". . .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.
September 22, 2013
August 10, 2013
"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:
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
"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:
- Breathe
- Relax, remember you can't control everything or everyone
- Breathe
- 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.
- Breathe
- Let go of control
- Repeat
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
July 16, 2013
". . .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
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
May 12, 2013
"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.
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 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.
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