". . .he took water and washed his hands in the presence of the crowd, saying, I am not guilty of or responsible for this. . ." Matthew 27: 24b (TAB)

"Here", she said, handing me the white telephone memo/message slip. 

"What's this?" I ask wondering who on earth had called, my hands too full to read the name.  It is unusual for me to get phone calls as most of my patients know my number and call me directly. 

"Just call them back," the receptionist said with a shrug. 

Ambling down the hallway I find a way to maneuver the paper.  The name is from a patients wife and I tick off the options.  Can't be for ministry to the patient, he's dead.  Can't be to do the funeral, it's already been done.  Can't be for bereavement because the pertinent information has been sent to the bereavement coordinator for follow up.  Wonder why she's calling me.  Oh, well, only one way to find out.

Sighing I reach my office, dump my armload of stuff and pick up the phone.  "Hello, Ms. Jane," I say into the receiver, falling into the Southern mode of address, title and first name.  In the South it's a sign of familiarity and respect. 

She greets me warmly and we speak for a few minutes of generalities (another form of Southern politeness, it's considered a little rude to get right to the point before the pleasantries have been discussed -- how's your mama, how's the kids, enjoying the weather, etc.) before she says, "Can you come by?  I have something I'd like to talk with you about and I'd rather not do it over the phone." 

Looking at my schedule, biggest piece of fiction ever written, I tell her I'd be able to come by just after lunch.  She thought that would work and we hang up. 

Standing at the door I wonder for the umpteenth time what this is about.  I am graciously ushered inside and offered a drink and a seat.  I sit down opposite her as she sits on the couch and notice photo albums are out on the coffee table.  She brings the drink and sits down beginning to tell me all that has transpired in the last few days since her husband's death and funeral.  I listen offering encouragement and empathy, asking a question here, murmuring a soothing comment there. 

Patting the couch seat next to her she motions for me to join her and she begins to go through the photo albums.  This is when they first married, this is when we had our first child, and on we go through the years, the memories, the glads and sads of a long and happy marriage.  We get to the months before he is diagnosed and she turns to me with tears in her eyes, "Everything changed."  I wait, "we didn't know what was wrong but he changed, things between us changed and then when we did finally find out what was going on, everything changed."  I nod.  Saying nothing.

We've stopped looking at the pictures and she sobs, "I've always wanted to be a good wife, a good mother but when things changed. . ."  She looks at me and I gently prod her forward.  She continues, "We've always shared a bed.  In all the years of our marriage we never slept apart but I just couldn't do it anymore.  He would wet the bed and then he would. . ." she sobbed.  "I failed as a wife and didn't fulfill my wifely duties."  Wifely duties???  Wifely du. . .oh, wait, wifely duties. . .oh, the light of comprehension is beginning to dawn.  Lord, help me be delicate about this. "Why do you think you didn't fulfill your wifely duties?" I ask.  Sobbing she shares how she began to sleep in a separate bed and to avoid her husbands advances.  She found the person he became to difficult to reconcile with the person she married. 

I listen with genuine sorrow at the pain this woman has been carrying for all these months. We talk about what love is and how that love is manifested.  I remind her that she kept her vows, until death do us part, and express understanding about "wifely duties".

"It's difficult," I say, "to maintain a normal marriage relationship in some very abnormal circumstances.  Often the disease process makes it impossible to sleep in the same bed even if you want to and you were not just his wife but also his caregiver.  You needed rest and so did he.  Considering his disease, I don't really think he thought you were any less of a wife -- let me ask you something , have you ever corrected your children?" 

"Yes," she said surprised.

"Have they said they will be angry with you forever?"

"Yes."

"Did that stop you from being their mother?"

"No, of course not." she whispers.

"Well, just like you didn't stop being a mother, you didn't stop being a wife because of the circumstances.  You were, have been and are Jack's wife." 

She begins to smile.  "Will you do something for me?  Will you seal this for me." 

"Absolutely."  I say. 

Leading me to her dining room table I see that she is prepared.  There is a bowl, a towel and a pitcher of water.  She places her hands over the bowl and I begin to pray as I pour the water over her hands.  I pray for the cleansing of her heart, her memories, her guilt.  Praying that she remember she is a child of God, loved and cherished, that she is a good and faithful wife, and that she be set free in her God.  Drying her hands tenderly, we hug. 

She walks me to the door and thanks me for being there.  Driving away I realize why she called me.  Active in her church, her pastor (a man) may not have understood her pain, her sorrow or worse may have thought she wasn't capable to continue serving because of her (in her eyes) failure as a wife.  I find myself once again praising God for allowing me to be part of people's lives.  I find myself wondering what kind of wife I am.

Lord, thank you for giving me the privilege of being part of Your people's lives.  Father, help me to hear, really hear, the cry of your children's hearts and minister to their deeper needs not just be satisfied to bind the surface wounds but to truly bind up the broken hearted.  Thank you for this woman who trusted me enough to share her pain, for giving me the words to spread the balm of Gilead, and for the healing that has taken place in her and in me.  Help me, Lord, to learn how to be a better wife from this moment on.  Amen. 
  
 

"Oh, remember that my life is but wind (a puff, a breath, a sob). . .Job 7:7a (TAB)

"Sunny look what they gave me," the LVN stopped me as I was meandering through the office. 

Stopping I saw what was in her hands, my eyes misting.  It was the "to do" list of one of our patients.  It read: 

1.   Breathe 
2.   Relax, remember you can't control everything or everyone 
3.   Breathe
4.   Just because the family doesn't do it the way you do, doesn't mean it' s wrong.  They love you and are taking good care of you.
5. Breathe
6. Let go of control
7. Repeat

We clung to each other, eyes wet, remembering our patient who had over time become our friend. 

As I drove out to the house, I went from paved road to gravel to paved, to gravel to home sites with acreage.  The house was situated in the middle of 3 acres and looked inviting with wide steps and a large front porch.  Knocking on the door I wondered what to expect.  The door was opened by a small vivacious woman with short, dark hair.  "Oh good," she exclaimed, "you're just in time for afternoon coffee."  And so began an eight month friendship.

Diagnosed with lung cancer she had made the choice to enjoy her life as much as possible for as long as possible.  A typical visit always had coffee, watching of the wild birds and hummingbirds that were feeding from the back patio feeders, enjoying the blooming trees, and discussions of family concerns, how to cope with dying, what is happening in the world and how to help her family cope with her being gone.  As a former nurse, she was realistic about what was happening to her body and joyful as her spiritual journey deepened.

I liked to make her my last visit of the week because usually it would expand into a 2-3 hour visit.  Often we were joined by the LVN and when the patients husband came in from work, he'd tease us about being a bunch of old hens. 

As the disease progressed she would have good days and bad.  Always a hostess, she wanted to have our usual coffee but we noticed the subtle changes in her.  When she became confined to her bed, she allowed us to visit but no longer for hours at a time, her energy level had dwindled to minutes and the focus was now on preparing the family for losing the lynch pin of their family.

The call came at 2 a.m., the RN on call spoke quietly, "Sunny, you said you wanted to be here when it happens.  I think you need to come now."  Quickly I thanked her and got ready, driving through the dark night I felt the familiar ache in my heart.  My mind raced as I pushed back my own pain and tried to focus on what my friends family is feeling, experiencing, thinking. 

Arriving, the RN meets me at the door and says, "The sheriff is on the way."  Sheriff?? Sheriff?? Oh, that's right we are in a county that requires the Justice of Peace and Sheriff make a full report.  I sigh, "okay, what can I do to help?"  I wish I could say dying is easy -- well, dying is easy but the paperwork sometimes gets complicated. 

I went in and comforted the family as much as anyone can at the moment of death keeping one eye open as the JP and Sheriff made notes, asked questions, and took pictures.  Assisting the RN while ministering to the family, I fielded the Sheriff's questions as we waited for the funeral home to arrive.  A numbing quietness began to fill the house, the people, the heart.  Completing the paperwork, the Sheriff hugged me and thanked me for being there.  Leaving when the funeral director arrived, I said good bye to the family, reminding them to contact me when they were ready.

So, there we were, weeping over a simple list of reminders. . .that were reminders of a life that had touched us, changed us.  Reminders of a patient that became a friend, that brought us into her family, into her life as she was teaching us how to die. 

Oh, Lord, thank you for letting me part of my friends life, for sharing her life in the midst of her death.  Thank you for reminding me that life is one breath at a time but there is and incredible amount of  joy, laughter, conversation, love between each breath.  I am so grateful that she touched me and made me more loving, kind and caring.  Help me to reflect the life lessons she taught me to everyone I meet.  Amen.

As an addendum, the LVN was later diagnosed with lung cancer and used that list to help her cope when she had trouble breathing.  I was honored to preach her funeral. S

". . .do not be anxious about how or what you are to speak; for what you are to say will be given you in that very hour and moment.  Fit it is not you who are speaking, but he Spirit of you Father speaking through you."  Matthew 10: 19b-20 (TAB)

Luxury, I sighed, pure luxury, as my left arm snaked its way across the bed. . .no alarms clock, no mewing cat, no pushy dog. . .I slept in and it feels wonderful. . .my arm stops and my hand gropes where is the dog???  The one who sleeps between us. . .the one who. . .my arm moves leftward again. . .where's the hubby???  What is wrong with this. . .oh, wait, I'm on vacation!  I'm on a cruise!!! The dog is safe at home but where. . .

The cabin door opens and my hubby walks in.  I open my eyes a slit, "Hi."  "Hi."  He explains that he got up earlier, got some coffee and walked around the deck enjoying the early morning sea air.  Now he's ready for a mid-morning nap (my snoring kept him from sleeping deeply) and I'm ready for coffee.  So we trade places, he goes to bed and I head for the upper deck, book in hand, in search of coffee, quiet and breakfast.

Most of the other passengers had already eaten and made their way to the pool, spa, gym or area of the ship that interested them the most so it was fairly easy to snag a quiet corner.  Anchoring my spot with my book I wend my way through the tables, get some coffee and food and head back a bubble of happiness floating to my face and coming out in a grin. . .vacation!  This really is luxury.

As I begin to read, I look up and see her.  A blond woman a little younger than myself, staring at my book.  She is sitting cat-a-corner to me at the next table. 

"Hi," she says, "What are you reading?  It must be good."

"Oh, it's a book by Henri Nouwen." I reply.  "I like him and enjoy reading his books."   

"What do you do?" she asks.

Oh boy, here we go.  I've cleared rooms telling people what I do.  I've also found people clinging to me because of what I do.  "I'm an ordained minister."  hoping it ends here but knowing it won't.

"What's the name of your church?"
n"I don't have a church."  I sigh inwardly, "I'm a hospice chaplain."

Her eyes begin to well with tears.  "Oh, that's wonderful.  I know a lot about hospice, you see, this was supposed to be a cruise for me and my mom but she died on hospice just a couple of months ago.  Now I'm here with my daughter.  It's been wonderful but so hard too."

And then it begins, I take off my vacation hat and put on my chaplain, minister hat.  I ask the questions and listen letting her cry and share her heart.  She glances up and hesitates, I look over my shoulder and there is hubby standing back, "hey," he says, "need me to come back later?" 

"No," she smiles a shaky smile, "I'm good.  Thanks, and have a great cruise."

"You too," I say.

"What was that all about?" hubby says, "as if I didn't know."

I explain what was happening, encourage him to have a second breakfast and go back to wearing my vacation hat.

Lord, thank You for calling me to be a minister -- for entrusting me with Your people, with Your children.  Help me to be instant in season and out, always prepared to speak as You would have me speak , always guided by the Spirit.  And Lord, whoever that woman was, You know her name, I never asked, be with her and heal her heart."  Amen

"You shall not commit murder."  Exodus 20:13 (TAB)

The candlelight had disappeared out the doors of the chapel leaving us, the retreat attendees, in the semi-darkness as a soft light of an occasional wall sconce bathed the far corners of the room.  I turned to the group and encouraged them to take this time to seek God's face, hear His voice, let go of old baggage.  Explaining that there were clergy present if anyone wanted someone to talk to, I let them know the altars were open.

Sitting down I gazed around the chapel.  Some of the retreat attendees just left, finding no reason to stay; others went to the altar either alone or with a friend; some stayed in their seats in silence; others sought out the clergy closest to them and were having quiet, intense conversations.  Thank you Lord for moving so powerfully during this retreat, I begin to pray.

She stands quietly on my left, face crumpled, hesitant and unsure. "Can I talk to you?"  She asks.  "I knew when you said you were a hospice chaplain I needed to talk to you." 

"Of course," I murmur.  Motioning for her to sit next to me, I wait for her to continue to speak. 

"I killed my mother."  she begins. 

I wait.  My mind is racing -- filling with all the murder mysteries I've read, all the reality shows I've watched on TV.  I sit quietly, waiting.

"I killed my mother when she was in the hospital."

"Why don't you tell me about it."  I say, quietly, calmly, trying to remember what my code of ethics says about confessed murderers.  I turn my chair so we are sitting knee to knee and I can see her face, her eyes.

Slowly, painfully, tearfully the story comes out.  Her mother died years ago and she has been carrying the burden of being her mother's executioner.  She was the considerably younger of three siblings and had become her mother's primary caregiver.  Oh, her brother and sister were involved but only on the outer edges.  Their mother was suffering from multiple health issues but her primary disease had to do with her heart.  She was growing weaker and weaker as time marched on.  I nod my head or ask a question or two to clarify as she continues. 

One day, mom had to be hospitalized and it was a difficult time for her and her siblings.  There were some differences in how to proceed with treatment as the doctors outlined options such as feeding tubes among other things.  She told me that her mom didn't want any exceptional treatment like feeding tubes so she advocated for her mom and the feeding tube had not been placed.  It had not made her popular with her brother and sister.

As the end approached family differences began to get louder and more intense so she began to monitor who could see her mother and for how long.  She wanted to give her mom a place of peace and calm as she lay dying.  And so it was when her mother died, she was there with her, holding her hand telling her she was loved. 

"Why do you think you murdered your mom?" I ask, hearing nothing in the story to indicate that nothing but natural death had occurred.

"My brother and sister said because we didn't give mom a feeding tube, I killed her."  she was weeping openly now.

"Well, I'm not a nurse or doctor but I can honestly say based on what you've just told me, you didn't kill your mother."  I begin.  I talk to her about the dying process and what may be experienced during that time.  She began to listen intently, tears drying.

"Have you ever thought of yourself as a mid-wife?" I ask.  I talk to her about the process of having a child, a process she as a mother had experienced.  Comparing the dying process to being born I suggest to her that she acted as a mid-wife to her mother, helping to birth her into the arms of her Lord.  Perhaps, I encourage, you didn't kill your mother but birthed her into the next life.  Helped her transition into her new home.

She looks stunned and then thrilled as years of guilt and shame begin to wash away from her heart.   The thought that she could be God's instrument at the time of her mother's death had never entered her mind.  She smiles tentatively.  "Do you think?"  she contemplates. 

"I don't think you killed your mother.  I think you were helping her transition to her next place."  I say.  "Let's pray."

We pray together, she hugs me and leaves the chapel.  I look around and realize I'm the only one left there. . .I turn out the lights and go to bed.

Oh dear Lord, help us to see that dying is a natural part of living.  That letting go of this world is taking hold of the next one.  Let us not place undue burdens of guilt on one another because we want to say no to the tubes and machines that will help us live longer but not live better.  Thank you for letting me be there for your child who had carried such fear, guilt and anger for so long.  Thank you allowing me to help set her free.  Give me the opportunity to set your children free again and again.  Amen.

"Do not be unequally yoked with unbelievers [do not make mismatched alliances with them or come under a different yoke with them, inconsistent with your faith]."  II Corinthians 6:14a  (TAB)

"Have you seen this family yet?" he asked lounging in my doorway, grin on his face.  He mentioned the number of the county road they lived on and I glanced down at my to see/to do/to aspire to list,
"Not yet but they are on the list to see today," I replied.

"Oh, you are going to like this family," his grin expanded.  "They have a mixed marriage."

"A mixed what. . .?" 

"A mixed marriage.  It's not what you think.  You'll like them; they're fun," he said and turned to walk down the hall.

Some days Lord, some days SW's are a blessing and some days. . .not so much.  Making a note on my list that there may be some interesting family dynamics at this stop, I turned back to my desk to prepare for my visits for the day.

Driving through the Texas countryside to a part of the state I was not familiar with, I missed most of the beauty of the day as I did exactly what I'm not supposed to do -- I began to set my agenda and anticipate what I would respond with when "they" said this, then I would say this. . .I have to admit, I was unusually bright and insightful as I sped down the county road.  Like a dog worrying a bone I was driving with one eye on the road and the other on the picture I was painting as I compassionately ministered to this mixed marriage. 

Upon arrival to the patients home, I was ushered into the house by the patients grandson.  He led me down a hallway into his grandparents bedroom where the patient and his spouse were waiting.  Hm mm. . .mixed marriage?   Well, not in the obvious way. . .what did he mean, mixed marriage???

Introducing myself I sat down next to the bedside between the patient and his wife.  He in the bed, she sitting on the bed holding his hand.  I begin with the usual questions about their lives: how long have you been married?   how did you meet?  what do you do for a living?  and on we go.  They are delightful and the SW is right, I like them.  They had married at the age of 19 and 17 but to keep the local tongues from wagging, waited 3 years to have children.  They have had a happy life with only one real issue:  he was from one major religious denomination and she was from another.   Oh!  A mixed marriage!!! 

"I've had her pastor come and talk with me," he said, "and I just want to know if I'm going to heaven." 

Suddenly the room was full of landmines and I looked first at the spouse and then at the patient.  "I hope you don't think it's a cop out if I tell you, only God can determine who goes to heaven and who doesn't."  I began.

"Oh, I know that.  I guess I'm just wondering if what her pastor believes is right." 

Right, right?  Oh, boy, just toss the hand grenade out there.  I sense the spouse is sitting up straighter, stiffening with every word.  "I can't answer that either."  I sidestep another mine.  "I can only share with you what I believe.  I can tell you that I may be wrong.  Just because I have chosen to put my faith in this doesn't mean it's right."

"Well, then, tell me what you believe," he grins, ignoring his wife and my uncomfortableness.

And so, I bring out my Bible and begin down the road of salvation, intersecting with the believers judgement, answering his questions with scripture references as we go.  So, I began in one area of the scripture and he would ask a question that would take me to the next reference point.  His wife would look at the scriptures but was obviously unhappy and uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken.  My response was to focus more on him as the visit continued to the point of not looking her in the eye.

"And that's what I believe based on what I see in the scripture," I concluded.  Again emphasizing that not everyone agreed with me and we won't really know the truth until we stand before God.  Personally, I suspect we will all be a little surprised on that day when God reveals Himself to us. 

He nods and thanks me.  His wife has opened her mouth to say something when their grandson comes in saying their pastor has arrived.  The wife excuses herself to greet the pastor and the patient motions me closer to the bed as he whispers, "thank you.  That's what I believe too but to keep peace in the family and please her, I changed to her religion.  I hope you can come back and visit again.  I'd offer you a cup of coffee but you can't get one in this place."  We smile conspiratorially and pray quickly.  The patients wife enters the room with their pastor.  I thank them for letting me visit and thank the pastor for providing such good spiritual care.  I walk myself out of the house and move on to the next visit of the day.

A couple of days later I was told that the patient became non-verbal and then non-responsive shortly after my visit.  I wondered at that as during our visit the patient was awake and alert and orientated.  Perhaps this was a way of God providing protection to him -- sealing him in his declaration of faith so it could not be taken from him -- perhaps this was disease progression and I just made my visit at an opportune time.  His wife never allowed me to visit again.

Father, help me to remember that what we think something is (a mixed marriage, for instance) and what it is in reality may be two very different things.  Let me learn to lean on You more and on my agenda's, anticipations, plans less.  God, forgive me if I did anything that brought separation between this husband and wife.  I know the Word can become a stumbling block but help me to also use it as a stepping stone.  Lord always keep me humble and seeking, willing to admit I may be wrong but help me remain strong in my faith in You.  Amen.

"Death is swallowed up (utterly vanquished forever) in and unto victory."  I Corinthians 15:54b TAB

Her room in the nursing home was large as rooms in nursing homes go.  As an added bonus she was the only resident.  She still had all her mental faculties and was able to walk around as she wanted to.  At 90+ years she was doing better than most I'd met in her age bracket.  So, here we sat, I on her bed, she in her chair, staring each other down.

"I'm the chaplain and I just want to visit with you if it's okay," I explained.

"I'd rather be alone," she said.  "I'm used to being alone and I like it."

She was speaking the truth.  She was widowed after 60+ years of marriage.  She and her husband had lived on a ranch and had never had any children.  They were each others joy.  Following his death she had lived on the ranch alone -- an aloneness that she relished and embraced.  She tended her flowers, chickens and ducks, sewed, and was active in her church.  One by one the friends she and her husband had died and she was truly alone.  I didn't know that at the time of our meeting.  It was only after months of persistent visiting, practicing active listening and the ministry of presence that the details of her life had come out.  Oh, she had family.  Two nephews who insisted she move "into town" as she was getting older and they were concerned about her out on the ranch alone.  So her world had shrunk from several hundred acres to this room.  She worked through the feelings of hurt, anger, resentment, and finally came to the place of resignation. 

She began to look forward to my visits.  Once or twice a month I'd pop in and we'd read the local paper together.  After all those years of living in the area, she could back fill any story the paper wrote with the personalities and histories of the people involved.  We'd talk about her flowers and how she loved to sew clothes.  She told me about the old church traditions she grew up with -- one of her favorites being the Easter Monday dance to celebrate the end of Lent (when dancing was strictly forbidden!).  Sometimes I would catch her playing bingo in the activity room and know she was settling in, in spite of herself.

On occasion we'd talk about her husband and their lives together.  It was obvious she missed him and looked forward to their eventual reunion.  Those were the times we talked openly about dying and what that would look like to her.  One day she turned to me and said, "I want to die alone.  I don't want anyone to have to experience that with me."  Protesting I questioned her, "are you sure you mean that?  I can't imagine anyone wanting to die alone."  Gently over time I would explore what she meant by the desire to die alone coming to the conclusion she didn't want to be a bother.  As a little girl growing up on a ranch she had learned not to be conspicuous or be a bother.  It was in her marriage she had found someone who wanted to spoil her but now that person was gone and she was back to her childhood habit of not leaving too big an imprint on the world.  I alerted her family and her pastor about her wanting to die alone feeling they could affirm her worth to her and share how they felt about her desire to be alone on her deathbed. 

"Sunny, you need to come now," the CNA's voice on the other end of the phone wobbled.  "She doesn't look right and I just can't leave her like this." 

I mumbled something, grabbed my bag and ran out the door -- stopping at the SW's office to tell them what was happening before I left.

As I entered the room, I saw in a glance it was the end.  She was in her bed, clean from the bath the CNA had just given her, shrunken in the space.  The CNA was holding her hand and looked at me with troubled eyes.  I sank next to the bed and took her other hand.  Speaking softly the CNA brought me up to speed on her changes in condition, nodding I began to sing one of her favorite songs to her.  A song that her husband would sing to her.  She was unresponsive but her hand fluttered for a second.  A facility nurse came in to take her vital signs and told us her family was en route.   We nodded our understanding and I kept singing. 

"Your nephew is on his way," I whispered.  "Can you hold on for him?"  Nothing.  "Do you see Jesus?  I think He is waiting for you."  A furrowed eyebrow.  "Do you see your husband?  He should be there with Jesus.  He is waiting for you too."  A sigh and deep breath.  Her last.  As she took her last breath, her nephew threw himself into the room and took my place at her side.  "She waited for me," he choked out gratefully.  "She waited for me." 

I'm not sure if she was waiting for her nephew or her spouse, but I am so glad she didn't die alone.

Lord, thank you for letting me experience the sacredness of this woman's life and her death.  Thank you for reminding me that no matter how solitary we think we are or how alone we want to be, we are all connected to each other and to You.  Help me to always remember that dying is as important as living.  Amen.

"Every Scripture is God-breathed (given by His inspiration) and profitable for instruction, for reproof and conviction of sin, for correction of error and discipline in obedience, [and] for training in righteousness (in holy living, in conformity to God’s will in thought, purpose, and action),  So that the man of God may be complete and proficient, well fitted and thoroughly equipped for every good work." II Timothy 3:16-17 (TAB)

 

We had reached the end of our visit. I was finishing up reading Scripture and we were discussing what we had just read when she walked in.  Tall, blond, athletic the RN briskly entered.  "Oh, I'm just finishing up," I said, "I'll get out of your way so you can do your visit."  I began to gather my things together.

 

"There's no need for you to leave."  She replied, turning to the patient, "I understand you have been having a little trouble with your bowels?" she queried.  The patient nods in agreement.

 

Bowels, bowels?  That doesn't really sound like a chaplain area of expertise.  I continue to gather my things as I keep an ear open for the next comment. 

 

Snap!! I see a glove being put on, and a quick, "Let's take a look, shall we?"  I begin to gather my things in earnest.  This is really not a chaplain area. 

 

"I'll just go now."  I say, "we were done anyway." 

 

"Oh, don't go," she responds, "she has an impacted bowel and you'll be a great distraction while I clean it out.  Stay, it'll be fine."

 

Impacted bowel, distraction, clean it out, stay.  The words come to me in a disjointed, loose limbed kind of way.  Really?  Stay?  I try to remember if this was ever in my job description.  I wonder if the patient is going to be embarrassed.  I wonder if I'm going to be sick or pass out or worse. 

 

The patients spouse comes in to assist the RN.  In order to "distract" the patient I begin to read more Scripture.  As I read, my mind is reminding me, don't look,

 

the Word of God is good for instruction -- yes, Lord but this?,

 

hold your breath,

 

the Word of God is good for reproof -- but what about impacted bowels?,

 

 no, really, don't look,

 

the Word of God will equip you for every good work, does this count as a good work, Lord?, 

 

 breath through your nose, eyes on the page not what's happening in the bed.  DON'T LOOK!!!  From the corner of my eyes I see the patient turned on her side, I hear her moans of discomfort, I keep reading, and reading, and. . .

 

Done.  The deed is done.  I really can't tell who is more relieved the patient or myself.  The RN snaps off the rubber gloves, gives a word of comfort to the patient, leaves the room to speak to the patients spouse, glances at me as if to say, "you did good." and strides out.

 

I sit down, weak at the knees.  I look at the patient, making small talk as I finally (really) finish my visit.  The momentary embarrassment passed and the patient and I enjoyed many more hours together reading and discussing the Scripture.  We never again shared a moment quite this intimate and for that I am grateful.

 

Lord, I thank you for your Word.  For all it's qualities and gifts.  I thank you that it will not go forth void but will accomplish that which it is sent to do.  I praise you and thank you that on that day, for that time, your Word kept me grounded in the moment, kept me present.  Please help me to remember that the only things that can embarrass us are those things that we let embarrass us and help me have the gift of making others feel comfortable in even the most potentially embarrassing moments.  Give me the gift of graciousness and compassion.  Amen.

 

 

  

 

"For if you forgive people their trespasses [their reckless and willful sins, leaving them, letting them go, and giving up resentment], your heavenly Father will also forgive you.  But if you do not forgive others their trespasses [their reckless and willful sins, leaving them, letting them go, and giving up resentment], neither will your Father forgive you your trespasses."  Matthew 6: 14-15 (TAB)

I got the word today that she had died.  I had only met her once but even in that short of a time there was a bond, an understanding in the spirit.  She wasn't even my patient but the other chaplain was out of town so I was asked to go.  "She's afraid of dying," the Social Worker said.  "No one really knows what's bothering her but she is afraid.  I think she'd benefit from a chaplain visit."  Of course I went. 

I was greeted by her daughter who looked tired from the stress of sharing the care-giving duties with her step-father.  She stayed with the patient during the day while her step-father slept and he would take over at night.  Other family members came in and out but most of the care (giving meds, turning, changing diapers, getting glasses of water, the list can be endless) was divided between the two of them.  As she lead me to the couch, I glanced at the patient who was asleep in her medical bed in the middle of the once spacious living room.  We talked quietly together as she reaffirmed what the SW had told me.  "I'm not sure what the issue is," she sighed.  "We've done everything we can to make her comfortable and she chose to discontinue treatment.  Maybe she is worried about leaving my step-father on his own?"  As we talked back and forth, speculating on the patients fear, the patient began to rouse from her sleep.

"Mom, the chaplain is here to visit you.  Is that okay?"

The patient groggily nods and I move to the bedside getting a chair as I go.  The daughter mummers that she has something to do and disappears into another part of the house.  Introducing myself I let the patient tell me who she is, what is important to her, letting her paint the picture that will become her.  She is active in her church, loves to travel, was married before but it was a disaster.  Her current husband is everything her first one never was.  She keeps going back to the past, to her first marriage.  Finally I say, "I have heard that you are afraid to die.  Is that true?"

"Well, I'm a little nervous about it.  I'm not sure why.  I don't want to leave my family but I know they'll be okay."

"You keep mentioning your first marriage.  Let me ask, have you forgiven your first husband for all that happened between you?"

"I know whenever I think of him and that time of our lives, I get angry all over again," she says, relating yet another horror story of their relationship.

"Do you think that God, in His great love for you, brought you your current husband to show you that He loves you and wants to give you His best?  That He knows your first marriage was awful and He gave you His best --the spouse you have now-- for this time of your life?"

"Maybe, I never thought of it like that."

"Is it possible that the reason you're afraid of dying is because you have this anger against your first husband and you know because you are so involved in your church, that God can't fully forgive you until you let go of that anger and unforgivness?"

She is quiet for a long time.  "I need to work on letting go of that anger.  I need to work on forgiving him."

"Well, I think that unforgiveness doesn't hurt the person we don't forgive.  Unforgivness hurts us.  We carry it with us and it's a weight, a burden that brings us down."

"I need to work on this."  She says, "I've never realized I was holding onto this."

We talk a few more minutes and we pray together.  I thank her for allowing me to visit and walk out with her daughter who has reappeared.  I share with her that her mom is working on forgiving her dad.  The daughter is surprised at that. "I thought she'd done that years ago" she comments.  I give her my card and drive away.

I call the SW saying, "Once she has worked through her anger and forgiven him, I think she'll be okay and die in peace."  Later the patients RN calls to tell me the patient is working on forgiving and thanks me for working miracles. 

Today, I got the word, she had died.  I guess her work was done.

Father, I know I didn't work any miracles in this women's life but I also know that You allowed me to be a vessel pouring out Your love and grace to her.  Thank you for giving me the words to say that opened Your child's heart to the thoughts of forgiveness.  Remind me always to keep short accounts with the people who come into my life and with you!  Let me not hold onto my anger and ask for and receive forgiveness quickly.  Amen.

"Rejoice with those who rejoice [sharing others' joy], and weep with those who weep [sharing others' grief]."  Romans 12:15 (TAB)

They had declined the chaplain at the time of admission.  It was not unusual for families from this particular denomination to decline hospice spiritual care.  The preference is to receive their pastoral care from their own Pastor, a desire I applaud.

I was leaving a death, heading home, for coffee and doughnuts, and sleep when I got the call.  I pull off the freeway, look up the address and type the numbers into the GPS.  I thank God for whoever invented the GPS as I make the U-turn and head south. 

About 20 minutes away I get the second call from the RN, "Look, the family said you don't have to come.  They don't really want you here and they said they don't need you." 

Interesting, what a thought -- visions of coffee, doughnuts and bed dance in my head -- a death I don't have to attend.  "So, you are going to stay and take care of the paperwork?" I ask already tasting the coffee. 

"What? No, what do you mean?" 

"Well, we stay with the family until the funeral home arrives and get the paperwork completed for the family." I explain, "Are you going to stay until the funeral home gets there?"

"What? No! I had no idea that's what you did." the RN exclaims. 

"Then I'm on my way," I state.  "I'll sit in the car and wait if the family doesn't want me inside but one of us has to stay."  I banish the thought of coffee and take a quick look at the GPS.

I arrive at the patients home and knock on the door.  I am met by the patients son-in-law who escorts me to the dining room.  The RN is at the dining room table completing her portion of the paperwork.  Looking up she greets me introducing me to the patients daughter and son-in-law.  Beyond the dining room I see family members quietly crying.  The RN finishes, gives me the paperwork and fills me in, "The funeral home has been called and is on the way.  They should be here in an hour or so.  Here's the number if you need to call them."  Turning she gives the family her condolences and departs.

I stand uncomfortably at the dining room table.  No one speaks to me, no one looks at me.  Finally the patients son-in-law comes over and suggests I sit down, his wife joins us offering me a cup of coffee.  We talk quietly among ourselves.  I ask open ended questions that will help the family begin the grieving process.  Questions about the patients life, his likes or dislikes, their memories of him, and on and on.  While we are talking I ask about the patients spouse and am told she does not speak English.  The family (daughters, aunts, uncles, grandchildren) gathers.  They hold each other as they cry.  I explain what is going to happen when the funeral home arrives.  At this point the reality of death begins to settle in like snow on a hill it covers their hearts. 

"Many people find it very difficult to see their loved one removed from the home." I say, "I suggest that when they come in the family move to another part of the house, maybe the kitchen, so they won't have to be further upset by seeing him removed."  The son-in-law boasts that he is a member of a health care group and will be fine.  His wife looks queasy.  I affirm the man but remind him not everyone in the family has had his level of experience and remake my suggestion.  Something in what I say or the way I re frame my thought hits him and he agrees that it might be best if they don't see the patient on a gurney, covered and leaving the home.  He moves into the living room and suggests to the recently widowed spouse and her family that they may want to consider not being present at the time of the removal.  Observing, I'm not sure what decision is made if any by the family.  The man returns and we continue our previous conversation.  This is a preamble to the grieving process.  This is the time that grief can become healthy or unhealthy.  This is the beginning of the new normal for this family.  A normal without their loved one with them.

When the funeral home arrives, they introduce themselves to me and I in turn introduce them to the family.  We take care of the minimal bit of paperwork there is left: name, social security number, next of kin, date of birth, doctors name.   I have already explained to the family that the funeral home will contact them later in the day requesting an appointment to go over the details of the funeral service.  I take the funeral directors into the room where the patient is waiting.  They leave to get the gurney and I go out to the family to tell them now would be a good time to have a final prayer, a final good-bye and then go to another part of the house. 

The patients wife and daughters go into kitchen.  The recently widowed stands at the breakfast bar and begins to weep.  For whatever reason, I move into the kitchen and stand next to her daughters who are behind her with their hands on her back, supporting, comforting.  The girls move into the other room to pray as a family for their father but their mother is rooted to this place, her grief holds her captive.  I stand there with my hand at her back, supporting, comforting.  Quietly, she turns into my arms and sobs, heart-breaking, gut wrenching sobs.  I hold her, making soothing noises and lead her to a chair where she sobs into my chest.  I say nothing.  There is nothing to say.  The man she has lived with for over half her life is gone.  I am reminded that she is my age, that it could be me weeping in a strangers arms.  I recognize her pain as my own.  Finally she is spent and clutching my forearms pushes herself from me saying, "thank you, thank you."  I smile, murmur something as her daughters return to comfort their grieving mother, walking to the room to assist the funeral directors.

In the room the son-in-law stands guard at the door as I and the two funeral directors move as quickly, respectfully, and quietly as we can to move the patient onto the gurney and out of the house.  As we leave the house, I again express my condolences to the family, gathering my papers, I go to my car.

On the fifty mile drive home, I realize that this is the quietest death I've been on.  The family didn't really want to interact with me, it was only common courtesy that got me in the door; but if I hadn't have been there. . .well. . .but I was.

Lord, thank you for the reminder that even when we are not wanted, we are able to be a vessel for your love.  Thank you for the reminder that words don't solve every problem or ease every hurt.  Sometimes it's enough to just be there -- in whatever form that may take.  Lord please be with this family as they adjust to their new normal, their new life without their loved one.  Most of all Lord, thank you for letting me be the one who was there.  Amen.

"Do not let your hearts be troubled (distressed, agitated). You believe in and adhere to and trust in and rely on God; believe in and adhere to and trust in and rely also on Me.  In My Father’s house there are many dwelling places (homes). If it were not so, I would have told you; for I am going away to prepare a place for you.   And when (if) I go and make ready a place for you, I will come back again and will take you to Myself, that where I am you may be also.  And [to the place] where I am going, you know the way.  Thomas said to Him, Lord, we do not know where You are going, so how can we know the way?  Jesus said to him, I am the Way and the Truth and the Life; no one comes to the Father except by (through) Me." John 14:1-7 (TAB)

"Sunny, you need to go see him now," the SW said. 

Whenever I hear the words you need to, I find myself asking the next question. . .why.  In some cases I really do need to see the patient now but more often it turns out that the "snapshot" the SW, RN, or some other team member has taken is not the complete picture.  By the time I get the message that I need to (fill in the blank here) and see the patient usually the reason I needed to in the first place is resolved.  I sighed, looked at my schedule (which is the biggest piece of fiction I've ever written), and asked, "Really, what's happening with him?" 

"Well, he wants to know where he's going to go when he dies," she said, "not the graveyard but where he's going to end up, you know."  She gave me a look that seemed to indicate she too wanted me to tell her where he is going to go when he dies and then repeated the original appeal, "you need to go see him." 

"You do realize I don't know where he's going when he dies, right?" I ask making a mental note to never make a schedule again.  She nods and I head for the door thanking the Lord that he lives 40 minutes away and I'll have plenty of time for prayer and reflection as I go to answer the patients question.  In the midst of my prayers (more like cries for help!) I review what I know about the patient: he didn't have a close family and left home at an early age, the family he was searching for he found in his motorcycle club, having no where to go a young woman and her live-in took him into their home as his disease progressed.  He was anxious and fearful -- avoiding the medical bed at all costs because he was afraid if he actually slept in the bed he would die, he spent all his time pacing or in the recliner in front of the TV.  "Lord," I prayed, "help me to say the right words to bring him peace."

"Thank you for coming," the caregiver said as she opened the door.  "I'll step out and give you some privacy."  "No problem," I replied, "you can stay," thinking she might be a good reinforcement for me.  The patient was pacing around the small room with a long oxygen hose trailing behind him, winding and unwinding as he paced.

Turning quickly he barked, "Where am I going to go when I die!?" walking to the window he pointed out and said, "and I don't mean across the street either."  Not being able to see where he pointed I paused, "it's a cemetery" the caregiver whispered.  "Yeah," he said, "I know everyone ends up in a cemetery or something but I want to know where I'll go when I die."  Finding a peace I didn't know I possessed, the peace of God that passes all understanding, I calmly replied, "Where do you want to go?"  He stopped short, turned and looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.  "I can't tell you where you are going to go.  I don't know that, only God can look at a man's heart.  Where do you want to go?"

"What do you mean?  You don't know where I'm going?" he asked, mystified.  "I mean that everyone goes on their own spiritual journey and has their own belief system.  My belief system teaches certain things that determine where a person goes after they die but not everyone agrees with what I believe.  Let's talk about what you believe and where you think you will go when you die." 

So we spent the afternoon talking, discussing, exploring the patients belief system.  He asked me about my beliefs and why I believed as I did then he queried his caregiver.  As we shared I could see him beginning to relax, beginning to consider what he believed and ask himself why he believed that.  After a time, we prayed together and I promised to return as soon as possible so we could continue this part of our faith journey together. 

The caregiver thanked me for coming so quickly as did the patient.  I reported to the SW that the visit had been fruitful and when I had left the patient he appeared less agitated.  I wish I could say that all of our visits were as successful but over time the patient again became fearful and anxious.  Faith is not easy to grasp when you have never been given a frame of reference and you are busy doing the work of dying. 

The patient died fighting death in the hospital bed he dreaded.  I don't know where he went when he died but I know what I hope and believe.

Lord, thank you for humbling me, reminding me that only You can read the heart of a man.  Only You can tell us where we will go when we die.  Thank you for reminding me that what I believe is only one of many beliefs in this world.  Thank you for reminding me that sometimes the need to's in my life really are need to's and when they aren't, I still need to (fill in the blank).  Mostly Lord, forgive me for not being a better chaplain.  I wanted to bring Your peace to him and while I may have brought peace to him, he never received it.  Please teach me how to minister to Your children better.  Amen.

"A happy heart is good medicine and a cheerful mind works healing, but a broken spirit dries up the bones."  Proverbs 17:22 (TAB)

It was one of those days. . .one of those lazy, hazy spring Texas days.  The kind of day that was just warm enough to make you want to take a nap if you sat still too long. . .the kind of day when you opened the windows and let out the winter smells enticing the spring inside. . .the dust particles were dancing on sunbeams and the occasional robin would chortle a tune as we set inside. . .

I had visited her many times over the months.  Our relationship had grown from wary to friendly.  Often we just talked about our lives, thoughts, people we loved, people we didn't.  Often we would read the scripture and pray.  But today all conversation had petered out like a road going into the woods. . .it became a trail. . .and then just forest with the odd word here and there. . .we were

"I'm bored." she declared with decided emphasis on the bored part.  "Bored?" Do I bore you?"  "No.  I'm just bored."  With a sigh I looked at the spring sunshine, filtered with winter breezes but promising a hot Texas summer and admitted, "me, too."  We looked at each other and giggled.  So, what do we do next, I wondered. . .as I was pitching ideas to break the doldrums, she had already formulated a plan.

The house was a small one and her husband, in an effort to meet her needs had placed his recliner in such a way that he had a clear sight line to her and the TV.  As he was hard of hearing, he had put a wireless doorbell button on her over the bed table (OBT) with the ringer next to his recliner.  Thus he could sit in comfort in his recliner and read the paper or watch TV while keeping a semi-eagle eye on her.  If he was in the kitchen or had the TV on so loud he couldn't hear it, she had to only ring the doorbell and he would respond as quickly as his 80+ year old body would let him.  Needless to say, she also had a clear line of sight to him as well.

"Watch this," she said, pressing the doorbell button.  In he came, "what do you need, honey?"  "Could I have a glass of water?" she asked innocently.  I looked at the table, observing a full glass of ice water waiting to be tasted but he obediently went off to get her a fresh glass of ice water.  Waiting until he had returned to his recliner and began to read the paper, she again pushed the button.  He came in, and she requested a cracker.  As he left, I began to see the light of impishness glow in her eyes and a smile on her lips.  Dutifully he brought the crackers and then made his way back to his chair (at this point it could no longer be called a recliner).  She pushed the button, like a jack in the box he jumped up, fulfilled her silly request and went back to begin the game again.  As the afternoon wore on, we began to laugh and giggle at being so silly.  I took my turn at pressing the button and would end up saying, "oh, my! I didn't mean to press that button, I'm so sorry." Or, "I forgot what she said she wanted, what was it you said you needed?" To which she would "forget" what it was she had never requested.  No longer bored the afternoon shadows lengthened and it was time for me to leave.  We had spent the afternoon giggling like schoolgirls while wearing out the dear caregiver.

As I left, I apologized to him for putting him through it.  I felt bad that we had tired him just for our own amusement.  He placed his arm around me and looked into my face, "Do you know how long it's been since I've heard my wife laugh?" he asked.  I shook my head.  "It was worth every moment to see a smile on her face and hear her laugh again.  It was worth every ache and pain.  You keep coming and making my wife laugh."

Dear Lord, help me to remember that even when we are facing death, we need to laugh, to giggle, to enjoy a sense of the ridiculous.  Not just for the sake of patient but for the heart of the person who is losing the one he/she loves.  Remind me that laughter is a medicine just as much as any pill or lotion or patch and help me to bring a smile or giggle to my patients when they need it.  Amen.

"Little children, you are of God [you belong to Him] and have [already] defeated and overcome them [the agents of the antichrist], because He Who lives in you is greater (mightier) than he who is in the world." I John 4:4 (TAB)

"I don't know what's wrong.  He's not sleeping and I've given him enough meds to take out an elephant." the Registered Nurse (RN) said during team.

(Team is the interdisciplinary team - doctors, nurses, social workers, chaplains, bereavement and volunteer coordinators - the IDT or IDG - that meets once a week and discusses each patient and each patients plan of care.  Each discipline visits the patient and takes a "snapshot" of the patient at that time, on that day of that particular visit.  At team, the "snapshots" are put together and the team gets a panoramic view of the patient, medical and psycho/social needs, and family dynamics.  All of these things affect total patient care.) 

"I don't know what to do next.  I guess I can give him more meds but don't think they are going to help.  He's trying to avoid the bed altogether."  Her voice showed the frustration she felt as a professional unable to help her patient.  "What is he telling you?" the Director of Nurses (DON)asked.  Taking a deep breath the RN sighed, obviously reluctant to share what the patient said.  "He says the devil sits on the edge of his bed and talks to him as he's trying to go to sleep.  I guess he thinks he's going to hell or something." 

The room burst into sound as everyone began to comment.  The devil is, after all, big news.  We don't discuss him everyday in or out of IDT!  "The devil, wow!" "Wonder what he's worried about."  "No wonder the meds aren't doing it, he sounds scared."  On and on the comments went -- voices weaving themselves in and out of at least a dozen conversations.  I listened with one ear while my mind kaleidoscopes from one thought to the next. . .the devil, that's interesting. . .the devil, really? maybe it's a demon and not THE DEVIL. . .I've visited this man regularly for months and he's never mentioned this to me before, why is this just coming up now?. . .wonder how long before someone thinks this is a job for the chaplain?. . .how small can I become?. . .am I invisible yet?. . .are you crazy, we're talking about something serious, it's spiritual warfare and the devil she said. . .as my mind is moving from one touchstone to the next, I hear the RN say, "I'm not sure if I even believe in the devil but I don't know what more I can do for this man."  In response one of the Social Workers (SW) says, "It really doesn't matter what you or I believe, this is about him and obviously he believes it.  This doesn't sound like a medical problem to me.  It sounds spiritual and I think the Chaplain should go out for a visit."  With that, the room becomes quiet and 30+ pairs of eyes turn to me.  Well, I guess I'm not invisible yet I think and clear my throat.  "Yes, of course, I'll visit the patient and see what's going on with him.  I'll report back to the team if there needs to be any change in his plan of care."  Having settled the matter to the satisfaction of all, we move on to the next patient on the list.

Driving to the patients home, I am frantically trying to come to terms with the seriousness of the conversation I would be having with the patient.  I can feel myself beginning to panic -- the sense of inadequacy, the fear of saying the wrong thing and making the situation worse (if possible), the thought that I was taking on the devil -- my heart is in my throat and I realize I'm afraid.  Yes, afraid and wondering what in the world was I thinking to become a chaplain -- heavens, I'm not cut out for this job, anyone can see that!!  Especially now.  Suddenly there is an overwhelming sense of peace blanketing me as I drive and a still small voice speaks to my heart, "it's not about you, Sunny, it's about the patient.  Stop focusing on yourself and focus on him, his fear, his needs, his hurts and inadequacies.  Remember, greater is He that is in you than he that is in the world."  As the voice speaks, my pounding heart calms and the focus of my prayers change. I remind myself of the Scripture that tells us to not be afraid to speak for the Holy Spirit will give us the words we need at the right time.  I soak in the peace surrounding me and prepare myself to be a vessel the Lord can use.

Taking a deep breath, I enter the patients home.  As with most of our visits, we begin catching up with each other socially before moving into the purpose of this particular jaunt.  "I hear you are having trouble sleeping," I comment, waiting for the patient to tell me what's happening.  "Yes, well, just sometimes," he responds.  "Can you tell me about it?"  "I really don't know what to tell," sheepishly answers.  "I understand that you see the devil on your bed when you are trying to go to sleep?" I open the door for the skeleton to peak out of the closet.  "Oh, yes," he sighs and the story pours out of him, partly told in guilt, partly in fear, partly in remorse. 

As we talk I learn that the patient had served in the war and he is worried that the God who said 'thou shalt not kill' will hold this against him.  As understanding dawns on me, we talk about obedience to those in authority over us, how God forgives us if we repent, that the devil is an enemy who wants to steal, kill and destroy us -- keeping us from God and His love for us, the conversation ends with the confession that the patient has never killed anyone to his knowledge but he's not sure that he didn't either, we end with prayer and the reminder that God loves us.  That night, the patient sleeps and sleeps well. 

I wish I could say the patient never saw the devil on his bed again. . .guilt and fear can return if we don't continually renew our minds and line ourselves up with God's word.  However, from this point on my visits with the patient took a deeper turn.  As for me, I learned what a mighty God I serve!

Lord, teach me to remember that it's truly not about me -- it's about You ministering through me.  It's about You living BIG in me.  It's about standing in faith and knowing greater is He who is in me than he that is in the world.  Remind me to always focus on the patient and their needs and walk in love and not fear.  Thank you for filling my mouth with the right words to minister to this man's fear.  Thank you for the assurance that You will always speak through me, use me, teach me when I set myself to seek your face.  Amen.
 

"Be not rash with your mouth, and let not your heart be hasty to utter a word before God.  For God is in heaven, and you are on earth; therefore, let your words be few."  Ecclesiastes 5: 2 (TAB)

I passed him on road which wasn't unusual.  After months of making weekly visits, we would often pass and wave.  He on the way to the barber shop or the grocery store or the local coffee shop where the world problems would be discussed, solved and discussed again.  Me on the way to his home to visit his dying wife.

Crossing the threshold of the bedroom, she was lying flat on her back in bed, she said, "Beautiful."  I stopped and blinked, hard, slow, and turned.  Beautiful?  Not a description of me.  Obviously, someone was standing behind me.  No, no one there.  "Beautiful" she said again with a sense of awe in her voice.  My eyes made a quick tour of the room.  Small and cluttered I'd term it 'homey' not beautiful.  Realizing she was looking at the ceiling, I looked up.  It was a drop ceiling that had the stains of 50+ years of weather and living.  Nothing beautiful there either. 

Entering the room, she again said, "It's beautiful, just so beautiful."  Okay, got that. I'm not sure what it is, but I know whatever it is is beautiful.  "What's beautiful?" I ask.  "Don't you see it?" she queries.  "It's so beautiful."  "No, I don't see what you see." I tell her, "Can you tell me what is beautiful?"  "Heaven, heaven is so beautiful."  Now, I look at the ceiling in earnest, willing myself to see what she is seeing. . .heaven, we have heaven in this 10x10 bedroom!?  I want to see it too!!!  Where is it?  What exactly is she seeing?  I squint.  Nothing.  "What does it look like?  What do you see?"  There is a tremor of excitement in my voice.  "Oh, I can't describe it, it's just too. . ." that's right, it's beautiful! 

Exasperated at myself, I ask, "Do you see Jesus?"  "Oh, yes."  "What does He look like?  What is He doing?"  "Oh, He's beautiful.  Just beautiful. There is so much light."  And then as quickly as the veil was opened, it closed. 

I won't lie, I felt somewhat deflated, maybe even cheated a little.  Why did she get to see into the heavenlies and not me???  I also felt a little concern or maybe guilt.  Was my pressing for answers the reason the door closed to her?  I knew her faith and love for the Lord and didn't want to be an obstacle between them but a stepping stone to Him.  Yet, in spite of my thoughts and feelings, she continued to have a euphoria and awe in her voice.  Heaven is real and she knew where she would be one day.  There was great peace in that knowledge.  And great joy.

Lord, please help me to remember that you are with us always.  That the veil between life and death is thin and permeable, easily transversed.  Remind me that heaven is a beautiful place, a place to be desired and sought.  Help me be the stepping stone to you and the place you have prepared for them. Let me share the joy of knowing that heaven is real.  Amen.

"Greet one another with a holy (consecrated) kiss." (Romans 16:16a TAB)

Cared for by her daughter, she was one of my favorite patients and so I would save my visits to her. Usually it was the last visit of the week. Driving through the Texas countryside, I wound my way through the small towns, across the river, up the hill, leaving pavement behind, crunching gravel to the cattle gate. Once through the gate (after shooing mama cow and calf away, all that was left of the herd), driving up to the house set amid an unruly garden of flowers. A riot of color. Once tamed and well kept, it too had succumbed to the illness of it's caregiver. Through the gate that protected the blossoms from the once numerous cattle and into the house.

She reminded me of leather that had been tough and hard but had softened over time, with age. By the time I met her she really didn't speak. Oh, she'd say a word or two (if you were lucky enough to catch them) but mostly it was gibberish and nonsense words. Our conversations went something like this: gibberish, gibberish, nonsense, child. Gibberish, nonsense, nonsense, gibberish, gibberish, baby. Her daughter and I would stand at the bedside and comment on the rare word we did understand, visit and include her as much as we could. Some days she would say nothing at all because she had been up for days and nights at a time talking all the while.

Whether I understood her or not, I loved her and her daughter. Their story was one that exemplified the pioneer spirit: they bought and cleared the land, built the house themselves and raised cattle while working in town to make ends meet. Gifted in growing things, they were also legends locally as cooks. As a family, they were devoted to each other.

Every visit included prayer, sometimes a song or two or a scripture, and always ended with a kiss. I would kiss her good-bye, remind her of God's love for her and mine and leave. This day, the visit was "typical" -- a kiss and walking to the door. I heard her say something but didn't catch it but her daughter began to chuckle. Turning, I looked and she said, "Did you hear what mama said?" Shaking my head no, she said, "Mama, tell Sunny what you said." I came back to the bedside, standing quietly, straining my ears. "That was some puny kiss, Sunny." she said, clear as day. The woman who couldn't put together a coherent sentence was critiquing my kiss and found it wanting! Quickly leaning over the bed, I apologized and kissed her again. . .soundly, fully.

I never left her again with a puny kiss. . .

Father, thank you for the reminder that everyone desires our best -- even in our kisses. Help me to not give half-hearted or puny kisses but greet your children with a kiss that expresses your love to them. Please help me not forget the lesson I learned from this family, love is more than what we do, it is a part of who we are in you. Amen.