And it has surprised me. Two months ago I picked up a book by Dr. Oliver Sacks entitled The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. Dr. Sacks was a gifted neurologist and a fine writer. Thinking that I might gain a deeper understanding of some of the conditions I see as I move through some long-term care communities, I decided to read the book.
However, I can't read it. Not because his case studies are not beautifully written or that they reveal a lack of compassion. Quite the contrary. What has become clear for me is that I very much need God in the picture, and Dr. Sacks did not. Without some sense of Divine Presence or Accompaniment in these studies, I am adrift and miserable. This discovery has surprised me. I don't think I realized just how much I depend on the presence of God to carry me through my work.
Dr. Sacks came from a Jewish background but did not seem to hold on to any faith. Nonetheless, he did write eloquently about witnessing one of his patients taking communion. Dr. Sacks had asked some nuns in the hospital if they thought one particularly troubled patient just might not have a soul. They invited Dr. Sacks to chapel to witness what they saw there. He did go, and wrote of his experience.
"I was moved, profoundly moved and impressed, because I saw here an intensity and steadiness of attention and concentration that I had never seen before in him or conceived him capable of. I watched him kneel and take the Sacrament on his tongue, and could not doubt the fullness and totality of Communion, the perfect alignment of his spirit with the spirit of the Mass. Fully, intensely, quietly, in the quietude of absolute concentration and attention, he entered and partook of the Holy Communion. He was wholly held, absorbed by a feeling. There was no forgetting, no Korsakov's (Dr. Sack's spelling) then, nor did it seem possible or imaginable that there should be; for he was no longer at the mercy of a faulty and fallible mechanism...but was absorbed in an act, an act of his whole being (37-38)".
As I read these lines again, I think of Geraldine. She surprised me last month by attending worship. She has attended worship in the past, but for the last few months she has preferred to stay seated by the door that opens out to the parking lot. As we enter, either I or the volunteer who serves with me invites her to join us, and she always declines, sometimes cordially, sometimes abruptly. Her vision is significantly impaired. What she experiences at the glass door I do not know. Despite continual comings and goings of staff and visitors, I think it may be one of the quieter places in that busy rehab hospital. It could be she simply finds peace there.
Yet, last month, she was already in the activity room when I arrived. As worship got underway, she looked so happy; so much so that the room appeared brighter. She did not take communion; she never has. Regardless, she was in communion. The elements were not needed. It is moments like this, what Dr. Sacks called moments of "moral absorption," when concern about the frailty of our bodies and minds slips away. In these moments, an unseen door opens, and our souls are free.
Today, as I talked to Harriet about her fears of moving from her assisted living apartment into a skilled nursing community, I did not feel free. I felt sorrow for this intelligent woman as she turns and faces a shaky future in a body being wrecked by Parkinson's. I felt sorrow for her friends and me. We want to hold on to her, even though we know she needs more care and she needs to be in closer proximity to her family. I do not think my knowing all about Parkinson's would have helped in that moment. What we all needed was to lift our sorrow to God. Harriet needed to be reminded that she is being held in love, even in the midst of her unsteadiness. She needed to be reminded of the incredible beauty of her soul.
Holy One, forgive me for forgetting that you are the more that I can bring with me. I thank you for the doctors, the researchers, the aides, the janitors, the delivery people, the volunteers and the rest who serve. We are all called together to be more with you, even when we forget or simply cannot believe. Thank you for continuing to knit us together, strengthening us with the gifts of one another. I am grateful that I do not go alone.
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