Devotions

Have you ever met someone and just had magic from the very beginning? I do not mean sexual chemistry, although sometimes it does go hand-in-hand. I am referring to meeting a Soul Mate. Someone who makes your soul sing and your spirit dance. It may only be for a short time that your lives are intertwined. I am thinking here of a patient of mine–another Jacqueline–whom I loved so very deeply from the moment we met. I do not believe there is just one Soul Mate for your life–I believe there are many. The hope is to meet all of them.

I met one of mine recently. My new friend inspired an almost instant love in me–”agape love”, as my friend so aptly put it. My friend literally is standing in the wood with the two roads branching off in vastly different directions. I suspect, if they go down the road that seems the most negotiable, they will eventually loop back to where they are now. My own heart hurts to think of all the dreams shattered or suspended in their life at present. My friend is earnestly trying to find the way while grieving “the way it is not any longer.” Given all their gifts of being so very bright, interesting, full of creativity and kindness, and a genuinely soul-full person, there is no doubt in my mind this person will develop their own meaningful road map and find their way home again–find their way to love again.

We spoke at length about the need to be 100% within yourself and not looking for your missing piece or feeling that you lacked anything. Obi Wan (the greatest Hippie therapist of all time) calls this “accepting yourself and accepting that you deserve love.” Acceptance does not require perfection in yourself or even the expectation of perfection in another. He likened it to two hands grasping, instead of trying to make a hand with bits and pieces of two broken ones. I love that image. I could not help by wonder: What if you were left with just two thumbs and a pinkie? Not much good could come of this amalgamation. No, you need two whole hands to get the work of life accomplished. Sure, there maybe a scar here or there. Maybe your hand hurts from time-to-time, for the rains will surely come. But you are a hand, a whole hand, at the ready for its mate.

Shel Silverstein put it this way:

I have a prayer for my dear friend now as they seek to find wholeness and life anew. A prayer to help as the painful process of smoothing those edges begins. My prayer is:

Know that although my support is silent it sings endlessly in the quiet to you. I will sing out to the heavens and to the earth and to the ocean between us gentle prayers of hope for your life. I will mix into the currents a balm to tend to your wounds. I send on the wind a whisper, “You will make it. You will heal. You will be whole.” I will pray that the rain washes away your rage–leeching it away one drop at a time from your being. I will send people from near and far to your door seeking out your compassionate company. May they teach you just as you teach them. I will tell the birds here to pass it to their friends a message that your heart is broken so their insistent song will find you and stitch it back together not unlike Cinderella’s dress. May you be clothed with righteousness and fidelity towards all you hold dear and believe. May you know yourself in a way you never did before and find grace and opportunity in this new understanding. May you find peace.

Amen.

Working as a hospital and hospice chaplain over the last eight years, I can trace certain themes I repeatedly hear from my patients and their families. These themes include: questioning of why bad things happen to “good” people; the meaning in suffering; the timeliness or “out-of-time” sense when someone dies; trust issues with the medical community; causality; God’s intervention (or lack there of) in our lives; and the meaning of hope/feelings of despair. You know…the light stuff! The most common spiritual intervention I provide directed at a single place of spiritual suffering centers on the popular myth: “God never gives us more than we can handle.”

I write the word “myth” intentionally because indeed this is just that–a myth. We human beings created this idea out of our own hope that it might be true, but not based on any ancient sacred text we might hold to within either the Jewish or Christian traditions. There is a text in the Christian Scriptures that does have somewhat similar language, so the popular consensus is that it has been misquoted just enough to get the other idea into our popular lexicon. The text comes from I Corinthians 10:13 where the Apostle Paul writes, “No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it.” The part that is interesting four our discussion is where he writes, “[God] will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.” I guess we could call this “Biblical Telephone!” One person after another tweaks it just enough that over time we ended up “God never gives us more than we can handle.”

The problem comes from when we go around spouting off this myth as Biblical truth and live our lives by it!  Worse yet, we often tell this to people truly hurting as a way to try and assuage their pain.  Would you feel better to know that when the most horrible pain of your life is upon you–and you feel like you are going insane from not being able to bear it, yet having to anyways–to know that God had allocated this pain for you knowing you could handle it?

Just recently I spoke to a woman on the Helpline I answer who struggled with this notion. She had just been diagnosed as Stage IV, and she was shattered. She endured more grief and loss in the last twelve years than most, and now with hardly any emotional, physical, spiritual, or financial resources must wage war on this horrific disease–after being Stage Zero a couple of years ago and given the “all clear.” In our conversation, the issue of why would God be “giving” her the cancer came up. Why? Because she had been taught (most likely at church!), “God never gives us more than we can handle.” The implication is that God is giving the cancer for some higher purpose. She told me she believes in a loving God, which led me to ask, “Is a loving God then the creator of your heartache?” I reminded my caller–who is a Christian–of Jesus’ own words on the cross, in which he quoted the Psalmist saying, “My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?” I believe those words are the cries of someone who intimately knows what it means to endure much much more than they can handle.

If the ancient Hebrew and/or Christian Scriptures are important to you, let me direct you a gem from Proverbs 18:14: “A man’s spirit sustains him in sickness, but a crushed spirit who can bear?” I do believe that feeling supported, loved and cared for while we battle the diseases within (and the dis-ease without) help us to heal in body, mind and spirit. This is why it is so important to surround ourselves during our healing journeys with those who can listen and hold the most fragile of moments–those times of despair, anger, hurt and loss–and celebrate with us the moments of life, hope, love and laughter we will experience even with disease. No one can bear our pain or illness for us–in that we are totally alone–but they can carry us while we bear it by carrying our spirit close to their own. Without that, our spirits will be literally crushed, and that is too much to bear.

My encouragement to you today my dear friends is this: God is not the author of our heartache or our broken bodies. We are fragile and live in a fragile world where brokenness is par for the course. God (or Love, if that fits your spirit better) is, however, always wanting to be part of the circle of support cheering us on, believing in our power to create goodness and beauty in a place where there is pain, and encircling us with comfort in the living we are doing right now…even when it is truly more painful than we can bear.

I wrote the following prayer for “Seminarian Sunday” at my home congregation,

Coral Gables Congregational Church.

Today we come together to not only draw closer to the Source of Love—God—but also to one another. Inspired by this love, some of us have made the journey from the pew to the pulpit. For me, it was one of the hardest and loneliest journeys I ever made; it was also one of the most significant, beautiful and amazing journeys. I can remember being on this very chancel surrounded by more love than I had ever experienced in my whole life–many of you were there. Isn’t it amazing how life is like that? The bitter makes the sweet all that much more meaningful and rich.

Maybe you too have been on a journey like this—from student to teacher, from child to parent, from employee to employer, from caretaker to the one cared for, from married to single or single to married, from healthy to ill, or experienced the renewal of your body following an illness. All of us move from moth to butterfly. The ebb and flow of life continually has us in its grip, smoothing out our rough edges, sloughing away our dirt and grime, shaping us. So, as we pray today, let us pray for all of those on the lonely road of transition and transformation.

Loving God, you know us by heart. You know when we rise and when we fall. From far away you see our hearts and tenderly cradle us in your arms of comfort and rest. Even when we long for touch, connection, and love—we are not alone. You are with us. Hear our prayer.

We pray for all those who hear you asking, “Whom shall I send?” Help us to bravely venture forward and say, “Here I am Lord, send me.” May we hear you whispering in our ears to love your children more fully today.

We pray for all those who sacrifice the prestige, wealth and comfort they see their peers obtain in order to humble themselves before the hurting world. Be with them and all who sacrifice their comfort for your good.

We pray for those who fear paying their bills, feeding their family, getting the car fixed, or losing their home. You have given us enough resources and the creativity to take care of one another—help us to let go of our greed so everyone has what they need.

We pray for those who feel isolated and alone as they struggle to transform their body, their mind, their heart, their spirit. Change is never easy, but it is always constant in our lives. Change hurts, and pain is so isolating—even from you dear God. May your hand place a healing balm in our lives and may we feel carried by those who love us.

We pray for those facing a spiritual crisis today, trying to sort out the facts from the mythology, the truth from the minutia, the hope from the despair. May your cloud by day and fire by night illuminate our path and help us come to a place of imagination in what is possible and acceptance in the beauty of the questions.

We pray for those who are looking today for the face of God—waiting expectantly for just one person to listen, care, be tender, forgive, understand or hold. May we be your face of unconditional love in the world.

We pray for transformation, sweet Jesus. We pray to be made new. Come and see the deepest part of our hearts, and revive us so we might be strengthened to love again today. Hear our prayer.

Amen.

My Dear Faithful Reader,

We have come to the first anniversary of my blog. First of all, thank you so very much for the affirmation of reading my blog (some of you more than my own Mama!) and sharing with me the places my writing touched you and your story. I must say I am rather surprised by all of this! What started as a way to post photos of my then six week-old puppy Emma–who was still living with her Birth Mother at the time–transformed into something I never expected. I grieved the loss of a meaningful relationship. I worked through much of what it meant for me to work as a hospice chaplain. I highlighted the hilarities of my dating life. And, most importantly, I educated you on men in tank tops!

Given Top Ten Lists are so passe I say, “Nine is Fine!” Here are my favourite nine posts from this last year:

9. I Heart Atheists! This post is dedicated to my patient “Hank,” of whom I wrote. I am glad he is no longer struggling to breathe or to find love.

8. Posting My Big Secret This post received the most private email because people were worried about me. In many ways it was the hardest to write. I reveled an important secret, and in so doing found a way to tell my closest and dearest just how much despair (my definition of anti-hope) I felt following the break-up. This post continues to have meaning for me due to my continuing love of Post Secret, and because I hope by exposing my pain–even as a minister–others fearing the only way through is out might feel comforted.

7. I’m Coming Out: Jesus Know About My Vibrator The year’s most embarrassing and second funniest post. I still cringe when people ask me for my website address thinking about them reading this particular post. Of course this is exactly why it is on this list–I am a glutton for embarrassing myself on this blog with the bitter truth. For the record–and thankfully–I have had sex since I wrote this post! (Once.)

6. The Whispering God Where is God when bad things happen to good people? In part, this post contains my answer to this question and my own thinking about God’s intervention–and lack there of–in our lives.

5. 40 Reasons I Make A Great Girlfriend (and her evil twin 40 Reason I Will Drive You Crazy & Am Not Perfect) This was so much fun, and I met my friend in Austria through putting up the “Great Girlfriend” list on craigslist.

4. A Rose Garden Relationship I continue to think about what I wrote in this post. If there is such a thing as your own writing being a gift to you, it would be this post. I feel it helped me clarify what relationship values continue to remain important to me and also what I ultimately have to offer all of my relationships, including the one I have with myself.

3. You Play, You Pay This post about my prayer for my Aunt Charlyne to come to terms with her cancer and still remains at the forefront of my thinking about her. She finished her second round of chemo, and she will find out next week the results of her latest PET scan. She told us at Christmas she feels the cancer is spreading.  All my work with patients has taught me our bodies tell us the truth–even long before the tests and doctors do–so I cannot help but wonder if hers is telling her a truth now. I do not know what will happen with her body, but I know she will be surrounded by love regardless of the outcome. This is what matters most.

2. Tank Top Wearing Man Candy? The single funniest thing I have ever written! I cannot see a man in a tank top without thinking: “Baby, if you only knew how I felt about THAT!” If you love it too, please go out to Urban Dictionary and suggest “The Tribble Factor” for a word/definition.

1. The Mango Tree My homage to my father and the continuing bonds of love death cannot separate us from and how these bonds continue to inform our present and propel us into our future.

Here is to a wonderful Year Two!

I wrote the following piece for my company’s bi-annual Memorial Gathering to honor those who have died with our hospice. The theme for this season’s services is “The Light of Love.” The first section focuses on “The Light of Remembrance,” which inspires the piece.

In the summer of 1977 my father died. I remember the day as being rainy and very cold, but in reality it was a hot and humid Florida summer day. I guess my little girl mind was so overcome with grief that the only way to describe a day when you lose someone you desperately love is to think of it as being cold and dreary with dark clouds crying. That is the funny thing about remembering the past—we are always looking back at it through a particular lens. I saw that day through the lens of pain and loss for so long that the day itself became transformed to match the feelings.

I also look back and remember holding Daddy’s hand, as he and Mother would lift me up over the curb, swinging me back and forth. I remember seeing his arms outstretched to me, as I would scoot down the high slide at the park by his office. I remember the look on his face when he opened my door to find Kelly Grey and I sitting on the red carpet with the pink ceramic pig smashed into a million pieces.

Kelly lived just six houses from mine, and we were born exactly three weeks apart. We would walk the grass of our neighbour’s front lawns to get to one another’s homes safely. Our parents had taught us to do this, so we were full of four-year old confidence. Somehow we decided this particular day that she would come to my house, but we neglected to ask my napping Mother—out of kindness, of course. As we sat in my room, she asked me how much money was in the pig. We decided to count the money, but alas the pig did not have an opening on the bottom, and the small slot on top did not send the money back to us when we shook it. I offered to go and fetch my tiny hammer from the garage. Daddy bought it for me, so I could “help” him with his household “Honey-Do-Lists.” I marched out to the garage where he was working at his tool bench, took down the hammer, and replied to his inquiry about needing any help with a simple “no thanks.”

Daddy had not had a four-year old in the house in over sixteen years, so it took an extra moment for him to comprehend that there was no need for me to have the hammer that would be qualified as “good”—which also proved to be just enough time for Kelly and I to smash the pig to smithereens. So there we sat on the floor of my bedroom with one dead ceramic pig, one hammer, countless change, and one Daddy staring down at us saying, “What in the world!? Kelly, where did you come from? Does your Mother know she is here?” He had that look I knew as meaning I was in T.R.O.U.B.L.E. He also had the mischievous smirk around his eyes of appreciating my ingenuity. He would know…I got my ingenious and mischievous nature from him!

You may wonder how it is that I remember all these little details of my ever too brief six years with Daddy. The answer comes from my Mother, who never shied away from talking about him and from keeping the light of remembrance stoked within me. She would ask me, “Do you remember when we met Daddy for lunch?” or “Do you remember going on the boat and catching your first fish at the marina?” She kept the memories alive—she kept Daddy alive—even when it must have cut her heart to a million pieces to have to do so. I know she wanted to go to bed and never get up because her heart was so full of agony and loss. My Grandmother had to take her in hand and tell her to get up because I needed her. Being a widow herself, she also promised my mother that she would stop crying all the time—“eventually.”

I am sure Mother wanted to forget sometimes—to forget all the love, laughter, happiness, touch and connection she had with him—because the forgetting might make the pain less. Instead, she held onto my Grandmother’s promise that “eventually” the pain would lessen, “eventually” she would not be crying all the time, and “eventually” she would invest in her own life again. In holding onto that promise, she kept Daddy’s love alive for me by reinforcing all of my memories of him.

Now when we talk of Daddy, we light up with the remembering. He is ever close, ever dear, ever loved. When I drive her nuts by announcing just exactly how we will be going about accomplishing a particular task—step-by-painful-step where she is merely an extra pair of hands—she shakes her head and says, “Just like your father…you are just like your father.” When I tease her or say something terribly funny she says, “Just like your father.” In fact, it has become quite the joke between us. Mother will compliment me on something and I will with deadpan delivery tell her, “Well you know, I get that from Daddy.“ She just shakes her head and laughs! When we are with other people and they comment on how bright I am, we look at each other, giggle and chime together, “She gets that from her father!” We both know how much her love and care for me has shaped me, but in those little moments we bring forward into our lives right now the love, humor and intelligence of a man who has been dead over thirty years. We keep him alive within us, which makes him a real person to even those who never had the honor of meeting him.

Remembering the one you love who has died is a precious flame within you, but you may at times be afraid that it will burn you. I want to encourage you today that the light of remembrance can only illuminate your life and warm your soul. I know because eventually that is what the light of remembering my own lost loves has become.

I wrote the following about one of the nurses on my team,
as my team nominated her for Nurse Caregiver of the Year at our company.

The road not take is often a lonely road. Fellow travelers are few and far in-between. One goes on passion and commitment even when the body, spirit and mind seem completely spent. Often, only the tender angels of mercy, compassion, gentleness, and love serve as companions for the at times solitary work of our hospice nurses. Where would we be without their unquestioned faithfulness to our patients and families?

Our team—Team 151– wants to raise up the faithfulness of one particular nurse, Wendy T. This year’s theme for our Employee Recognition Awards is the perfect fit for what Wendy exemplifies, in that she always takes the higher road of doing right by her patients and their families. Wendy’s story at our hospice is one of consistency. She is not trying to go and do one extraordinary act for one extra-ordinary situation. She seeks no fame, and in fact is sure to be a bit embarrassed by our accolades. Day-in-and-day-out, Wendy gives the same tender and intelligent care to ALL of the patients and families she serves. The only complaints from her patients come when she has the audacity to be on vacation, and they miss her terribly! She makes that much of a difference in their lives.

The impact Wendy has begins with the trust she establishes. Being a hospice nurse with us for over 15 years gives her a depth of experience families and patients lean into. They know she has been in this space before and is not learning on the fly how to care for their beloved. That being said, Wendy’s openness to learn new ways to medically intercede for our patients, her flexibility to try new things, and her willingness to embrace the whole of the Inter-disciplinary Team’s expertise exemplify why she can be trusted implicitly. She uses the depth and breath of her practice as a nurse to give roots to her work, just as she reaches above and beyond her comfort zone to capture any intervention that might soothe a troubled patient. And she is also faithful to always call the family of her patients following their death to reassure a troubled heart, offer her support to them, and listen to them as they process both the death and the care we extended.

In the Christian Scriptures there is a passage written to the church in Thessalonica by the Apostle Paul where he speaks of being “gentle…like a nurse” when he visited them. Here is that passage re-written to speak of the way Wendy works on our behalf:

As God as our witness, she never comes with words of flattery or with a pretext of any kind, nor does she seek praise from anyone. Although she could make demands given her seniority and expertise, she does not. Instead, she is gentle amongst all, like a nurse tenderly caring for her own children. So deeply does she care that she is determined to share with all those she touches not only the healing balm of palliative care, but also her own self, because each and every patient and family has become so very dear to her.

By mixing in the good milk of her own life with the vulnerable hunger of those we tend to, Wendy gives of her very self to all. She creates bridges between herself and her patients by opening up and showing her own tender places of loss so they know a fellow sojourner is with them on the last important days of their life journey. If all roads lead to hospice, then the dedication, passion, skill, expertise and compassion of our employees must be honored, for our company does not exist without our faithful workers. We raise up our colleague and friend, Wendy T., because she is faithful to walk this journey in our name for the patients and families, even when it requires her to be on the solitary road not taken. Please join us in honoring her fidelity to all we say we hold dear and seek to embody, for she is already accomplishing these values daily.

This week is National Pastoral Care Week, and our theme for this year is “Healing Faith.”  Working with hospice patients daily requires me to think about healing in a different way than “just getting restored to the way one was prior to the illness.”  Death is healing for my patients, and the only way they find it from a physical sense.  I find it amazing how easily we seem to equate healing with “going back.” Why don’t we possess an imagination that a healing would imply more than being “OK,” but instead would mean we are being re-created into a new fullness, being different, and flourishing in that difference?

Being a lover of rationality and logic, and also a girl with a vivid imagination, I must admit that I look for the scientific meaning behind so-called “miracles,”  while open to the amazing web of life that does not always go according to logic.  I am a skeptic…a faith-filled skeptic, but one none the less.  Mostly I am skeptical of any theology that speaks for how God does or does not act in a physical sense in our world.  I have seen the ravages of a theology that emphasizes a God who meddles with the laws of physics born out on suffering families who just cannot understand why that same God won’t meddle for them.   They often say to me while facing head-on the eventual death of their loved one, “We still have hope.”

I trouble these waters because I insist on planting seeds that might grow into a tree.  This tree then can be cut down and a bridge made through their theological quagmire.  Maybe.  I just heard on Monday from a Muslim family these very words, “We still have hope.”  One of the matriarchs of the family is dying from breast cancer, a cancer that has spread all over her body and is literally eating her alive.  Cancer that cannot be treated.  Cancer for which there is no mortal cure.  In the face of this cancer they still have hope, but hope in what?  Her daughter said, “Hope in her being healed.  Hope that she will recover.  Hope.  [She] will not give up on [her mother].”

How sad I am when I hear those I care for speak of anti-hope as being “giving up” on their loved one.  I imagine the patient in a terrible race where all of their supporters leave the sidelines and stop cheering, certain of their defeat.  But is that really what it means to “give up” hope?  No!  It cannot be!  For what they are really saying is that they are so in-love with this person that they cannot even imagine one moment without them present, so they do not even imagine it.  (And would I please stop even mentioning it too!?)  The center of this storm is the reality that at some moment they will indeed need to let go of their fantasy where their loved one is physically healed and restored to the fullness of life they experienced prior to their illness.  But this letting go is not giving up on hope or healing.

When I worked in Trauma, I would often accompany the physicians as they informed families that “there is no more hope.”  Oh the anger of these families being told to stop hoping!   They might has well have been told to stop breathing!  What the doctors wanted to convey was that they had no more medical expertise to offer the injuries and effect the healing.  They would support the body as best they could, and let the body evolve with its injuries as it would.  I would sit with the families and re-frame what hope meant for them at their crossroads of medical reality and faith.  I would tell them of how praying for healing was still a worthy prayer, and that of course they wanted their loved one to be healed and restored to them.  I also told them that healing might not look that way, but instead healing might just be surviving the worst, having their own heart continue to beat, or finding ways to invest in life and love even without this particular person being physically present.  I like to trouble the waters.

When my own father died, I can remember thinking that Jesus stopped loving me because he did not make him well.  It would take me years to come to a place of genuine reconciliation about my own beliefs about who God is and how God acts in order to accept God’s love and Daddy’s death as being co-inhabitants in my reality.   In other words, it took me a long time–and in some ways I continue on this journey–to heal my disappointment in God not being or acting how I thought God would act…or how I think a loving God should act.

Healing disappointment–a common theme for all of us–requires embracing the pain of things not going as we want, or as we need.  Many of us live with not having the most basic of needs, including life itself, met.  It is not fair for the young father to die, the little child, or the constant friend,  but unfair happens frequently.  When I work with my patients and families now, I work with them to heal–and have hope, or an imagination that healing is possible–all of the places the “unfair” has threatened their investment in life, in their spiritual and emotional health, and in their loved ones.  I often hear myself saying, “Although you cannot be healed of your disease, you can–if you intend to–work towards healing your brokenheartedness over all the dis-ease your illness has brought.”

I begin almost every week with my current Bereavement Group in the same manner. “Come and let us intend to heal together.”  Our lives must be totally re-ordered when they become shattered from the loss of someone we love.  We can never expect them to be the same.  If our life was a beautiful and colourful ceramic vase prior to the loss, the loss shattered that vase into a million pieces.  Healing is that work we do where we create a new mosaic with the pieces of the past, mixed into the mortar of our own rock solid existence, and with new aspects and colours we never would have imagined as our old “whole.”  When I think of “Hope in Healing,” it is this place of imagination where the new mosaic is created, where I see God as our greatest encourager in our healing.

God is excellent at creating something amazing out of dust, so I figure I will “seek striving” and “be still” and listen to the voice of the Holy One within my heart whisper direction, comfort, peace, and love into my ear as I watch my own hands create healing in my life.

I wrote this little ditty in honor of my Team Manager Mary Lou for “Bosses Day.” I feel she is the best boss I have ever had in my profession. I can count on her to back me up and kick my rear in gear when needed. This is a necessary and delicate balance! Since I am not writing as much at the moment, with the GRE looming and my Vandy application due in less than two months, I am posting this to keep you plugged into my blog and life. A poet, I am not, but this is heartfelt and that counts in a world of disconnect.

It’s a man’s world,
or so they say.
Where killing, lying, stealing
seem to be the only way.

Want to get ahead?
Want to win the race?
Be willing to trip your neighbour
to save a little face.

Lambs don’t lie down
with hungry lions at the gate.
Always on guard–
even the lambs seem to hate.

Get up in the morning,
try to find your bliss.
Work, give, and work some more.
Some things sure do seem amiss.

Unreal expectations–
the working woman’s plight.
She spends her days dreaming,
wanting them to take flight.

Is there a teacher?
A beacon or a guide?
Another woman walking tall
against the raging tide?

Mightier than a goddess,
an Amazon of grace.
Be careful not to cross her,
she’ll put you in your place.

Her hand will rock your cradle.
Her voice rocks your heart.
Listen to her sage words,
her wisdom to impart.

She is Mother, daughter
sister, friend.
When you are with her
you never have to pretend.

She will tend to you;
helping you to grow.
And sees your success
cheering, “Go! Go! Go!”

It may be a man’s world
but it is a woman’s strength
that nurtures the very best in us
and goes to any length.

So raise your voice,
your cup, your heart,
for it is honor
we have come to impart.

The time has come to celebrate
one trustworthy, steadfast, and true.
Let us praise our friend,
our boss, our own Mary Lou.

The following post is dedicated to all the CNA/HHA’s who work selflessly to tend to patients’ most intimate needs, especially the six women on my Hospice Team. I wrote this for their special week of honor.

Feel free to check out my old post “The One Armed Bitch Named Jesus.” I wrote it in honor of them as well.

They are often the first to notice our patients’ decline. Inspecting the gentle folds, mounds, wrinkles, crevices, and colour while caressing back to cleanliness and comfort bodies no longer able to care for themselves. Once, our patients were babies and their Mother held them at her breast and nursed them to life. Now, these gentle women hold them to their breasts of love as they help lay them down gently before the Big Sleep.

They know who has enough love, and who goes gravely without. They know the wives about to lose their minds, and the sons who coo in their fathers’ ear sweet words of assurance. They know who eats. They know who does not. They know when the bladder function begins to fail. They know the secret chocoholics. They know those desperately lonely. They know the ones just plain desperate. They know the most intimate of secrets, and still come and care regardless.

What kind of person wakes up in the morning, smiles at the new day, makes their breakfast and then happily goes to wipe poop off fannies for a living? How can someone do this with such tenderness when even family cannot? Love. Unconditional love for neighbour is the only answer. When they heard The Voice of Love calling and asking, “Whom shall I send to tend to my children who are sick, elderly and dying? Whom will tend the least of these?” they responded, “Here I am; send me.”

Let us bless them, our Certified Nursing Assistants and Home Health Aides, for they bless all of us. They bless us by being on the frontlines of tender care and showing gentleness and grace to all they serve, regardless of who they are, how they act, or the severity of their condition. We bless them today, and always, in the name of the Love they so generously give out of the abundance of their own hearts and lives.

Amen.

I often hear people say, “It is all in God’s hands.” What do you think they mean? I think it often means we no longer know what to do about a terrible problem, so we hope–have an imagination of some sort–God might still intervene and make things right. When God does not make things right the way we think we need, then we often progress to the axiom, “God must know something you don’t know.” I heard this one in the hospital when people died all the time. Often it took the form of: “God must need them in heaven now.” The idea that people die because God needs them in heaven always seems to make me a bit ill. Why would God need them? To sing in the choir? To lay the gold on the streets? To help bring in the harvest? For that matter, why not to teach God how to use the Internet or the joy of the Kama Sutra? The word “ludicrous” comes to mind.

I remember the night my thoughts changed and matured about God’s intervention in the world. At the time, I worked doing twenty-four hour on-call shifts at UNC Hospitals and still attended Duke. The Pastoral Care on-call room was located up on the eighth floor of the Neuroscience Hospital with Carolina Air Care. Air Care tolerated–barely–99% of the chaplains given a particular elder chaplain in a silk robe had mistakenly (???) flashed some of the staff one night. I, however, developed a close relationship with the Peds Team and the bond translated into my not getting the same static as most of the chaplains. The bond became so close, they would just pound on my door to announce the fun time about to begin, instead of waiting for someone to page my ass downstairs to the ER. This night the pounding began before the kid even hit the heli-pad.

The story of how he came to us has been told plenty of times in plenty of places. Drunk kid with sports car given by parents totals the car and his (or her) life in a series of bad decisions. Thinking about him, I still see him being brought out of the helicopter–a hot lift no less (no time to cool the bird due to how bad he was)–and throwing up everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I can smell it. I can hear the team moaning and groaning about cleaning all that shit up. The chills come again too…right up my arms and legs. Damn.

His parents come to the hospital. His Daddy had that farm swagger in his cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans. He paced in between going out to our smoking lounge (only in North Carolina). Back and forth. Back and forth. I already knew the news. Having been in the ICU just prior, I knew his son would die soon. No medical interventions would stop the total devastation of his injuries. Brain and body in a race to the death. I sat in a chair watching him pace and listening to him as he spoke to me about God.

“I pray chaplain. I’m praying right now. I keep asking God to help. God is all I have. God is my only hope. God must give me a miracle, otherwise…well, otherwise I do not know what I will do.” He went on, now forgetting my presence, “Oh God! Oh God! No! Help me! Help my son. I cannot bury my son. I won’t. I just won’t. Dear God please! Listen to me. Stop this from happening.”

And then he stopped pacing and stood looking stoic. Ever so slowly he turned and faced me. “If God could stop this from happening now, why not just stop it from happening all together? Where was God when my boy really needed him? You know, out there on that road in the car?” [Now before you go down the path marked, "Your boy drank himself into this problem, sir. No sympathy here buddy;" let us remember his story is not so different from any of ours. We all screw up, and those we love do too.]

So, where was God prior to the boy being on that road and when he was getting loaded? Why did God not intervene?

I completely reject the idea that everything is in God’s hands. If this were to be true, God is a Puppet Master, and we are God’s toys, not God’s children. And children make choices. Right ones. Wrong ones. Indifferent ones. So where is God in my choices, if God is not in correcting or protecting me from my outcomes?

In my vision of God, I see God leaning into the boy’s ear saying, “Son, you know better than this. You have been taught right. Drinking like this and then driving cannot lead to good. Stop now. Don’t get behind the wheel. Let someone else drive. Listen to me. Your safety is important to me. Your life matters.”

We live in a world full of bad luck. Bad luck that just happens, bad luck we work hard to cheat, bad luck we create. I also believe in Immanuel–God with us. Love finds us even in those places where we are sure and wrong, just like when love finds us where we are unsure and right. I believe in the Whispering God cooing in our ear and heart. Can you hear God?

You are my child. I love you. I made you to be human, which can be quite fragile and limited, but also beautiful and capable. I made you to be in my creative image, and I am constantly surprised by what you come up with. Come up with something really beautiful and good today. Come up with a special gift of kindness. Come up with forgiveness where you feel betrayed. Come up with brilliant violet where everyone else expects grey. Come up with laughter instead of hurt feelings. Come up with mercy instead of judgment. Come up with understanding instead of more pressure for yourself or anyone else. Come up with life, not fear. Love. Love. Love, today my child. I know you can do it. I made you that way.

Amen.

As those of you who follow my blog already know, I have not posted in a bit. No block, just lack of time to edit and post. Here is my sermon from Mother’s Day 2007 that I preached at Church By The Sea, Miami Beach, Florida. The texts for the sermon are Isaiah 54:1-8 and I Thessalonians 2:5-8. I will say that this sermon came from my own current season of barrenness that I continue to work through.

I can still remember the first time our passage in Isaiah grabbed my attention. The year was 1998, and I was finishing up my last semester before getting my Bachelor’s at St. Thomas University. I already knew I would be going to Duke Divinity in the fall, and the only word to describe how I felt about my “calling” and imminent graduate schooling would be “terrified.” I bought a new “Sweet Honey in the Rock” CD and sat at my desk in Dr. Holland’s office—I worked for him—and unwrapped it. I put the disc in my computer and began playing it while reading the liner notes. I became transfixed when I came upon their song “Sing O Barren One.” The song had been written for a friend of Bernice Johnson Reagon for her Ordination service…a service I could not even begin to imagine for myself. I forwarded the disc to the song and heard these words…

Empty and lonely I was
Worthless and useless I felt
Bounded and closed, I wandered
Empty and useless I was

Then I heard the voice
Sing O Barren One
Sing out and cry aloud
Sing O Barren One
Sing out and cry aloud

Have you ever had a moment where you just got it? A moment where you understood? A moment where the Whispering God boomed in your heart and mind and you knew…just knew the most amazing thing?

What did you know? Did you know that you mattered? Did you know love’s sweet kiss for the first time? Did you know you were not alone? Did you know you were doing exactly what you were supposed to do? Did you know that you were going to make it?

In that moment of hearing the song, I heard a promise from God to me. A promise that I would forget the shame of my youth. A promise that my own barrenness(the terrible losses of my father and sisters when I was six; the ugly and awkward years of my youth; the feeling of being a misfit; the failures—for some reason they fail you if you only show up to Oceanography once)—those places where life just seemed to never want to grow—would find new life because “God is my husband.” I knew I would be ordained. I knew I would sing…sing…sing. I remember calling my mother and told her, “God knows me and has called me by name.”

So here we are these many years later, and the moment of discovery of this passage continues to be a moment of promise for me. I began a love affair with it. In my Hebrew Scripture class in seminary, I wrote my final exegesis—just a big fancy word for “studying the heck out of it”—all about these precious eight verses. When leading an adult Advent class, I used them. Again and again, these verses weave themselves into the fabric of my life. They are a part of my own personal “Sacred Text.” They mean so much to me because barrenness is a theme in my life, and honestly, I keep revisiting these places of emptiness…even now.

I offer them up to us today because I think we are in desperate need for their testimony to what our response to barrenness ought to be…

All of my studying these eight verses taught me that the identity of the “Barren One” is Jerusalem. The Israelites freed again from bondage journey back to their holy land, but instead of flowing with milk and honey, she was just a shambled and desolate place. Her children had scattered to the winds of occupation, slavery and brutality. Jerusalem could not be more bare. So our prophet writes to Jerusalem’s scattered refugees calling them home with the promise God will be present to them, no longer abandoning them, and will satisfy their barren longings.

Our sacred texts are full of stories of barren women: Sarah, Hannah, Naomi, Elisabeth and Mary. The imagery central to our understanding of what it means to have hope in the midst of desperate times: Life is possible even where it is not. God will not be discouraged by the death of promises or dreams. Life will find a way. You cannot get more barren than a virgin, so the story of Mary and Jesus became the ultimate retelling of this narrative.

Now we must be careful to not get caught up on technicalities. As I said, I taught from this passage in an adult education class during Advent. The whole first class I listened to quite the debate about the real age of so-called “barrenness” at the time of Jesus! Fortunately for us, the metaphor does not rely on whether or not Elisabeth was 23 or 53, but what does matter is the imagery itself. I offer this to you because I do not want you to sit there and think, “I am a man; what do I know of being barren?” or “I have three kids; I cannot even imagine what that looks like, but I do dream it involves more sleep than I get.” In other words, this barrenness has nothing to do with sperm or eggs or zygotes.

No, this barrenness is about the pain that desolates our lives. It is about abandonment, fear, anger, jealousy, disappointment, loneliness, loss and grief. This is about just plain being a human being hurling through space and feeling it. When were you the most barren?

Did a dream die? Did you find yourself with a regret or two along the way? Did you stop believing in God? Did you feel worthless, empty and alone? Did your friends abandon you? Did your family reject you? Did you lose a job? Did you get your heart broken? Did you have a creative impasse? Did you lose your status, wealth or significance? Did you feel you were just existing?

I know barrenness because I have been fired, broken-up with, a poor seminary student, living with my parents as an adult, and been lost, even after finding my way. Barrenness is not rare, but it is unique in each of our lives. As a hospice chaplain, again and again I hear of the barrenness of being old and slowly dying. I held the hand of a woman 100 years old not too long ago, who expected to die shortly after her 100th birthday. Three months later and she wanted to know of God, “What am I doing here? Why do you let me linger? I should be dead already? What good am I? What purpose is there?” She echoed a sentiment I hear too often, and I said to her what I always say (out of compassion), “I do not know why you have not died yet. I do not know, but I do hear your pain.”

Now some of you might be saying to yourselves, “It just was not her time yet.” Or maybe even, “God must still have had a purpose for her, which is why she was still alive.” The truly brave might even think, “She lived that long so you could talk about her in this sermon!” Don’t get me wrong, I do value the interaction with her, and when she died a few short days later I went to the house afterwards and whispered in her ear, “I am so happy for you.” But being with so many as they die has not given me the secret to why we die when we do or what the full purpose in those “lingering” moments truly is. I only know mystery in that place, but I can clearly see the barrenness hurts us all regardless of gender, age, status or education. Everybody hurts.

Now this is an extreme example, but I highlight it for us because I think part of the natural and normal reaction to barrenness is to ask “WHY?” We feel shame when we are barren, and we feel the need to stand before God and ask why we have been abandoned yet again.

So here we are, full of barrenness and Isaiah calls upon us to do what? Sing and enlarge the place of our tents. Huh? Now in reality Isaiah is making a call to those rebuilding Jerusalem to not be narrow-minded or prejudice. The only way to rebuild is to accept the “mixed multitude” into her gates. The strict boundaries of who was an “innie” versus an “outie” had to be abandoned in order for the city—for life—to flourish. We must abandon the lie of “blood being thicker than water.” As Isaiah tells Israel’s scattered children: We must be open to all in order to flourish, even those we might have rejected before.

For us, the response to barrenness is to be the same: We must open up and prepare for abundance to come to us in people, places and ways we may not be familiar with.

I do not know about you, but when I feel at my utmost worst, preparing for loving in a new way is not exactly what I am planning on (I shut down.)…no, I am planning on a good old fashioned pity party. I will be serving macaroni and cheese and Bryer’s Mint Chip Ice Cream at my pity party. Depending on how bad it is, I will also break out the movies Black Widow, Steel Magnolias, and Die Hard…or if it is really really bad: Titanic. I will buy a moisturizer that promises me that I will look closer to 26 than 36 and new underwear (don’t ask). I will smoke a cigarette—one single cigarette—just to prove that I can do whatever I want! (Pouting included at no extra charge) And I will cry to anyone willing to listen that my life as I know it is over, that God has completely forgotten my name and for that matter is probably dead or never existed. And to think, these are some of the more positive responses to my own barrenness. Worst case scenario? I start wondering why I even exist.

Now, I do not wish to dazzle you with some kind of positive thinking, reverse psychology, actualization voodoo here, although they do have their place. Nor is this about spiritual gymnastics to get God’s favour or intervention. You know? I will enlarge my tents—meaning “I will keep trying God, so you can do your part too.” No. The cost of this kind of discipleship is much much more difficult, and bargaining is not allowed.

Let me read to you again our text from I Thessalonians:

But we were gentle among you, like a nurse tenderly caring for her own children. So deeply do we care for you that we are determined to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our own selves, because you have become very dear to us.

The link I see between these two texts is this: Enlarging our tents in the face of unspeakable barrenness is about being willing to share our very selves…like a mother nursing her baby…even when we are starving for love and wholeness. The cure to worthlessness and uselessness is letting another nurse at your very breast, and this is ultimately our Gospel…our “good news.” For what good is it that Jesus suffers with us, if we cannot mix it with the milk of our own lives and offer it to the one who is starving. Much like the old allegory on the difference between heaven and hell: In both, we sit at the banquet table laid out with every possible culinary delight. In both, we sit with our arms in splints unable to feed ourselves. In hell, we sit and starve. In heaven, we feed the one across from us. It is for this reason I selected the line from the Black Eyed Peas’ song “Where Is The Love?;” we live in an age of barrenness.

When we enlarge our tents we open ourselves up to being used by God to tend to others in the very ways we are so desperate to be tended to. Enlarging our tents is about being the very thing we find so lacking in the world. If you look back to the opening passages for your meditation, you will see that I chose the two complimentary passages from Rabbi Hillel and Jesus. One states “do not do” to others what you would not want done to you, and the other “do to others” as you would want for yourself. I must say, I love Jesus’ spin on the commandment because it requires us to be proactive. There is a physicality to “enlarging our tents” not just a mental exercise. This spiritual practice requires preparation and action.

Do you wish you did not have to always eat alone? Set another place at the table and keep inviting until someone accepts. Start a Supper Club. Feed the homeless.

Do you wish traffic was better in Miami? Stop cussing out the guy who cuts you off, listen to your favourite music or ride your bike more.

Do you wish there was more peace in the world? Make-up with your family member you just cannot stand, refuse to gossip, or join Amnesty International.

Do you need love? Mix the milk of your own life with the Good News of God’s unending love for us.

In other words, be the very change you feel is lacking in the world. Enlarge your tent first. For me, these words from Isaiah have served as a panacea to my pain in a way that all the mint chip ice cream in the world just can’t, maybe that is why I am so in-love with them.

Enlarge the site of your tent,
and let the curtains of your habitations be stretched out;
do not hold back; lengthen your cords
and strengthen your stakes.
Do not fear, for you will not be ashamed;
do not be discouraged, for you will not suffer disgrace;

You know I have another patient, also a woman, who is nearing her own 100th birthday. This last Christmas Eve she and her husband celebrated their 70th Wedding Anniversary. They survived the War, when so many of their family died in the concentration camps. They too were refugees trying to rebuild their lives in countries so unlike their own. I never hear her ask why she is still alive or say that she is just lingering. In part, I know this is due to the love affair she has with her husband. Their only fear is what will happen when the first one dies—worry for the one left behind. There are pictures on her wall of the dinner with their son and his wife and one other couple from the night of the special anniversary. I asked her recently how they came to be friends with this other couple, thinking they had known each other for a very long time. She told me that a couple of years ago the two couples met in the building where they live, and that in spite of a good 20 year age difference, they quickly became their very best friends. Imagine that…she made a new best friend in her nineties.

She refuses to see herself as “all dried up” and continues to offer the sweet milk of her life to those around her. She is not afraid to enlarge her tent, regardless of her age or disease. What a beautiful example to us all. Amen.

Recently Whole Foods saw me coming in the door, and they laid out the one snack item I cannot refuse trying: popcorn. As a child, my Mother told me that she had been voted the Best Popcorn Popper on our whole block. I asked her how they voted, enraptured by her status as a premier popcorn popper. She had a special method using a paper plate in the pan to let the popcorn pop up without leaving the pan, or having the lid trap the steam and make it soggy. In 1975, we did not have an air-popper or buy the Jiffy foil bag popcorn either. She made it from “scratch” with real butter and salt. She would turn the pan into a big paper bag, pour in the butter and sprinkle in the salt. Sometimes she would add Parmesan cheese, but for the most part butter and salt ruled her popcorn.

I learned the important lesson about not pitting one parent against the other over popcorn. My family would watch a movie on TV on a weekend night, with Mother popping us up a big bag of popcorn that was placed into Tupperware bowls. I always was given the smaller green bowl, and on this night I just had not had enough popcorn. I trotted into the kitchen to ask for more, but Mother told me that I had eaten enough as far as she was concerned. So, I trotted back to Daddy in the living room asking him if he wanted any more popcorn, which of course he did. Back to Mother with the news that Daddy wanted more popcorn, but she was onto me. She called out and asked him if he was asking for himself or for me. Needless to say, I never asked one and then the other after that!

Popcorn was such a fixture in our home that both of my Daddy’s beloved boats were named after it! Popcorn I and Popcorn II. Really! I tell you no lie! So when I went into Whole Foods and saw the display of Kettle Corn, I just had to reach in for a handful. I can still remember the first time I had Kettle Corn; I was at the North Carolina State Fair. The Kiwanis Club or Jaycee’s sold it warm out of their big iron pot. The amazing rapture of the light white popcorn, with the hint of salt and sugar. De-lish!

Jill Connor Browne, in her book The Sweet Potato Queens’ Book of Love, highlights the importance of eating that which is truly salty with that which is utterly sweet. In fact, when Jill writes down for us the four major food groups–salty, sweet, fried and au gratin–she highlights their importance as foundational to our very well-being! She writes:

“The queens have found what we think is a very effective eating pattern. Sweet and salty. For us this combination works equally well whether we’re eating simply for recreation or if we’re engaged in your true therapeutic wolfing…the concept is that when you’ve sufficiently met your body and soul’s requirement for sweet foods, your salty needs are practically screaming for attention.*

Now if you do not have time for cheese fries with your brownies–the perfect Salty Sweet meal for a girl given that it covers not only the four major food groups–salty, sweet, fried and au gratin–but also the bedrock of any meal–CHOCOLATE–then Kettle Corn is the perfect addictive little corner of Salty Sweet heaven to satisfy both needs in one delicious handful! And the Kettle Corn at the North Carolina State Fair comes highly recommended by me, but you can buy your favourite brand at the store–the one at Whole Foods is now my drug of choice-to munch away your blues or celebrate your latest accomplishment, like remembering to buy the Clorox toilet bowl drops so you never have to scrub the darn thing. Truly, Salty Sweet works for any occasion!

I think we love the balance of the salty with the sweet because we need both in our lives. Life is not just a cup full of joy or a cup full of tears; life is both. All at once. All at the same time. I thought about this last week as my Social Worker on our team read my devotion for last week about our child who had died. Such a large cup full of tears, I needed her to read it so that I could pour some of mine out. At the same Team Meeting, one of my nurses brought the most beautiful pictures of her brand-spankin’ new granddaughter. One new life celebrated, while another life ended is mourned.

I welcome the darkness in my life for the contrast it brings to the joy. Would I notice one without the other? At the Passover Seder, this concept is understood. Bitter herbs, salty water, sweet charoset…all to remind those celebrating the meal of their history as slaves delivered into the Promised Land of milk and honey. By tasting that which is bitter, by dipping the vegetable into the salt water and tasting the tears of the ancestors, the sweetness of life now becomes more full on the palate.

Don’t get me wrong…I still weep and grieve about all the really hard and painful places I find myself in, not to mention the bitching and moaning sometimes just because I can. I also will pick up the phone and call Paparazzo to tell him to look at the amazing moon. I want to keep my eyes and heart open to see all that life has to offer me, and I know that when I focus only on one, the other loses its potency. So I dance between the ebb and flow and know with change as my constant friend, my tears will turn to joy and my joy to tears given enough time.

*The Sweet Potato Queens’ Book of Love by Jill Conner Browne. Three Rivers Press: 1999: pp 171-172.

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.

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!

My Aunt who has lung cancer and COPD moved to Miami last week. First of all, lung cancer and COPD basically mean that she is not only screwed when it comes to her breathing, but she is messed up every which way. A MRI of her brain this week will tell us just how far the cancer spread in its attack on her body, but we already know one of her lymph nodes has ballooned. Time. We just do not know how much time she has left, but we can all feel the breath being choked out of what little time we were counting on when we knew she had the COPD but not the cancer.

Secondly, this whole situation is fucked because she SWORE, circa 1975, that she would never never never ever ever ever live in Miami again. She moved to Ocala leaving the corporate world of Esso behind and worked with horses or on horse farms for the majority of the last thirty years. She also lived in a trailer in the stix and mostly as a private person with little contact beyond her job and family…well, sisters. Until this last weekend, I had not seen her since Christmas 1997. I remember our last meeting very well because of the momentous occasion of beating her for the one and only time at Super Boggle! But I digress. My point is that she has hid away from friends and countrymen for the last thirty years, and she now lives back in the one place she swore she would never set foot in, let alone live.

Last fall she called my aunt who lives here in Miami asking to move in with her due to realizing she could no longer take care of herself. She could hardly breathe just trying to go to the grocery store. Another aunt turned her down–I do not think she realized how serious the situation had become–and out of total desperation called the Miami aunt. At the time I pointed out to Ms. Audrey that I thought she probably could not take care of herself for awhile, given how notoriously stubborn the woman prides herself in being. What it must have taken to make that phone call? She had to admit weakness, need and ask to move in with someone who would have to take responsibility to care for her. She also had to admit to herself that her needs evolved to such a desperate state that living in Miami became the least of her worries.

So this is the woman whom I greeted on Saturday. Let me tell you, she looked like shit. Old. Wrinkled. Pushing a wheelchair with her dried laundry and oxygen tank. Her pulse-ox (O2 level) was 77, aka “Totally Fucked!” even on 100% oxygen. She looked miffed to find my surpise arrival, although I did call my other aunt before stopping by, with puppy in tow as well. I could see my grandmother in her and my eldest aunt. Her colour pale, her lips pursed…I took a deep breath. I told her that I was sad to hear the news about the cancer. Her reply? “You play, you pay.”

I cannot seem to get those words out of my head. “You play, you pay.” She was “playing” all these years of being a heavy smoker? I do not doubt that occasions of mirth existed where she lit up, but I would not be out of line to say that she mostly lit up out of anger, frustration, loneliness, being pissed, bored and full of addictive habit. I remember all of the Christmases where she would storm out angry at some infraction by one of us. There were family gatherings she never came to, and momentous occasions she never phoned or wrote or acknowledged. My first memory of her is out on one of those horse farms, and her telling me to not call her “Aunt” because she was nobody’s aunt. Where was the “play” in her distance, both physical and emotional all these years?

I hope I can take her by the hand and say to her how I feel about this bullshit statement. She is just so damn angry about the cancer and her impending death, but then again, she has always been angry. My work teaches me again and again how most of us die as we lived. Death and life mirror one another. In other words, once a pain in the ass, always a pain in the ass. I want her to know how I continue to think of her not as simply my mother’s sister, but that she is my aunt. I take with me in my heart her quick wit, love of games, staunch loyalty, and fierce independence. I want to tell her that I do not care that she smoked, no one “deserves” to die with their very breath being choked out of them. I want to tell her I understand that all those years of smoking got her through and helped her survive. I want to tell her I believe it totally sucks that the one thing that helped her survive this world, which can be so rotten some times, will kill her in the end. I want her to know how we all have survival methods that kill us in some way or another. As Katherine Hepburn said, “Life is hard, afterall it kills you.” I want to buy her the best damn cigarettes and let her light up as much as she wants until she cannot any longer. What will it hurt now?

Mostly, I dream of her forgiving herself and her family for just being human beings. I want my Mother and her other sisters to forgive her for smoking and offer her compassion. Maybe then we can really say, “I love you,” and she can breathe it deeply into her soul and be comforted.

This time last year I tried to be friends with Plant Geek, took my psychological testing to be Ordained (fooled them!), and had two weeks left to finish my Ordination Papers, plus working full-time as a personal assistant to Realtors and regular life shit. I lived with the Parental Elements in Hell, aka Homestead…the bottom of the world as far as I am concerned, my dog had died. Since then I have moved past Plant Geek, fallen profoundly in love with The Bean, gone through the break-up with The Bean, and been on two dates with Woody Woodpecker (god bless his heart). My friendships with Paparazzo, Harlot, Paulina Ballerina, and Darling deepened. I moved three times, if you count that in the last week I moved from North Lauderdale to Margate on Saturday and my belongings moved down from Chicago on Tuesday. The fact that I m.a.d.e. Paparazzo help me with the two local moves, exactly six months apart, proves what an amazing friend I have in him and that nothing short of serving up a wonderful, fun, laid-back, game, smart brown eyed vixen will do as repayment! (Please email me if you fit the bill.)

I also started a new job where my clients die (imagine that), the paperwork is crazy, and the computer system Vintage Microsoft from the days of Bill Gates programming in a garage. I always feel like I am going in the wrong direction, and the bereavement aspect frustrates me on too many levels to mention. Add to this mix that on the job I declare people dead–fortunately they usually have been for at least an hour, which is a big fat “phew!” when going in towards Grandma to check for her vital signs–have been shot at by kids with bee-bee gun (nearly pooped myself with that one), and had to stand firm with a daughter who wanted to have a throw down over the narcotics she was sure her Daddy would want her to have as a parting gift. Thankfully, I love the Team I am on and almost all of my patients and families. Almost!

So, here one year later I am a Real Live Reverend, back in my own home, and trying to survive housebreaking with Emma…a noble task given that she likes to sit and lie down on the grass, but not much else. I painted some of the walls here and cried like a baby thinking of The Bean talking to me before about how he could not wait til I got back into my own home because he would help me paint it to match my soul. I cried too the night I brought Emma home because she is so beautiful and amazing and fills my broken heart with so much love the cracks do not seem so big anymore.

I look back over this last beautiful year so full of change, love, hope, loss, fear, friendship, challenge, heartbreak and opportunity and think, “This is a real life you have here Jacqueline.” Don’t we all. I love the title from one of Maya Angelou’s books: Wouldn’t Take Nothing For My Journey Now. I feel this way about this last year. I would not trade one single precious moment if it meant missing out on the heart break, even if I could go back to this time last year.

The following is a true story told to me by a live-in health-care aide at one of my patient’s homes. “Mary” worked in a large nursing home before starting to work privately, which is the setting for this story. I regret I cannot write in such a way that you could hear the melodic Haitian lilt to her voice. You will just have to use your imagination.

Let me tell it to you as she told it to me:

“Once when I worked in the home, every day they give to me 10-13 patients to clean, help use the bathroom or bedpan, bathe, feed…all the help they needed for daily living. One woman on my floor had THE worst reputation! She had no legs and only one arm left cause the diabetes get to her so very bad. I hurt to look at her, but she was not nice. She was mean. I tell you, she was mean.  Always yelling and cursing at everybody.  People would saw terrible things behind her back about what a horrible person she was.

One day another aide went to bathe her, and she had the most terrible bed sores you ever saw. She messed herself, so the aide had to clean her. Given how ugly she was, always yelling and talking down to people there to care for her, the aide was not gentle when she bathed her. She used a washcloth and scrubbed her clean until her backside was not just raw, but also bleeding. I guess she thought she would teach her a lesson

The next day, they give her to me. I go to her and ask her if she was ready for me to clean her up. I could smell that she had messed herself again. She told me, “Get out of here! Leave me alone! Go away!”

I say to her, “But you are dirty; you need to be clean. Won’t you feel better when I clean you?”

She tells me to go to hell and to leave her alone.

A little while later I go again. “Don’t you want me to clean you? I will make it so you smell nice and feel good.”

She starts yelling at me, “Why don’t you just leave me here and let me die? Go away. I do not want you or anyone else to come near me or to touch me. Get it?!!”

I say to her, “But you will feel better. Please let me clean you.”

She only glared at me, so I left her again. I tend to my other patients and when they are all done, I go back again. Three times Chaplain! Three times I go to that woman, but I just cannot go home knowing that she is lying there in her filth.

I go in again and say, “Please let me help you.”

She looked like she would explode and tells me that she will call my supervisor if I do not leave her alone. She will have me fired!  I tell her to call. I just do not want to leave her like that all the time. I am a good person and just can’t go home and leave her in her own mess.

Somehow she softens a bit and tells me that she was rubbed too hard by the girl the day before and that her backside is raw and bleeding. This is why she does not want anyone to rub her or touch her or bathe her. She would rather sit in her filth and die than have that much pain again.

I say to her, “I will be gentle. I will not use the wash clothes but the wipes. I will get you clean and put lotion on your sores to heal them.”

She say to me, “You promise that you will not hurt me.”  She was almost crying at this point.  So, I promised her that I would be very careful.

So I wash her very gently. I clean all of the mess away. She never cried out, not even once. I rubbed the lotion to help soothe her skin. She smelled so good when I was done with her!

She then says to me, “Only you…I only want you to give me my bath from now on. I will tell them what a good job you did. You were so kind and gentle. It never even hurt.”

The Christian Scriptures teach us that when we care for the least among us, it is as if we were doing it to Jesus or the Holy One.

This is dedicated to my aides: C, P, E, M, F, & L.

Last week I wrote: “I have my own boundaries, and I know that sometimes, for all sorts of reasons, certain patients and families touch you beyond the professional distancing I practice. A woman so kind, my heart breaks to leave her or hang up the phone. Give me just one more of her “sweetheart” comments I pray.”

She will die soon, very soon. She knows it. I know it. Her family knows it.

I saw her again on Monday at her request. When I arrived, she could hardly be roused. I felt the bells in my gut go off, but I worried they rang only because of how I feel about her. I went out of her room to talk to her daughter about how she felt her mom was doing…trying to feel her out about her own radar regarding how close to death her mom might be. Later, as I thought over the visit, I realized that even sitting there talking with her daughter, and when I called her Primary Nurse, my anxiety level climbed. Why? I think I felt fear that she could have been dying in her room while we were talking. I do not want her to die alone.

I often tell my patients and families that the goal of hospice centers on helping their loved one die surrounded by care and love and without pain: physical, emotional or spiritual. Some of my patients want to die with those they love outside of the room, and so they lay wait until the room empties and then they let go. Still others wait until one particular person crosses the threshold before letting go. My own grandmother died the moment I entered her hospital room. I count it joy to have been with her as she entered the next life. Whether those dying wait for leave taking or coming in, they die with love. The love in their hearts, and the love bestowed upon them, if they are lucky.

This particular patient wants to die with her family around her, but let me not skip how I found this out.

After calling to see about a nurse coming out to evaluate her, I journeyed back to her room. I found her exposed with most of the covers pushed down. She now engaged me, and seemed to be coming around more. I asked her if she was in any pain, and she told me that she felt terrible pain from trying to move. Her daughter came in and helped her move to her side, gave her a new pain patch and a few small bites of sherbet. Being even more awake, my patient asked me, “Is this what happens to everyone?” I knew what she meant by her question…Do my other patients as they die feel themselves dying? I told her “yes.”

She denies any fear about it, saying she could feel herself going and it was “peaceful.” She just wants to live long enough for her grandchildren to come in from out of town–a few days more–and then she can die. She put it this way to me: “I just want to hold on until my family gets here so I can die with love all around me.”

I hope she makes it.

She also told me why she asked for me to come to see her; she wanted to pray for her family and to confess her sins. She wants a clean slate before she crosses that great divide and enters the place of Love. We must have prayed at least five different times that afternoon. I cried each and every time. Her name is special to me, so each prayer felt like a prayer for her and a prayer for the one I know and love by the same name. (I cannot write this now without the tears streaming down my face.)

Maybe part of why I care so much about her has to do with this name connection? Maybe it is because she reminds me of my grandmother given both of them are characterized by kindness and a certain steely determination? Her daughter showed me pictures of her at a younger age, and she looks so much like Aunt Glitter. They could have been sisters. These reasons are just pieces of the complicated puzzle of my heart. I can sketch in certain places, but in the end I just know that I care about her differently, more, something…than how I care for most of my patients. She just got in to my heart. Period.

Her own daughter worked in the hospital for a long time and said to me, “Some people just get to you. It is not supposed to happen. You are a professional, but they do. We are just humans.” She then told me about a woman who got to her heart. I am glad she understands. I do too.
I have no delusions about my place or role in their lives, but I also am honest with myself about how I will miss her when she is gone. She is just that lovely.

When we were done praying together she said to me: “Honey, thank you. I feel so much better now. Sweetheart, I love you.”

My only response?

“I love you too.”

“Oh…oh…you are such a pretty girl. I worry about you. Going and seeing what you see…you must be so distraught.”

These words came to me from one of my patients on my first visit to see her.  She became overwhelmed with the thought of my going from house to house and listening to the stories of the dying and those who care for them.  She is 92 years-old, and she is cared for by a live-in aide. Her own child long since dead; the last of her generation. She has outlived everyone. Her official hospice diagnosis is end-stage cardiovascular disease, which may be accurate but fails to capture that she is just dying because we all do. My diagnosis? Little-old-lady-itis.

I know this because her memory is failing, her body slowing down, her life is drawing to a close. I find it rather beautiful. We live in a world focused on usefulness and profitability, but her life is about sleep, rest, memories, bathing, eating. A simple existence. She is never too busy to talk, although some days she may be too tired. So why still live? What purpose does lingering have?

I use the word lingering because of another patient of mine who died last week. After her 100th birthday, a milestone she embraced reaching, she expected to die almost immediately. In fact, she lived alone well into her 99th year, with aides coming in to help her beginning just a few weeks before reaching the century mark. What an independent woman! She held onto her autonomy with an iron grip, so reaching her birthday ended what purpose she felt for her life.  She became angry that she had not yet died and told me that living was “torture.” She gripped my hand and said, “I am just lingering here.  What good am I?  Why have I not yet died?”

I told her that I did not know.

I don’t know why we die when we do, but I do know that I worry about how we die.  So often I see those suffering from Little-Old-Man or Lady-Itis and what brings them suffering is not their disease but rather their loneliness.  Their children live far away, many visiting rarely.  The disconnect reaches all aspects of their lives.  So many of my patients want to offer me food, a cup of coffee, a comfy chair, anything to keep me just a few minutes longer.  They linger in the isolation of old age and cherish anyone who comes and touches them there in that place.

When my 100 year-old patient died, I went to declare her.  I put my right hand on her chest and my left on her head.  I leaned over and said to her, “I am so happy for you.”  Her suffering, which centered only on being ready to die and the pain of waiting, ended.  Peace radiated from her still form.

I tend to not worry about myself so much.  My patients may be dear to me, but I do not possess a lifetime of stories with them as central characters.  I always think to myself, “They are not my family.”  I have my own boundaries, and I know that sometimes, for all sorts of reasons, certain patients and families touch you beyond the professional distancing I practice.  A woman so kind, my heart breaks to leave her or hang up the phone.  Give me just one more of her “sweetheart” comments I pray.  The six year-old on my team, well, there is just no protection from facing her eventual death.

I do worry about my patients though.  I worry about them being so disconnected.  I worry about their families missing the precious final months, weeks, days, hours and minutes with their loved one.  They miss the healing, the stories, the forgiveness, the sadness, the loss, the acceptance, the love.  But I do not worry about me as I wrap my heart in their stories and touch their lonely hearts a little bit and see the suffering wane before my very eyes.

I heard this thing on the radio, back in the days of being a teenager, about the difference between joy and happiness. The guy said that happiness relies on our circumstances, but joy transcends them. I find myself thinking about this concept these days when I find myself so terribly sad.

I will tell you that the thought of bringing home a new puppy brings so much happiness to my heart, but she cannot replace the loss of The Bean. Nothing can. The pain of his leaving our relationship must be worked through until I can rest with his being out of my life completely. I have been on this cycle, probably not too unlike the formal Grief Spiral,* where I move from dismay to anger to betrayal to understanding to compassion and back to dismay. I journaled about a month ago that I thought one day I would find the lock in the loop somewhere along the part named compassion, and that I prayed I would have the courage to put in my key and get out of the loop there. I figure I will be at rest when I send my GOOD Good-bye Letter, instead of his bull shit “your star is extinguished from my sky” for suggesting he get help! It is almost ready. Any day now.

I had this amazing dream of my father right before my graduation from seminary. In the dream I asked him if he was proud of me and he told me that he was. I also asked him if I would ever find someone like him to love me. He laughed and told me that someone like him would not be right for me, but that “yes” I would find real love in my life. (I should have asked “When?”!!) Right at the end of the dream he grabbed me and said to me, “Whatever happens I want you to promise me that you will remember the joy. Remember the joy. Remember the joy.” I promised him, but I can remember thinking he was a bit nuts about the whole thing. When I awoke, I was singing “I’ve Got That Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy, Down in My Heart.” I lay there asking myself where I had heard someone say “remember the joy” and the whole dream came flooding back to me.

The dream felt more like a visitation than just my imagination at work, so I find myself still holding onto the promise of love and the promise to remember the joy.

So where is the joy? As I move through these days I still feel great love for my friends and family. They surround me with support, care and love. They provide immeasurable joy to my life. I could not bring myself to celebrate Christmas in the traditional sense. No tree. No gifts. No lights. No dinner. No cookies. No tinsel. I wanted nothing to do with anything festive, but even in that place I found myself at church on Christmas Eve letting the Carols, Scripture, poems and prayers wash over my soul and feed it. I found joy there. I continue to find joy in the laughing and crying faces of the patients and families I care for.

I trust joy to be there for me even when my heart is breaking, my checking account is low, or the PMS swings into full gear! Joy, for me, is that confidence I have in the goodness within me, present in my life, present in others, and the silver chord that binds me to a loving God who never forgets whom I was created to be and the delight within which I was created.

My circumstances will change. Change is my one constant. Happiness will come and go. Joy will see me through regardless.

*The Grief Spiral is the concept that we experience grief in cyclical patterns opposed to a straight line where one might expect resolution to be at the end. As we process our grief, the spiral becomes more open, whereas in the beginning the spiral is much more tightly wound and we experience all of the range of feelings in an onslaught of sorts. Usually there is a catalyst to make us journey through the cycle after we have processed it, much like my dream served for me. I felt the loss of Daddy’s death and missed him being a part of my graduation from Duke. However, I was not experiencing the loss of him in the same way I did when he died when I was six–much more graceful open arches to my grief now.