"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.
May 12, 2013
May 11, 2013
"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.
"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.
May 07, 2013
"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.
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.
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