOD.  I understand missing someone, but let us be reasonable here people.  If you are 90, suffering the effects of a stroke, do not know your family any longer, and need a diaper, death is a sweet release.  Do not throw yourself on the coffin of your Great-grandmother!  She is dead and glad to be so. We all die.  You will too.  It was her time; she old!
4. Tell the truth. Again, you are not hurting the memory of the departed by saying how much it annoyed you that he always would fart, say “sorry,” laugh and then fart again.  Just because someone is dead does not mean we have to put them on a pedestal we would have howled with laughter to see them on during their lifetime.  Do not be cruel…that is the one caveat.  No one likes to be around someone mean spirited, but especially at a funeral.
5. Do not be afraid to skip the funeral parlor or church.  Have it at your house if possible.  The atmosphere is more laid back and helps people relax, grieve, support one another.
6. Cremate if you are comfortable with it.  So much the better for everyone and cheaper.
7. Skip the open casket.  The only time the casket is appropriate is to help children under 16 see that their parent or sibling is really dead.  (This comes from my own experience.  If I had not seen my father I would probably still wonder if the body had be switched.)
8. Do not be afraid to talk about the person you love.  We ministers can say some things, but our words pale in comparison to what you would say as a family member.  What to say?  Tell stories; this always works the best.  But do everyone a favor and skip stories about hair, make-up, golf and pets.  Of course, at my funeral I want all of my dogs mentioned.  They were/are: Wolfie, Mindy, Sydney, Gretchie and Emma.  I don’t play golf, but my hair and make-up  always look good…for the record.
9. Wear color!  Wear their favourite color.  Black is boring and not full of life.  No matter how sad you are, your life will go on until you die.  Do not start now by mastering the art of depression with black.  Black slims thighs and hope.  Mix it up!  A bright pink sweater with your black skirt will honor your sister who always loved pink.
10. Go outside if possible too.
11. An Open Bar is a good idea. People stress out at funerals. A little nip never hurt anyone–unless they are in AA or drinking to excess or harming themselves or others–okay, sometimes a little nip could hurt, but if it won’t then have one by all means.
12. Food is also good. Food helps calm the stomach when the hooch hits. Serve it before and after the actual service. Encourage people to eat by eating yourself. Everyone will feel better.
13.  Forgive yourself for everything not being perfect.  Nothing in life ever is.  Your loved one sure was not, so why should their funeral be?

Happy Funeral Planning!