Safety in Visions

I have written about Jill before because she has been worshiping with us since I began with SpiritCare.  She now grows more frail.  Her hearing continues to deteriorate, and she has been blind since she was a young girl.  She has always blessed us with a beautiful laugh, but we hear it less now as her physical struggles increase.  While I am not certain how much of the service she hears, she enthusiastically answers yes when I yell in her ear, "Would you like to take communion?"  After the service yesterday she asked me, as she periodically does, if I believe in the Holy Mother.  "Of course," I always yell. She told me again of the vision of the Holy Mother that she had while visiting Lourdes as a child.  If I am remembering correctly, the Holy Mother was sitting on a fence. Jill went to Her and asked if She could help her vision (at that time it was poor, but Jill could still see).  The response was a gentle, "No, I cannot.  You will be blind."   There may have been more to the conversation, but Jill has never mentioned it.  But she passionately loves the Holy Mother, and that one vision has been enough to sustain her for a lifetime.  

 

After my conversation with Jill, I saw a caregiver bring Roger into the activity room.  He has no mobility in his lower limbs and must rely completely on the care of the attendants. Just as I began to walk towards him, he raised his hand and asked me,  "Ma'am, please excuse me, but is Sue Ann still here?"  I touched him on the shoulder and replied, "Hi, Roger, I am here. Is your vision giving you trouble?"   Yes.  The vision in one eye is completely gone and the other eye grows more blurry.  Yet still he said, "Oh, it is so good to see you."  

  

These people love me.  I believe them when they tell me that.  I love them and I believe most of them know it.   And there, of course, lies great peril. Whom am I serving?

 

Fairly early in my ministry I was blessed to read Christine D. Pohl's very good book, Making Room, Recovering Hospitality as a Christian Tradition.  In it, she quotes Dorothy Day, and this passage (found on pages 185-186) often comes to my mind when I become flush with the emotions of the work:

 

I have had to stop myself sometimes. I have found myself rushing from one person to another - soup bowls and more soup bowls, plates of bread and more plates of bread, with the gratitude of the hungry becoming a loud din in my ears.  The hunger can be as severe as someone else's stomach hunger: the joy of hearing those expressions of gratitude. I remember a nun who came to visit us. We and sat and drank coffee after she had helped us work. She was a fast one. She went from table to table, arranging chairs and helping some of the men who really needed help. she was tactful and modest, and, of course, they took to her. She knew who could fend for himself and who needed a little boost from her. As we sat and talked she said to me in whisper, '"This is dangerous work....It is a grave temptation to want to help people."  

 

I know no of not other way to serve these elders but in love, despite the dangers of being tempted to always listen for the gratitude.  I can change very little in their lives.  I am grateful that Jill continues to share with me her vision of Mary simply sitting on the fence.  It reminds me of the strength that presence has to offer.  When I first moved my own mother into skilled nursing, I had such an immediate and profound sense of Jesus' presence that I kept expecting to see him leaning against a wall, in a sort of James Dean pose (this was West Texas, after all).  That sense has never left me.  I am beginning to think that I am a sort of well-meaning but slightly bumbling tour guide in this journey in, through, and to the kingdom.  Fortunately, Jesus and Mary serve as gracious sign posts to keep us from losing our way.  I surely could not do it alone.   

  

Blessed assurance in these dangerous times. 

 

A Lesson in Attendance

I seem to be at the age where spiritual legacies are on my mind and heart.  I am not referring to the act of physically sitting and writing out what we believe our legacy to be, although that exercise can be very helpful.  However, ultimately that may not the legacy that counts.  What really matters is our legacy that others experience, and how they live out that legacy - or perhaps avoid it at all cost.  

 

 I recently was reminded of this when I attended the memorial service of a long-time neighbor, educator, and life-long Christian.  Sally was in her late 80s and had been ill for awhile. As I sat and listened to the testimonies of adult grandchildren and others who loved her deeply, I felt gratitude for this elder who obviously lived her life and faith in such a way that it influenced, and will continue to influence generations.  While we saw many pictures of Sally and her family on the large screen front of the chapel, the focus of the memorial was really not so much on her, but rather her deep abiding love of Christ.  The church she attended is large (the main sanctuary holds between 1200 to 1500 people), so we gathered in and filled their chapel that probably holds about 200.  The family and many of the friends who attended the service also attend that church, so there was very much a sense of a congregation who comes together regularly to listen, to pray, and to take the teachings to heart. They seemed to listen in and with one body.  Very moving and very tangible.  For the first time in a long while, I felt the poorer for not having grown up in a church.    

  

Too often when I attend memorial services, I hear the deceased described as "a person of faith," and  then we listen to a reading of Psalm 23  (sometimes sung) because just about everyone likes it and nobody actually knew what the favorite scripture was of the one who passed. Somehow, in the busyness of life, those deeper discussions never happened.  The legacies we are left with are thin and weak - not much substance for the long road ahead.   

  

On the day of Sally's passing, one of the daughters told me that several of her family members were at her bedside singing her favorite hymns. While she had spent most of the last several months living with a daughter, her last day was spent in her home.   I also understand that for several days before she passed, she had private conversations with each family member.   

 

Several times in the service  I heard a phrase I was unfamiliar with: "winsome (perhaps win some?) for the gospel."   I think in Sally's life, the legacy of the joy of the gospel did indeed win.  We were not treated to a reading of Psalm 23, but rather one from Isaiah 40.  Her pastor laughed and said that the last time he saw Sally, she requested that he read to her from that text.  He asked, "Which verse?"  She replied, "All of it."    

 

Attending to our legacies is really not all that difficult, but it does require living life intentionally and lovingly.  It requires the courage to talk of God, of life, and death.  Of joys and blessings.  Of mistakes made and lessons learned.  What we might do differently, and what we can accept as finished.  Yes, all of that, and probably more.   Let's make it a little easier and start now.      

 

May your legacy be rich, and may all reap the rewards of  really knowing you.         

 

God gives power to the faint,

and strengthens the powerless.

Even youths will faint and be weary,

and the young will fall exhausted;

but those who wait for the LORD

shall renew their strength,

they shall mount up with wings like eagles,

they shall run and not be weary,

they shall walk and not faint.

                                                  Isaiah 40:29-31 

 

 

Prayer! Faith! God! Love!

We have started most our worship services this month by singing, "Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus."  After we sing the hymn, I have been asking, "How do we do that?  How do we turn our eyes to Jesus?"  Usually I am the one giving the response, but today in a convalescent hospital, I immediately heard these answers: "Prayer! Faith! God! Love!"   I am not making this up.  I told them they were ready to preach.  Truthfully, they have been all along. 

 

I then asked them, "Do you know how I turn my eyes upon Jesus?"  The room grew quiet.  I said, "I come and worship with you."  I meant that quite seriously.   I have been worshiping in this hospital for close to six years, and the people who gather with me, often 40 or 50 in number, still amaze me.  They sing. They laugh at my jokes.  They are gracious enough to nod their heads as I speak.  Almost everyone takes communion.   Yes, some are quite ill, and most spend their waking hours in wheel chairs and gurneys.  Today I noticed the arms of one gurney had been repaired with duct tape.  The piano is a mess, and I have learned the art of not losing my train of thought as I pause while announcements are being made over the intercom (I am kind of proud of this skill).         

  

On my way home, I found myself wondering why I was tired.  I realized  I had finished my day with arriving at the hospital a little early.  The residents were singing karaoke so I joined them.  We then had worship.  Afterwards, the pianist led us in a lively hymn sing.    

 

It is not easy trying to keep up with Jesus. 

Down (and maybe across) to Heaven

Mother Teresa once said that if she ever was made a saint she probably would not stay in heaven very long - the temptation to keep returning to help the poor would just be too great. I have always thought that about Jesus as well.  I really cannot comprehend a Jesus who sits on a throne in heaven while the white horse and the cloud stand by, ready to whisk Jesus in at the final judgement.  No, Jesus is right here today.   And I have no doubt that each of us has been Jesus at least once for someone else.  Yes, that is strong love.  Such potency is exactly what God created us for.      

  

Last year a good friend introduced me to this poem entitled The Truelove by David Whyte.  I love the image of the old man saying his prayer to the turbulent Jesus hidden in the water.  I am reminded of an old woman Tyler and I met years ago in Mendocino.  We passed her as she was making her way to the cliffs overlooking the ocean.  She was quite bent, and as she passed I noticed that the back of her much worn lime green jacket was so bleached by wind and sun that was almost the color of dried bones.  I believe the elements had been having their way with her for some time, but she seemed quite content with that. While I know that the temptation to romanticize the sea, Jesus, and old age is great, today they seem one in the same to me.   

 

This poem is long, so you may not have time to read it at this very moment, but I encourage you to do so when you can. In the meantime, I pray that each of you knows that you belong and that if times are turbulent, you will take a look to see who might be waiting for you in the midst of it all.    

   

The Truelove

There is a faith in loving fiercely 

the one who is rightfully yours, 

especially if you have 

waited years and especially 

if part of you never believed

you could deserve this 

loved and beckoning hand 

held out to you this way. 

 

I am thinking of faith now

and the testaments of loneliness

and what we feel we are 

worthy of in this world.  

 

Years ago in the Hebrides

I remember an old man 

who walked every morning 

on the grey stones

to the shore of the baying seals,

 

who would press his hat 

to his chest in the blustering 

salt wind and say his prayer 

to the turbulent Jesus 

hidden in the water, 

 

and I think of the story 

of the storm and everyone

waking and seeing 

the distant 

yet familiar figure 

far across the water 

calling to them, 

 

and how we are all 

preparing for that 

abrupt waking, 

and that calling, 

and that moment 

we have to say yes, 

except it will 

not come so grandly, 

so Biblically, 

but more subtly 

and intimately in the face

of the one you know 

you have to love, 

   

so that when we finally step out of the boat

toward them, we find 

everything holds 

us, and confirms

our courage, and if you wanted 

to drown you could, 

but you don't 

 

because finally 

after all the struggle 

and all the years, 

you don't want to any more, 

you've simply had enough

of drowning 

and you want to live and you 

want to love and you will 

walk across any territory 

and any darkness, 

however fluid and however 

dangerous, to take the 

one hand you know 

belongs in yours.    

Pausing

I am blessed to lead worship in a retirement home two Sundays a month. Three other pastors regularly take the rest of the Sundays, and a much loved volunteer pianist plays every week. Consequently, over the past few years a wonderful sense of community has taken root.  

Yesterday, as usual, I arrived very much in the mood for worship.  I knew there was a bus trip scheduled right after worship, and as always, on the third Sunday we celebrate Communion. Therefore, I knew things did need to move along.  As I was finishing up my short homily, I noticed a younger woman come into the room and take a seat in the back.  I waved in acknowledgement, and planned to go to her after I finished talking, to at least offer her a song sheet.  

However, she raised her hand, and I paused.

  

"My mother died to today.  Would you say a prayer?"  I asked her mother's name, and we did pray.  The next hymn, "Jesus, I Come," we dedicated to Freida.  The daughter then left as quietly as she entered (I was able to talk with her on the patio afterwards). 

    

As I broke the bread, the surrender of the body and love seemed particularly moving to me.  Afterwards, I asked those present if they wanted to share some of their thoughts and feelings about Freida. I learned she was much loved, and as I listened, my heart filled with joy, even though I was surrounded by a tangible grief.  Marge, who is in a wheelchair, said, "When I first moved here, I was really angry and I refused even to eat with other people.  However, Freida gently got me involved."  Others echoed much the same sentiment. It seems she was always a welcoming,encouraging voice.

My joy comes from not the fact that an elder passed, but rather that she passed from this life loved.  She left a spiritual legacy of care and friendship.  She touched lives, even when she was ill and in her last days.  I never had heard of her until Sunday, but I was moved to celebrate her life and give thanks for her presence.  As we concluded our time with singing "Blessed Assurance," I was amazed how beautifully the hymns fit into our service, and I was also amazed at the strong sense I had of Jesus being present.  I think Freida brought us all closer to Jesus and to one another. Her passing also reminded me of the stoicism of the group, and that I need to look for signs of sorrow that can happen between 1:15 and 2:00 p.m. on just about any day of the week, but maybe particularly on Sunday.  

Thank you, Freida for all you brought to us.  Blessings on your journey.     

 

Out of my bondage, sorrow, and night, 

Jesus, I come, Jesus I come. 

Into Thy freedom, gladness, and light, 

Jesus I come to Thee. 

Out of my sickness into Thy health, 

Out of my want and into Thy wealth, 

Out of my sin and into Thyself, 

Jesus, I come to Thee.  

William T. Sleeper, 1887 

Bridges

Several of you have asked what was most memorable for me during my time in Indiana. I probably have given each of you a different response, not from disrespect, but rather because so much of it was memorable, and as you can see, I am still processing my experiences.  I took my laptop with me, but I found the experience so intense that I really could not write about anything other than the  occasional Facebook posting about fireflies, lightening, wind and rain, and one fox sighting.   Those experiences were quite beautiful and I hold the memories dear, but such sightseeing was not the purpose of my time there.  

After dinner on the first night, we were told to pick one of twelve identical folders.  We knew that these folders contained very brief biographies of the elders we would be visiting for the rest of the week. I decided to pick a folder that was upside down, and that is how I came to know Jean.  It was her folder that was upside down.    

If I am remembering correctly, these short informational sheets were all submitted by daughters of the elders. 

   

What struck me, even after our first visit, is that these biographies were of limited assistance.  Much of what we were told that the elder valued simply did not spark conversation or memories.  Not favorite foods, or careers (Jean was not interested in talking about her work as a nurse), or even names of close and living family. Not that family members were no longer valued. Jean seemed to feel no need to speak of her immediate family, but I witnessed her obvious excitement when her daughter and granddaughter happened to come for a visit when I was with her.  However, the overall experience reminded me that too often, we want the elder to remember what we want them to, rather than to meet them where they are.  Yes, that meeting can be difficult because their "there" may not be visible to us.  We have to learn to imagine it.  We must learn to see with what the Apostle Paul called "the eyes of the heart."   Sometimes, we must learn to grow comfortable with the discomfort of not completely knowing the terrain in which we have found ourselves - the same challenge that faces many of our elders.   

  

Today, however, I was reminded that work experiences can have deep, defining roots.  I walked into the communal dining room to be warmly greeted by an elder dressed in what I thought might be a lovely dress from Thailand.  I complimented her attire, and she smiled and said, "Singapore Airlines."   Years ago Tyler and I flew on Singapore Airlines and it was a beautiful, gracious experience.  I told her that and she gave me a warm hug and said, "Thank you for flying Singapore Airlines."  Neither of us may fly that airline again, but for a brief moment, we were lifted onto that tarmac known as common ground.  A destination definitely worth searching for.     

      

By the end of the week in Indiana, all the biographies had long been set aside.  Many of those who were invited to attend the training had director level jobs, and often do not get the opportunity to simply sit with an elder living in their community.  Meetings, phone calls,consultations, and appointments just take up too much time.  Ministry is not immune to such time pressures.  The chance to just sit and talk with an elder was a luxury that I think each of us will long savor.  I guess I am trying to get that into my biography now. That, and I really did love the fireflies, the lightening, wind, and rain, and seeing the fox on an early morning slow run.

Changing Gears

While we laughed much during the week-long training with Memory Bridge, some of the discussions were quite serious.  Probably the most sobering discussion for me concerned repetitive motions and jumbled speech. The presenter, Naomi Feil, encouraged us to see repetitive motions and speech patterns as a sort of last ditch effort at communication.  That is not the cheeriest of ideas to ponder, but it does remind me that we humans just seem built for communication.  We sing.  We dance.  We share ideas.   We play instruments when words seem inadequate or beyond our grasp. We laugh and cry.   Therefore, even when a brain is severely  impaired, it makes sense that a person will continue to try express something from deep within.  Consequently, even when we can do little else to communicate with an elder (or anyone else), we can at least mirror the motion or the speech.  I have done this with speech and have actually been able to decipher a few words.  However, I had never thought about mirroring repetitive motions. Naomi urged us to believe that even when clarity does not surface for us, the elder might have a sense of being heard, of being in communication, of maybe even being in relationship. Definitely worth trying.   

 

I thought of these discussions yesterday as I was driving south on 280 on my way to a home dedicated to the care of the memory impaired.  Despite the transportation woes that many are experiencing because of the BART strike, the traffic on 280 was light.  I had my Sam Cooke Pandora station on, and as I drove and sang right out loud, I felt happiness.  I also felt a desire to be driving a manual transmission.  The urge surprised me.  I could not remember driving a manual transmission for many years.  

   

Yet, later in the day, I remembered a very fun car that I drove for a couple of years - a 1970 Datsun 510 that I purchased for $675.  I named it Mad Max because it had the look of a worn survivor, if for no other reason than the body of the car was faded green, and the hood was gray and slightly battered. However, the car never failed as it zipped around corners and in and out of traffic and parking spaces.  And yes, it had a manual transmission.  When I drove it on the freeway, the need for a fifth gear was always apparent because the car whined when the breathtaking speed of 65 miles an hour was reached.  Even so,  I don't ever remember wishing the car had an automatic transmission.  I loved to drive it just the way it was, even with only four gears.   Do I want to return to driving a manual transmission everyday?  No, but the memory of that car makes me smile.   

 

Certainly, this memory resides in my brain, but it was first experienced by me in my body, stimulated by a desire to shift gears.  This was a response to a good driving day and fun music.   I am blessed to be out in the world, responding to a wide variety of sights, sounds, conversations, and memories.  However, this is not true for many of our frail elders whose sense of isolation can cause them to withdraw further and further within.  Communication takes effort and energy.  It also takes people who care enough to reach out in a supportive and loving way.  Otherwise, the frail among us are at a very real risk of languishing in increasing darkness.  If we can help keep the lamps burning and in sight, we just might be able to find our way into relationship.  Love can be kindled at any age, and really, the more light the better.  

   

  

Blessed be.