This morning, while standing in the kitchen waiting for the tea to brew, I became aware that I was happy. I just knew that everything was going to work out just fine. I did not know what "everything" was, or even how to define what fine is. I just knew, and also knew I did not need to know. I thought, "This must be freedom."
Later that morning, I was leading worship in a skilled nursing community. Many of the patients there I have known for years. I have seen their ups and their downs, and they have seen mine. So, while we were in the midst of singing a lovely old Thanksgiving hymn, I could not help but become aware of a man whom I did not know as he was being wheeled into the room. He looked to be about my age, and he looked to be quite unhappy. A resident handed him a song sheet, but he rebuffed the offer. I was singing at the time, so I simply smiled at him and nodded my head to try to let him know he was welcomed.
During the next hymn I noticed him mimic me, not in a flattering way, and then make an obscene gesture. I knew the activity assistant did not see him because she would have been mortified. I kept on singing, but when he looked toward me, I looked at him directly, smiled, and simply lifted the index finger of my left hand. Those of you who ever met my father knew this was how he acknowledged that he had seen you. Just one finger, lifted. My father had spoken; this man knew he had been seen.
Had I been a much younger chaplain, such a gesture by a patient or resident might have thrown me. However, I am not a young chaplain. I am old enough to understand this man's pain at finding himself, not large and in charge, but in a gurney listening to Thanksgiving hymns. Not only that, these hymns were being led not by an angel, but rather someone very real, close to his own rather sagging age, accompanied by a choir mostly in wheel chairs. For some, this can be a source of solace. For others, it can be perceived only as a defeat. I saw this and in my own way, my one finger salute was an acknowledgement of this. However, he was not interested, and he was certainly not interested in communion. A caregiver came and began to wheel him out of the room. I thanked him for being with us. He kind of smiled. About that time, Emma tugged at my sleeve and said, "You did not offer me communion." I had given her a blessing, but it was true; I had not offered her communion. I turned and reminded her that she has for years told me she was Buddhist and that she had always declined the invitation. She laughed and shrugged; I gave her communion and we hugged.
Tonight I think of the chaplain who might come after me. He or she may be young, or may be older. Nonetheless, I feel a sense of wanting that person to know that I did my best to lay down a path of love. And that yes, everything will be okay. The tea will brew; communion will be served, and all kinds of communication will go on. We have God to thank for it all: one embracing gesture, one knowing, one hug at a time.
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