"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.