I have worked my last shift as a hospital chaplain in New Orleans. No call for another ministry has come to fruition, but my position as a relief chaplain has been eliminated by the powers-that-be. I knew that they would be reducing my role, but four days before my latest scheduled shift we were told that there would be no more at all. As abrupt as it was, I realize that it’s a good thing because I’ve been in a holding pattern for at least six months now. Something had to give.
The shift started like many of them do: I sat and ate dinner while puttering about on my computer, intending to make rounds later after the nursing staff shift change at 7pm. That was interrupted when the ER called me at 6:45 to come be with a woman whose wheelchair-bound husband had been struck by a car. Debra is a sweet woman, very tiny, and shakes continuously. It was difficult to be a supportive presence because she exuded the smell of ashtrays (her purse had three opened packs of cigarettes) and I’m an asthmatic. I spent about 20 minutes with her, assisting her in attempting to call friends and relatives, relieved when she finally connected with one who said she would come and be with Debra. With an apologetic explanation to the staff, I left at that point and began making rounds of the critical care units. At every turn, I mentioned that this would be my last shift ever at the hospital.
It’s funny how you never really know what sort of an impact you have and on whom. Of course, I knew that people like Nathan and Cindy would be sorry to see me go; as charge nurses in the ICU units they had a lot of contact with me over the past few years. I took the time to say goodbye to Matt, another ICU nurse, who seemed not to remember who I was (which makes me laugh and also makes me question how well I functioned in that area!), but it was the nurses in the cardiac ICU who were the most sorry. This was the critical care unit to which I was assigned during my residency, and it was only at the end of my time here that I realized how much better the night staff knew me than the day staff ever had. It’s true that my residency was only 1/3 of the time I spent here, but let’s be honest: as an on-call chaplain at night, I’m rarely in the unit for more than an hour on any given shift. As a resident chaplain, it was part of my daily duties to spend around 3 hours in there. The reason the night staff knew me better was not due to the length of time I spent serving them, but to the quality of that time. I learned how to open up and share myself with others only toward the end of my residency. I suppose I could call this revelation bittersweet, but after so many years of self-imposed isolation, I’m just happy to have measurable evidence of how I’ve grown.
I checked on every patient on our shift report, leaving for last a gentleman who had requested a chaplain visit earlier in the day but was busy with a procedure when the staff chaplain assigned to his unit attempted to see him. I entered Will’s room rather late, a few minutes after 10pm, but he was still awake. He was very gaunt, and looked much older than his 48 years. A strong Southern accent wrapped around every word that proceeded from his mouth, which told me that he was not a New Orleans native (true NOLA natives sound as if they’re from Brooklyn NY due to the diversity of the 19th century immigrants who flooded the area). I did inquire as to his home, and initially misunderstood his answer as North Carolina, but eventually he clarified that he’s a native of northern Mississippi and has been on active duty with the US Navy for the past two decades. I responded that my parents had both served in the Navy (it’s how they met), and we briefly discussed how war has changed over the years. Will is proud of the service he’s given, but it’s clear that he’s reached a crossroads – and it’s not due merely to his age.
“I’ve always believed that I need to live my life as a good Christian,” he told me. “I respect others’ beliefs, I don’t feel that forcing my beliefs on others is what my faith is about. But lately…”
Watching the struggle clearly displayed on his face, I thought of my discussion with a man from Vicksburg some months back; Phil told me how the Yankees had attempted to starve out his ancestors by blockading the area so no foodstuffs could enter. At the time I’d observed that it struck me as rather ironic how much honor we ascribe today to the Confederate leaders – Robert E Lee, JEB Stuart, GT Beauregard and the like – while the North didn’t really have anyone who could fit in that group except William Sherman. While Phil agreed on that point (with a smile, of course), we both felt that that the Civil War/rebellion/Northern aggression [depending on where one’s home is] was vastly different from those we fight today. You knew who your enemy was; whether it was Yankee aggressors you detested, or Rebels who dared to defy the federal government, soldiers had no problem focusing their emotions on the reasons they wore their uniforms, blue OR gray. Will faces an entirely different set of issues today.
“They’re just people, like me. Mothers and Daddies, and the children are just like my children,” he said quietly. “How can I tell myself that what I do is right….don’t they have a right to live the life they know and choose? Don’t they have the right to practice their beliefs?”
“War has changed a lot in the last 150 years,” I said. “Sometimes, these days, your enemy isn’t always human, is it?”
“No ma’am,” he said quietly in that lovely Southern accent, with a wealth of unspoken emotions in just those two words.
Will has a highly developed theology, which he shared with me at length, and which further illustrated why he faces a moral conundrum over his military service. The life he chooses is a simple but focused one; he strives to be a good Christian for his God, a good husband to his wife, a good father to his children, and a good soldier to his country. The problems arise when he looks outside his own world and considers how his service as a soldier disrupts others who choose the same simple existence. It’s really not about politics, or religion, but about every day living. How many lives can he impact without feeling repercussions? How long can he function in a way that balances every aspect of his existence? Where does he draw the line? Those questions can only be answered by Will, of course.
I believe that God had a plan in bringing this as-yet undefined illness in to Will’s life. He needs to take time and step back, reassess everything he does and find a way to continue in a manner that won’t compromise his morals to the extent that he can’t live the life he pursues. Whether that means continued military service is something that only he can decide. I know, though, that God will figure prominently in the decision making process, as God has for me. A person with this deep a relationship with God does not turn away when things get tough, but pulls closer.
We prayed together, and Will asked if he could say a prayer for me as I leave this hospital with many unanswered questions about where God will choose to take me and my ministry. Much of what Will said is lost to my memory, but one phrase sticks out like a beacon: Go Forth With Courage, he prayed. God will lead you to where you are meant to be.
My last visit ever in this hospital was with 54-year-old Pamela, who requested prayer at 6:30am, prior to having surgery for heart problems. She confessed that she has been frightened; she had a stroke three years ago and is not certain what the outcome of this procedure will be. I stood at the side of her bed and prayed for God’s guidance, and as we finished, I felt once again (as I did some months ago with the artist who had cancer) the rush of fire through my being, accompanied by a little mild nausea, and needed to sit. Pamela expressed concern, worried that her room might be a bit too hot, but after about 10 minutes I gained my bearings, bid her a farewell, and left the room. A refreshing cool breeze surrounded me as I stepped out into the hall, and my concerns over the future dissipated in that moment. I felt utterly secure that God has a plan for my ministry and will lead me to the right place at the right time. It was with a real sense of closure that I rode the elevator down to the main floor for the final time, with a full understanding of Will’s charge: go forth with courage.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Thursday, August 18, 2011
On Death and Dying
My first reaction was that maybe I was experiencing my first hot flash. I’m really not old enough to be going through that yet, but I figured, hey, it could happen! When I spoke to one of the nurses about it, though, she said that nausea isn’t usually associated with a hot flash. It was the other nurse’s reaction, though, that brought me to a complete halt. She gave me a broad smile and said, “so you’ve experienced it, too, huh?”
I’ve been more emotional lately than I usually am; maybe it’s because I’m close to finding a call in ministry and aware that soon my current lifestyle will be completely uprooted and reformed. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been actively working at “centering” myself with more ritual and more prayer, in order to bring a sense of authenticity that I’ve felt has been lacking lately. Or it could be because the son of my former pastor (who I knew in Arizona and haven’t seen in a decade) died in our ICU this past weekend. I’d recognized his name on the patient list & his wife, mother and sister warmly welcomed me, excited to be able to tell his father (who wasn’t there at the time) that a former parishioner and seminarian he’d counseled was now ministering to his son. He’d come in looking terrible, but had vastly improved by late last week, so it was a vivid slap in the face when I saw that he’d coded and died. The chaplain on call that afternoon said that he’d taken a massive turn for the worse that day and that his father had been here this time; the family had prayed together, then he was removed from life support. Aside from the upset, I was fiercely glad that I wasn’t on call that day, because I was certain I wouldn’t have been able to hold it together for the family. The son was only 53, and all I could think of was how much worse it hurts when death affects someone you know personally. Oh death, where is thy sting? I’d always tried to be optimistic, but I have to say that this week it’s really hurt like an SOB.
When I came in the day after I learned of his demise, I was told of a 50-something patient who was actively dying of AiDS in one of the regular hospital units, and to expect The Call at some point. It never came, but I DID get paged at 4am to attend the death of a 70-something gentleman with prostate cancer. I went through all the motions that I usually go through; our hospital is unusual in that the chaplains are those who complete the paperwork after a death. It’s extensive and can take anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour; this morning I finished it 30 minutes since there were no suspicious circumstances. The patient’s daughter and I spoke about his love of art; she said that at various times in the previous 24 hours, his right arm would lift straight up in the air and make stroking notions as if he were painting a canvas that only he could see. I was charmed by that; rarely do I hear such things from family, though it brought to mind a death I attended last October. A 60-something man who’d been hospitalized for 2 weeks following a severe stroke that left him speechless had been in the habit of doodling or writing gibberish on a pad they gave him; the staff had had trouble communicating. Six hours before his death, he picked up the pad and wrote clearly, “Jesus loves us” – his only communiqué since the stroke. There was no further expression before he died.
In the past, I’ve struggled with the questions about death and dying; we ALL avoid talking about it. But this morning, after some minutes hanging back and talking quietly with the daughter, I approached the bedside opposite the patient’s wife, who was still stroking his arm. I asked if she believes that he’s in a better place and without hesitation, she smiled slightly and said, “oh, yes.” I knew that he’d had several forms of cancer, and said something I sometimes say about how “there” he won’t have a physical body with problems. As his wife voiced her agreement, in an instant, I was suddenly engulfed in heat. I could literally feel myself burning through the core of my body, though my extremities felt cold. I also felt so faint that I was certain I’d be sick in a matter of moments. I hurriedly wrapped up and stumbled out of the room, then rested at the desk with my head in my hands for a full 2 minutes before moving. Was it a hot flash, I wondered? Do you usually feel sick along with the heat? Both nurses with whom I spoke are about 30; one figured I might be feeling the onset of a cold, but the other smiled and told me that she’s experienced this three times when a patient dies, including her own father. She is convinced that what I went through was experiencing this man’s soul or spirit finally leaving this world and making its transition. I’ve been through some strange experiences in the past, so it wasn’t completely unfamiliar to me, but I wasn’t sure I believe her. After I left the unit, I took the paperwork to the transfer center (where all ‘night shift’ deaths go) and spent time talking with the nurse on duty that shift. We talk a lot about faith and how it helps people, but this morning she spoke to me openly and in an amazingly serene manner about death and dying.
She was raised Southern Baptist, she told me, but found no faith in a tradition where all she ever heard was that people are evil and sinful and hell awaits us. At age 20, she became a Big Sister to a teenage girl who was Roman Catholic; one Saturday evening she attended mass with her young protégé and the first thing she heard the priest say was, “God Loves Us”. She’s been Catholic ever since with no regrets or apologies. One night she had a dream that an enormous black cloud had enveloped her parents and herself; the next day she learned that her father had died of a massive heart attack in his sleep. When her mother was living in a nursing home, she says that one day she literally smelled her mother’s presence all the way over here in New Orleans, though Mama was in Arkansas. She could sense it, hear it, and feel it. Mama’s doctor called a few hours later with the news that she’d passed.
The best comment of all was when I asked her what she thinks life after death is really like, and she said to me with the excitement of a child, “I really believe that when I die, my first reaction to it all will be to say to God, ‘why did you leave me down there so long’?” My brief experience in the subject of the Afterlife has me agreeing with her 100%. It’s difficult to keep this in mind, though, when all we know is what’s right in front of us. The nurse said she thinks that’s the reason some of us are down here longer than others; we have things to learn, to process, to go through, before we Go To A Better Place. Just the way she said it wrapped me in a warm blanket of reassurance, and made me feel a lot better about all the deaths I’ve attended. For the first time in my entire life, I finally feel that in this existence, we're still off stage, waiting for our cue, not quite ready to get out there under the bright lights and really live. But whether it’s the artist with cancer, the pastor’s son, or the man who writes only the most important thing to know, one thing I can say with utter assurance: death has no sting for me anymore. My only prayer is to continue learning what I need to know, and how to impart it to those I’ll serve, so that when the time comes for me to go to that Better Place, to get out there on stage, the fire of my transition will warm the heart of another person who feels death’s sting too strongly.
I’ve been more emotional lately than I usually am; maybe it’s because I’m close to finding a call in ministry and aware that soon my current lifestyle will be completely uprooted and reformed. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been actively working at “centering” myself with more ritual and more prayer, in order to bring a sense of authenticity that I’ve felt has been lacking lately. Or it could be because the son of my former pastor (who I knew in Arizona and haven’t seen in a decade) died in our ICU this past weekend. I’d recognized his name on the patient list & his wife, mother and sister warmly welcomed me, excited to be able to tell his father (who wasn’t there at the time) that a former parishioner and seminarian he’d counseled was now ministering to his son. He’d come in looking terrible, but had vastly improved by late last week, so it was a vivid slap in the face when I saw that he’d coded and died. The chaplain on call that afternoon said that he’d taken a massive turn for the worse that day and that his father had been here this time; the family had prayed together, then he was removed from life support. Aside from the upset, I was fiercely glad that I wasn’t on call that day, because I was certain I wouldn’t have been able to hold it together for the family. The son was only 53, and all I could think of was how much worse it hurts when death affects someone you know personally. Oh death, where is thy sting? I’d always tried to be optimistic, but I have to say that this week it’s really hurt like an SOB.
When I came in the day after I learned of his demise, I was told of a 50-something patient who was actively dying of AiDS in one of the regular hospital units, and to expect The Call at some point. It never came, but I DID get paged at 4am to attend the death of a 70-something gentleman with prostate cancer. I went through all the motions that I usually go through; our hospital is unusual in that the chaplains are those who complete the paperwork after a death. It’s extensive and can take anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour; this morning I finished it 30 minutes since there were no suspicious circumstances. The patient’s daughter and I spoke about his love of art; she said that at various times in the previous 24 hours, his right arm would lift straight up in the air and make stroking notions as if he were painting a canvas that only he could see. I was charmed by that; rarely do I hear such things from family, though it brought to mind a death I attended last October. A 60-something man who’d been hospitalized for 2 weeks following a severe stroke that left him speechless had been in the habit of doodling or writing gibberish on a pad they gave him; the staff had had trouble communicating. Six hours before his death, he picked up the pad and wrote clearly, “Jesus loves us” – his only communiqué since the stroke. There was no further expression before he died.
In the past, I’ve struggled with the questions about death and dying; we ALL avoid talking about it. But this morning, after some minutes hanging back and talking quietly with the daughter, I approached the bedside opposite the patient’s wife, who was still stroking his arm. I asked if she believes that he’s in a better place and without hesitation, she smiled slightly and said, “oh, yes.” I knew that he’d had several forms of cancer, and said something I sometimes say about how “there” he won’t have a physical body with problems. As his wife voiced her agreement, in an instant, I was suddenly engulfed in heat. I could literally feel myself burning through the core of my body, though my extremities felt cold. I also felt so faint that I was certain I’d be sick in a matter of moments. I hurriedly wrapped up and stumbled out of the room, then rested at the desk with my head in my hands for a full 2 minutes before moving. Was it a hot flash, I wondered? Do you usually feel sick along with the heat? Both nurses with whom I spoke are about 30; one figured I might be feeling the onset of a cold, but the other smiled and told me that she’s experienced this three times when a patient dies, including her own father. She is convinced that what I went through was experiencing this man’s soul or spirit finally leaving this world and making its transition. I’ve been through some strange experiences in the past, so it wasn’t completely unfamiliar to me, but I wasn’t sure I believe her. After I left the unit, I took the paperwork to the transfer center (where all ‘night shift’ deaths go) and spent time talking with the nurse on duty that shift. We talk a lot about faith and how it helps people, but this morning she spoke to me openly and in an amazingly serene manner about death and dying.
She was raised Southern Baptist, she told me, but found no faith in a tradition where all she ever heard was that people are evil and sinful and hell awaits us. At age 20, she became a Big Sister to a teenage girl who was Roman Catholic; one Saturday evening she attended mass with her young protégé and the first thing she heard the priest say was, “God Loves Us”. She’s been Catholic ever since with no regrets or apologies. One night she had a dream that an enormous black cloud had enveloped her parents and herself; the next day she learned that her father had died of a massive heart attack in his sleep. When her mother was living in a nursing home, she says that one day she literally smelled her mother’s presence all the way over here in New Orleans, though Mama was in Arkansas. She could sense it, hear it, and feel it. Mama’s doctor called a few hours later with the news that she’d passed.
The best comment of all was when I asked her what she thinks life after death is really like, and she said to me with the excitement of a child, “I really believe that when I die, my first reaction to it all will be to say to God, ‘why did you leave me down there so long’?” My brief experience in the subject of the Afterlife has me agreeing with her 100%. It’s difficult to keep this in mind, though, when all we know is what’s right in front of us. The nurse said she thinks that’s the reason some of us are down here longer than others; we have things to learn, to process, to go through, before we Go To A Better Place. Just the way she said it wrapped me in a warm blanket of reassurance, and made me feel a lot better about all the deaths I’ve attended. For the first time in my entire life, I finally feel that in this existence, we're still off stage, waiting for our cue, not quite ready to get out there under the bright lights and really live. But whether it’s the artist with cancer, the pastor’s son, or the man who writes only the most important thing to know, one thing I can say with utter assurance: death has no sting for me anymore. My only prayer is to continue learning what I need to know, and how to impart it to those I’ll serve, so that when the time comes for me to go to that Better Place, to get out there on stage, the fire of my transition will warm the heart of another person who feels death’s sting too strongly.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Ode to Joe
Over 18 months ago, I wrote a blog about my love for my adopted home, New Orleans. The landscape is gorgeous, the food unsurpassed in taste and uniqueness, and the people the friendliest you’d ever hope to meet, even when they struggle to recover from catastrophe. When I arrived in the Big Easy in early September 2008, most of the city was deserted due to Hurricane Gustav. As I spoke with the natives, and got to know the city a little better, I realized how much the topic of “The Storm” (that’s what they call Katrina) dominated every thing that occurred. It was only much later, looking back, that I realized how things – and people – have changed since August 29, 2005. When I arrived here, there was an emotional inertia that emanated from most people, one that I didn’t realize was unusual since it seems to be commonplace in most large Northern cities. New Orleans was different before The Storm; emotion is what powers the people who live here because they understand that life is a gift to be enjoyed, not tolerated. Slowly, over time, they have managed to reclaim that feeling. It’s taken over two years for me to discover that I’ve been witness to a miracle: the rebirth of a people, the rebirth of a home. I feel as if I’ve witnessed the Israelites in the 39th and 40th years, struggling through the last of the desert before arriving at the edge of the Promised Land. The genuine hope and good will that now fills the air simply was not present when I began my work here as a hospital chaplain. Joy once again dominates this city, and I’ve rarely seen it so prevalent as it was in Joe.
Joe was born and raised here in NOLA, went to university in Baton Rouge, joined the Marines and served in Viet Nam, then returned home to work as a truck driver for some years before he retired. Of course, retirement did nothing to stop him from activity; he was barely 60. He was always full of ideas, and every time I spoke with him, he acted as if he were truly excited to see me. His life has been affected by The Storm in much the same way that so many lives have been: his family scattered to the four winds. I can’t begin to describe the joy on his face when he told me last month that his sister and her husband were at last returning home to New Orleans, after over five years in exile due to The Storm. You’d have thought he was a little boy expecting Santa Claus to bring him an X-box or a Wii system. His happiness was so contagious that you couldn’t help but feel it yourself. That’s a gift that many natives of NOLA possess, but Joe really demonstrated it every time I spoke with him. It makes me think of a blog I wrote a year ago this week, about what it means to live as a good man. To bring happiness to others, to bring joy alive in others’ lives, is certainly part of the definition. Defined strictly in that sense, Joe lived as a great man, because I never saw any petty behavior in him. I’ve no doubt he felt it at times; after all, he was only human. But what matters is that he never demonstrated it in the 2+ years I knew him. It humbles me when I think of how I can let little things irk me, such as a pickup that pulls out in front of me and makes me put on my brakes, or someone who cuts in front of me at the grocery store check out. Little things that annoy us mean nothing in the face of the greater common goals: to love God, and to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. I’m hard pressed to think of someone who was a better role model than Joe when it comes to demonstrating these things.
Joe was not in church on Sunday morning, which is highly unusual. His sister who had recently moved back home said as much to the interim pastor at church, and after the service, she and her husband went to check on him at his home, where they found him unresponsive on the floor. He was taken to Touro Hospital, where he died peacefully early on Monday morning – Valentine’s Day. As much as this has been a terrible shock to those of us who are his church community, I think it’s very fitting that he went home on the day dedicated to loving others. On this day, February 19, we celebrated his life in a memorial at the church; it was the first funeral service in which I’ve ever participated as a pastor. Joe’s beloved choir, who he considered his second family, sang in tribute to him: His eyes are on the sparrow, so I know He watches me. I cried a little, and let those tears stream boldly down my face. I didn’t care if my mascara streaked or if some people thought the pastor shouldn’t express emotion; it took two years of living in a city where people aren’t afraid to express themselves for me to feel comfortable doing this. What stands out most to me is the words spoken by Joe’s nephew: that his fervent wish is to live to be half the man his Uncle Joe was, because then he’ll know that he lived as a good man. After the funeral, the family went to honor Joe’s last request: that his ashes be scattered in his beloved Audubon Park, where he jogged faithfully every day.
My time in New Orleans is nearing its end; I’m actively searching for a call in parish ministry, and my own denomination has no openings here. It’s bittersweet to me since I love this city so, but I know I’ll always have a home here. Lately I’ve been looking back over all the experiences I had here and how I’ve grown as a person and as a pastor. The blogs I’ve written help me to remember the sharpest of those, which most times is a very sad thing for me. As much as I enjoy the Creole Creamery, for example, I will always associate it with February 17 of last year, when I could not manage to get past a particularly painful experience with a family whose baby girl died in the ER that morning. But now, exactly one year later, I realize that I will always associate the beauty that is Audubon Park with Joe, and I’ll be reminded of how important it is to bring joy to others in my life and my ministry. How very fitting that he is the cause of one of my happiest memories. In writing this tribute to Joe, I realized how much my blogs have brought life to me. It was such a privilege knowing him. And realizing that I’ll always carry a part of New Orleans inside me, partly due to his influence, makes the impending departure a little easier. Thank you, my friend.
Joe was born and raised here in NOLA, went to university in Baton Rouge, joined the Marines and served in Viet Nam, then returned home to work as a truck driver for some years before he retired. Of course, retirement did nothing to stop him from activity; he was barely 60. He was always full of ideas, and every time I spoke with him, he acted as if he were truly excited to see me. His life has been affected by The Storm in much the same way that so many lives have been: his family scattered to the four winds. I can’t begin to describe the joy on his face when he told me last month that his sister and her husband were at last returning home to New Orleans, after over five years in exile due to The Storm. You’d have thought he was a little boy expecting Santa Claus to bring him an X-box or a Wii system. His happiness was so contagious that you couldn’t help but feel it yourself. That’s a gift that many natives of NOLA possess, but Joe really demonstrated it every time I spoke with him. It makes me think of a blog I wrote a year ago this week, about what it means to live as a good man. To bring happiness to others, to bring joy alive in others’ lives, is certainly part of the definition. Defined strictly in that sense, Joe lived as a great man, because I never saw any petty behavior in him. I’ve no doubt he felt it at times; after all, he was only human. But what matters is that he never demonstrated it in the 2+ years I knew him. It humbles me when I think of how I can let little things irk me, such as a pickup that pulls out in front of me and makes me put on my brakes, or someone who cuts in front of me at the grocery store check out. Little things that annoy us mean nothing in the face of the greater common goals: to love God, and to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. I’m hard pressed to think of someone who was a better role model than Joe when it comes to demonstrating these things.
Joe was not in church on Sunday morning, which is highly unusual. His sister who had recently moved back home said as much to the interim pastor at church, and after the service, she and her husband went to check on him at his home, where they found him unresponsive on the floor. He was taken to Touro Hospital, where he died peacefully early on Monday morning – Valentine’s Day. As much as this has been a terrible shock to those of us who are his church community, I think it’s very fitting that he went home on the day dedicated to loving others. On this day, February 19, we celebrated his life in a memorial at the church; it was the first funeral service in which I’ve ever participated as a pastor. Joe’s beloved choir, who he considered his second family, sang in tribute to him: His eyes are on the sparrow, so I know He watches me. I cried a little, and let those tears stream boldly down my face. I didn’t care if my mascara streaked or if some people thought the pastor shouldn’t express emotion; it took two years of living in a city where people aren’t afraid to express themselves for me to feel comfortable doing this. What stands out most to me is the words spoken by Joe’s nephew: that his fervent wish is to live to be half the man his Uncle Joe was, because then he’ll know that he lived as a good man. After the funeral, the family went to honor Joe’s last request: that his ashes be scattered in his beloved Audubon Park, where he jogged faithfully every day.
My time in New Orleans is nearing its end; I’m actively searching for a call in parish ministry, and my own denomination has no openings here. It’s bittersweet to me since I love this city so, but I know I’ll always have a home here. Lately I’ve been looking back over all the experiences I had here and how I’ve grown as a person and as a pastor. The blogs I’ve written help me to remember the sharpest of those, which most times is a very sad thing for me. As much as I enjoy the Creole Creamery, for example, I will always associate it with February 17 of last year, when I could not manage to get past a particularly painful experience with a family whose baby girl died in the ER that morning. But now, exactly one year later, I realize that I will always associate the beauty that is Audubon Park with Joe, and I’ll be reminded of how important it is to bring joy to others in my life and my ministry. How very fitting that he is the cause of one of my happiest memories. In writing this tribute to Joe, I realized how much my blogs have brought life to me. It was such a privilege knowing him. And realizing that I’ll always carry a part of New Orleans inside me, partly due to his influence, makes the impending departure a little easier. Thank you, my friend.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Ladies and Gentlemen, Elpis Has Left the Building
No, that’s not a typo – the word is elpis. It was one of the easiest words to learn in my Biblical Greek class. Though it sounds remarkably like the name of a certain singer associated with Memphis, it has nothing to do with music. Originally inspired by Greek mythology, it means hope. But our professor stressed that its implications go far beyond our modern understanding of what hope is. It was never used in conjunction with a desire, or a wish that something might or might not happen. No, elpis means something that goes beyond a wish – it’s an expectation. Furthermore, it’s the expectation of something truly grand. It’s used over 50 times in the New Testament, in reference to the reward that awaits those who have faith in God’s promises to us. I used to think it refers only to the parousia – the End Times that Paul refers to so often in his letters. I’m not so certain anymore that it doesn’t include other things as well.
I was in the midst of a routine on-call shift. I’m not sure the word “routine” ever fits in chaplaincy, though – every person’s situation is unique, and that sort of undermines the challenges the patients, their families and the medical staff face. I was paged to the cardiology unit at 12:30am to cover the death of a patient who’d been here less than a day. Roughly seven minutes later, as I was walking toward the elevators to that unit, my phone rang. The house supervisor (the RN in charge of the entire hospital) was asking me to come to the ER because there was a situation involving a young car accident victim. I explained what I was doing (death is about the only thing that could preclude an immediate response), and that I’d be there as soon as possible. The wife of the gentleman who had died had been told to expect this; he was 80 years old and had suffered from dementia for years so it was one of the few times when one can actually say that death is a blessing. On average, when I respond to a death, I spend about two hours with a family as they process what’s going on and begin to accept how different their reality will be from now on. With this one, I spent about an hour, and part of that included talking with the nursing staff, who wanted to unload a little about some of their own frustrations.
When I arrived in the ER, there was a very tall young doctor talking to the family members of the accident victim Brent, a 21-year-old who had been thrown from the SUV in which he was riding when it blew a tire on I-10. Three of his friends had been killed instantly; all were wearing seatbelts. He was not, so when the vehicle rolled, he was ejected. The main injuries he suffered were to his head and his face, and his hips had been badly dislocated. It was tough to gauge from what the doctor said whether or not he held out any hope of survival for Brent. I spent several minutes hearing background from one of the nurses and when I went to see the patient in the room, his parents had disappeared. I was struck immediately by the sight of his face; half his lower lip had literally been ripped off. It made me realize how lucky I’ve been that I don’t often see the graphic reality that the ER staff deals with on a daily basis. They seemed calm enough in the face of his appearance, so I thought maybe it’d be okay. He’d have a very long road to recovery, of course, but in the end he’d go home. That happened a long time ago with the sole survivor of a helicopter crash; though we didn’t expect him to survive even 48 hours, he walked out of here four months later. Of course, the biggest rehabilitation for that guy was learning to live with the fact that his closest friends had all perished in the crash. I knew that Brent would have that to face, and wondered how we could address that.
One of the ER nurses led me down a side hallway toward a place where she thought she’d seen his parents go; in the open doorway of an unlit office I saw an X-ray lit up on the computer screen and gasped audibly. “That’s Brent, isn’t it?” and the nurse confirmed it. I’ve not been trained to read these pictures, but based on what the doctor had said, it was obviously the man in question. The spine and skull were fully vertical, whereas the pelvic bone and hips were bent at about a 45-degree angle. I gave a brief prayer of thanks that Brent was unconscious; I couldn’t imagine how painful that would feel to someone who was awake. The nurse and I traipsed all through the back of the ER before coming back up toward the family consultation room to find them huddled together – some in chairs, some sitting on the floor next to the others. There were enough chairs spread throughout the room, but I suspect the need for physical closeness to each other superseded that for comfort. Brent’s parents had long since divorced and both had remarried; all four parents were there, along with Brent’s younger brother Brad. The unity among the four really impressed me; I’ve heard so many horror stories about stepparents who can’t even tolerate each other’s presence that it was refreshing to see four who were fairly amicable. It was so obvious that I don’t believe Brent’s accident was what had united them; they were simply a group who managed to live without rancor toward each other. I spoke about hope, and at one point actually mentioned the young man who had miraculously survived a different accident. In retrospect, I don’t suppose many chaplains would mention something about someone else’s situation in the midst of this. Maybe it was a reassurance only to myself, a way of ignoring the fact that sometimes shit just happens. And that’s what it was: nobody had been drinking, nobody was speeding, it was just a tire that blew while driving on a highway. I mean, the worst thing was that Brent was not wearing a seatbelt. But was it the worst? His three friends died instantly. I’m not a parent, so I can’t imagine trying to choose between instant death or a slow and painful attempted recovery. As it is, Brent’s family wasn’t focused on the long term at that moment. His stepmother was crying nonstop, full of guilt because they’d had a terrible argument earlier that day and she feared that his last memory of her would be some horrible (her description) things she’d said to him. I was so drained, and the situation so dramatic, that there was really nothing else to say. After a prayer with Brent’s family, I retreated and let them have some time to themselves.
Two nights later, I was on-call again, and I saw that Brent was in one of the ICU units. It’s tough to admit it, because it makes me feel like a coward, but I avoided a follow up visit until after visiting hours were over. I couldn’t bring myself to face his family again; I felt like a charlatan, offering false hope through mentioning someone else. However, I’ve learned over two years as a chaplain to at least talk about it, so I admitted to his nurse that I’d avoided his family, and why, and how ashamed I felt of that. Brent’s nurse grew misty eyed as we spoke about it; apparently, every staff member who came in contact with the case and this patient and his family was affected in a way that we don’t often express. One might think maybe it was a maternal thing, but Brent’s nurse was a young man about 30 years old, with no children of his own yet. He said he understood completely, telling me how difficult it had been for him, too. Neither one of us could explain what it was about Brent that made it so tough; we both admitted to having seen cases more tragic, though I’m not certain if tragedy is something with various levels. It made me feel a little more human, though, to hear that others were reacting the same way. Over the next week, I worked three on-call shifts, and visited Brent each time, toward the end of visiting hours when the family often was not there. I knew that the day chaplain assigned to this ICU would have followed up, so there was no need to push the issue. Instead, I spoke to Brent, prayed for him and his family, and always followed up with the staff. To a person, every one of them was very emotional over this patient, more so than usual.
Eight days after the accident, Brent was declared brain dead by an extensive battery of tests. After much tearful discussion, his four parents and his brother agreed to donate his organs – a very healthy heart, liver, two lungs and two kidneys – to whomever might be able to have a better life with them. I was not present for the transfer of Brent to the agency that recovers organs, a fact for which I was profoundly glad. Not because of the emotional aspect, but because I still felt ashamed of the false hope I’d offered his family and didn’t want to face them. It was the doctor who relayed the news to me; a doctor I know fairly well after two years, who began to cry as she told me that he was brain dead. It’s only the second time I’ve seen a doctor cry. We spoke of the same things I’d discussed with his nurses, and the doctor admitted that she’d had the same reaction everyone else had. Not one of us could explain why this case was so tough, but the fact that we all felt it validated our emotions.
It was only well after the fact that I realized the other side of this whole situation: if Brent had been wearing his seatbelt, he’d have been killed instantly along with his friends. But because he wasn’t, he donated six organs to people who may not be alive as I write this were it not for the fact that he was ejected. The hospital at which I work is a national leader in organ transplants; people travel here from four states and even Puerto Rico with the hope of receiving a new lease on life though an organ transplant. The 63-year-old man who was aware that necessary procedure for the new heart he was getting would mean he had to cease certain activities, but at least he could watch his grandchildren grow older. The 53-year-old recovering alcoholic who had actually been approved for a liver transplant, and joyfully told me that she had lost all desire for alcohol. The 32-year-old young mother whose family knew since she was six months old that she would eventually need a new heart, and who received it on the first day of the New Year. I’ve heard countless stories from people like these. Each one of them was excited, full of hope that what had been relegated to a mere existence could be transformed back into a real life through someone else’s generosity. A hope like that is something most of us don’t really experience except when we encounter such extreme situations. It’s not just hope, it’s ELPIS. A great expectation, of something magnificent that was promised to us in advance: a new life. A better life. Because of Brent’s family’s unselfishness, that elpis was realized for at least six people. In the end, I realized that the hope I offered his family was not in the least false; it was just not the sort of hope they were expecting. Brent lives on in a half dozen people, and will continue to be a part of his family’s lives and the lives of others as a result. I like to think that elpis has indeed left this building, and has gone out into the world multiplied in the lives of Brent’s family and his organ recipients, to share the promise of a new and better existence in a multitude of ways.
I was in the midst of a routine on-call shift. I’m not sure the word “routine” ever fits in chaplaincy, though – every person’s situation is unique, and that sort of undermines the challenges the patients, their families and the medical staff face. I was paged to the cardiology unit at 12:30am to cover the death of a patient who’d been here less than a day. Roughly seven minutes later, as I was walking toward the elevators to that unit, my phone rang. The house supervisor (the RN in charge of the entire hospital) was asking me to come to the ER because there was a situation involving a young car accident victim. I explained what I was doing (death is about the only thing that could preclude an immediate response), and that I’d be there as soon as possible. The wife of the gentleman who had died had been told to expect this; he was 80 years old and had suffered from dementia for years so it was one of the few times when one can actually say that death is a blessing. On average, when I respond to a death, I spend about two hours with a family as they process what’s going on and begin to accept how different their reality will be from now on. With this one, I spent about an hour, and part of that included talking with the nursing staff, who wanted to unload a little about some of their own frustrations.
When I arrived in the ER, there was a very tall young doctor talking to the family members of the accident victim Brent, a 21-year-old who had been thrown from the SUV in which he was riding when it blew a tire on I-10. Three of his friends had been killed instantly; all were wearing seatbelts. He was not, so when the vehicle rolled, he was ejected. The main injuries he suffered were to his head and his face, and his hips had been badly dislocated. It was tough to gauge from what the doctor said whether or not he held out any hope of survival for Brent. I spent several minutes hearing background from one of the nurses and when I went to see the patient in the room, his parents had disappeared. I was struck immediately by the sight of his face; half his lower lip had literally been ripped off. It made me realize how lucky I’ve been that I don’t often see the graphic reality that the ER staff deals with on a daily basis. They seemed calm enough in the face of his appearance, so I thought maybe it’d be okay. He’d have a very long road to recovery, of course, but in the end he’d go home. That happened a long time ago with the sole survivor of a helicopter crash; though we didn’t expect him to survive even 48 hours, he walked out of here four months later. Of course, the biggest rehabilitation for that guy was learning to live with the fact that his closest friends had all perished in the crash. I knew that Brent would have that to face, and wondered how we could address that.
One of the ER nurses led me down a side hallway toward a place where she thought she’d seen his parents go; in the open doorway of an unlit office I saw an X-ray lit up on the computer screen and gasped audibly. “That’s Brent, isn’t it?” and the nurse confirmed it. I’ve not been trained to read these pictures, but based on what the doctor had said, it was obviously the man in question. The spine and skull were fully vertical, whereas the pelvic bone and hips were bent at about a 45-degree angle. I gave a brief prayer of thanks that Brent was unconscious; I couldn’t imagine how painful that would feel to someone who was awake. The nurse and I traipsed all through the back of the ER before coming back up toward the family consultation room to find them huddled together – some in chairs, some sitting on the floor next to the others. There were enough chairs spread throughout the room, but I suspect the need for physical closeness to each other superseded that for comfort. Brent’s parents had long since divorced and both had remarried; all four parents were there, along with Brent’s younger brother Brad. The unity among the four really impressed me; I’ve heard so many horror stories about stepparents who can’t even tolerate each other’s presence that it was refreshing to see four who were fairly amicable. It was so obvious that I don’t believe Brent’s accident was what had united them; they were simply a group who managed to live without rancor toward each other. I spoke about hope, and at one point actually mentioned the young man who had miraculously survived a different accident. In retrospect, I don’t suppose many chaplains would mention something about someone else’s situation in the midst of this. Maybe it was a reassurance only to myself, a way of ignoring the fact that sometimes shit just happens. And that’s what it was: nobody had been drinking, nobody was speeding, it was just a tire that blew while driving on a highway. I mean, the worst thing was that Brent was not wearing a seatbelt. But was it the worst? His three friends died instantly. I’m not a parent, so I can’t imagine trying to choose between instant death or a slow and painful attempted recovery. As it is, Brent’s family wasn’t focused on the long term at that moment. His stepmother was crying nonstop, full of guilt because they’d had a terrible argument earlier that day and she feared that his last memory of her would be some horrible (her description) things she’d said to him. I was so drained, and the situation so dramatic, that there was really nothing else to say. After a prayer with Brent’s family, I retreated and let them have some time to themselves.
Two nights later, I was on-call again, and I saw that Brent was in one of the ICU units. It’s tough to admit it, because it makes me feel like a coward, but I avoided a follow up visit until after visiting hours were over. I couldn’t bring myself to face his family again; I felt like a charlatan, offering false hope through mentioning someone else. However, I’ve learned over two years as a chaplain to at least talk about it, so I admitted to his nurse that I’d avoided his family, and why, and how ashamed I felt of that. Brent’s nurse grew misty eyed as we spoke about it; apparently, every staff member who came in contact with the case and this patient and his family was affected in a way that we don’t often express. One might think maybe it was a maternal thing, but Brent’s nurse was a young man about 30 years old, with no children of his own yet. He said he understood completely, telling me how difficult it had been for him, too. Neither one of us could explain what it was about Brent that made it so tough; we both admitted to having seen cases more tragic, though I’m not certain if tragedy is something with various levels. It made me feel a little more human, though, to hear that others were reacting the same way. Over the next week, I worked three on-call shifts, and visited Brent each time, toward the end of visiting hours when the family often was not there. I knew that the day chaplain assigned to this ICU would have followed up, so there was no need to push the issue. Instead, I spoke to Brent, prayed for him and his family, and always followed up with the staff. To a person, every one of them was very emotional over this patient, more so than usual.
Eight days after the accident, Brent was declared brain dead by an extensive battery of tests. After much tearful discussion, his four parents and his brother agreed to donate his organs – a very healthy heart, liver, two lungs and two kidneys – to whomever might be able to have a better life with them. I was not present for the transfer of Brent to the agency that recovers organs, a fact for which I was profoundly glad. Not because of the emotional aspect, but because I still felt ashamed of the false hope I’d offered his family and didn’t want to face them. It was the doctor who relayed the news to me; a doctor I know fairly well after two years, who began to cry as she told me that he was brain dead. It’s only the second time I’ve seen a doctor cry. We spoke of the same things I’d discussed with his nurses, and the doctor admitted that she’d had the same reaction everyone else had. Not one of us could explain why this case was so tough, but the fact that we all felt it validated our emotions.
It was only well after the fact that I realized the other side of this whole situation: if Brent had been wearing his seatbelt, he’d have been killed instantly along with his friends. But because he wasn’t, he donated six organs to people who may not be alive as I write this were it not for the fact that he was ejected. The hospital at which I work is a national leader in organ transplants; people travel here from four states and even Puerto Rico with the hope of receiving a new lease on life though an organ transplant. The 63-year-old man who was aware that necessary procedure for the new heart he was getting would mean he had to cease certain activities, but at least he could watch his grandchildren grow older. The 53-year-old recovering alcoholic who had actually been approved for a liver transplant, and joyfully told me that she had lost all desire for alcohol. The 32-year-old young mother whose family knew since she was six months old that she would eventually need a new heart, and who received it on the first day of the New Year. I’ve heard countless stories from people like these. Each one of them was excited, full of hope that what had been relegated to a mere existence could be transformed back into a real life through someone else’s generosity. A hope like that is something most of us don’t really experience except when we encounter such extreme situations. It’s not just hope, it’s ELPIS. A great expectation, of something magnificent that was promised to us in advance: a new life. A better life. Because of Brent’s family’s unselfishness, that elpis was realized for at least six people. In the end, I realized that the hope I offered his family was not in the least false; it was just not the sort of hope they were expecting. Brent lives on in a half dozen people, and will continue to be a part of his family’s lives and the lives of others as a result. I like to think that elpis has indeed left this building, and has gone out into the world multiplied in the lives of Brent’s family and his organ recipients, to share the promise of a new and better existence in a multitude of ways.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Sermon for September 5, 2010
The Shaping of Evil (Jeremiah 18: 1-11)
I’ve been engaging in some fascinating discussions this week on a chat board I post to, about British physicist Stephen Hawking’s latest book, and his strong assertion that the universe created itself with no divine power being present. The board in question is full of mostly agnostics, a few evangelical Christians, one or two very vocal atheists, and a gentleman a few years older than I am who pastors an African Methodist Episcopal church out west. Much of our discussion has focused not on the debate over divine intervention, and whether or not God exists, but on how tragedy affects people, and how they respond to it. My pastor friend, John, pointed out that Hawking’s entire life has been wrought with trials that make him sound like a modern-day Job. He’s had ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) for nearly 50 years, his first wife was unfaithful and eventually divorced him, his second wife allegedly abused him physically, and he’s needed 24/7 care for decades. As John put it, he’s known more than a few people who “quit God” in such circumstances. His former boss, a woman who was once a devout Catholic, is now convinced that God does not exist, because the breast cancer she had to fight at age 42 ‘cost her the man of her dreams’ – meaning, her boyfriend decided he couldn’t deal with it and broke things off with her.
Amid the sad stories that were shared, the comment that stuck out to me came from Doug, who observed “I’m pretty much an agnostic, but anyone who would quit God after this never believed in the first place.” It caused me to wonder, how do we see the presence of evil in our lives? Is it a proof that there’s no God? If we don’t accept that, if we believe that in spite of the presence of evil, God exists, then why does it occur when the Scriptures state that God loves us? What is its purpose in the life of the Christian?
Let’s consider what we see as evil. Merriam-Webster defines it primarily as “the fact of suffering, misfortune or wrongdoing”. Their second definition is “something that brings sorrow, distress or calamity.” It strikes me as notable that only ‘wrongdoing’ is really an action word here. Every other word is a neutral word. Sorrow and misfortune aren’t something we actively do; they’re something we experience. These things are experienced by every human being, regardless of whether or not he or she believes that God exists, so it’s really pretty useless to use its existence as a testing rod of the existence of a divine being. However, its existence can be used as a testing rod in another way: how it shapes those who experience it.
Some of the greatest Christian thinkers in history suffered terribly; one of the strongest examples is Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the theological boy wonder who earned his doctorate at age 21 with a groundbreaking thesis. He came to Union Seminary in New York in 1930 for further study only to be disappointed that it wasn’t up to the exacting standards of his seminary back in Germany. He was radically changed through his participation in the worship life of a Black Baptist church in Harlem; he later claimed that it was here, in worship with those suffered oppression on a daily basis, that he “turned from phraseology to reality” and where he began developing his ideas about the cost of discipleship. Ultimately it led him to leave the US, against the advice of others, and return to Nazi Germany to help fight the Third Reich, which eventually imprisoned him and later executed him at age 39 – only three weeks before the fall of Berlin. On the other hand, we have Stephen Hawking, who has been through trial after trial as mentioned already, and apparently is convinced there is no God. The fact that he’s an atheist has nothing to do with what he’s suffered; in fact he credits his illness with helping him to focus solely on what he was researching, with no distractions. The evil itself seems to be less the deciding factor in these men’s lives than how they responded to it.
I believe that’s really what God is saying to Jeremiah through this passage. It bears noting that the prophet is told specifically to go to the potter’s house in order to hear God’s message. The prophet observes the potter working with the clay, which is completely reliant on the potter and the wheel as to what shape it will take. I read a little online about what a potter does; he stated that there are three types of clay with which he cannot work: clay that is completely dry, clay that lacks moisture, and clay that has hidden air in it. The first two made sense to me; it was the description of the third I found fascinating. He explains that a pot may look perfect, but in fact have a hidden pocket of air in it. When the potter puts the clay in the fire and heats it up, the air trapped inside expands and explodes the pot. I’m certain the prophet saw a beautiful metaphor in these facts as he observed the process and then heard the Word of God speaking to him about it. It’s a good and wonderful thing to be saved by God’s grace, yes. It’s a good and wonderful thing to know the love of Christian fellowship and the joy of discipleship. But keep in mind that our statement of faith in the United Church of Christ also says that there is a cost to discipleship. Bonhoeffer learned this so well that it became the title of his magnum opus, published when he was only 31 years old. Evil shapes who we are as people because, like the clay pots being fired, it perfects us. It’s not without trial that we learn how to be better people and better Christians.
It’s rather an odd idea, that evil would have a good purpose in the life of a Christian. But God DOES promise that those who turn away from evil will be heard, and saved. When I was in my first year of seminary studies, all incoming students were required to take their first course together; it was called Pilgrimage in Faith. We spent four hours together every Monday evening, beginning with lecture, then a communal dinner, then small group discussions, and finally ending the evening with a brief worship service. During that class, a fellow student wrote a beautiful poem in her native Spanish about the seminary process; she shared it with us at the end of the academic year. It includes a directive from God to the student: vas a llorar porque dentro el fuego debes pasar…vas a sangrear. You’ll cry because you have to go through the fire. You’ll bleed. You won’t get through this without some pain. But I’ll be there with you, the entire time, supporting you. I feel your pain as keenly as you do, because I’ve been there myself. And I, too, had God there with me, the entire time, supporting me.
The final verses of this passage deliver the good news in the midst of the talk of using evil to teach the message: that if the evil does not consume us, that if we do not allow ourselves to bend to it, God does intend good. One might ask, but then how do you explain how evil shaped the woman who had cancer and lost her boyfriend and her faith as well? How do you explain the physical deformity in a man with the mind of a genius who is so focused on reason that he has no time for faith? Evil is not a tool that God uses to test people and how much faith they have; if that were true, I don’t think any of us would be sitting here now! Evil is a barrier to be conquered regardless of the eventual outcome in our personal lives. It is not evil that shapes us and our faith; it is in fact our faith that shapes us and how we respond to evil. Bonhoeffer wrote, “If our Christianity has ceased to be serious about discipleship, if we have watered down the gospel into emotional uplift which makes no costly demands and which fails to distinguish between natural and Christian existence…we…have then forgotten that the cross means rejection and shame as well as suffering.” We would never fully understand the grace of God without also understanding the pain of God.
So I’ll boldly assert here today that evil can actually be a good thing in the life of a Christian. It brings us closer to God, and closer to understanding God’s purpose for us. The question is, how will you respond to it? Are you completely dry? Do you have too little moisture? Are there hidden pockets of air in you that will cause you to explode when you’re tested in the fire? Which type of clay are you?
I’ve been engaging in some fascinating discussions this week on a chat board I post to, about British physicist Stephen Hawking’s latest book, and his strong assertion that the universe created itself with no divine power being present. The board in question is full of mostly agnostics, a few evangelical Christians, one or two very vocal atheists, and a gentleman a few years older than I am who pastors an African Methodist Episcopal church out west. Much of our discussion has focused not on the debate over divine intervention, and whether or not God exists, but on how tragedy affects people, and how they respond to it. My pastor friend, John, pointed out that Hawking’s entire life has been wrought with trials that make him sound like a modern-day Job. He’s had ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) for nearly 50 years, his first wife was unfaithful and eventually divorced him, his second wife allegedly abused him physically, and he’s needed 24/7 care for decades. As John put it, he’s known more than a few people who “quit God” in such circumstances. His former boss, a woman who was once a devout Catholic, is now convinced that God does not exist, because the breast cancer she had to fight at age 42 ‘cost her the man of her dreams’ – meaning, her boyfriend decided he couldn’t deal with it and broke things off with her.
Amid the sad stories that were shared, the comment that stuck out to me came from Doug, who observed “I’m pretty much an agnostic, but anyone who would quit God after this never believed in the first place.” It caused me to wonder, how do we see the presence of evil in our lives? Is it a proof that there’s no God? If we don’t accept that, if we believe that in spite of the presence of evil, God exists, then why does it occur when the Scriptures state that God loves us? What is its purpose in the life of the Christian?
Let’s consider what we see as evil. Merriam-Webster defines it primarily as “the fact of suffering, misfortune or wrongdoing”. Their second definition is “something that brings sorrow, distress or calamity.” It strikes me as notable that only ‘wrongdoing’ is really an action word here. Every other word is a neutral word. Sorrow and misfortune aren’t something we actively do; they’re something we experience. These things are experienced by every human being, regardless of whether or not he or she believes that God exists, so it’s really pretty useless to use its existence as a testing rod of the existence of a divine being. However, its existence can be used as a testing rod in another way: how it shapes those who experience it.
Some of the greatest Christian thinkers in history suffered terribly; one of the strongest examples is Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the theological boy wonder who earned his doctorate at age 21 with a groundbreaking thesis. He came to Union Seminary in New York in 1930 for further study only to be disappointed that it wasn’t up to the exacting standards of his seminary back in Germany. He was radically changed through his participation in the worship life of a Black Baptist church in Harlem; he later claimed that it was here, in worship with those suffered oppression on a daily basis, that he “turned from phraseology to reality” and where he began developing his ideas about the cost of discipleship. Ultimately it led him to leave the US, against the advice of others, and return to Nazi Germany to help fight the Third Reich, which eventually imprisoned him and later executed him at age 39 – only three weeks before the fall of Berlin. On the other hand, we have Stephen Hawking, who has been through trial after trial as mentioned already, and apparently is convinced there is no God. The fact that he’s an atheist has nothing to do with what he’s suffered; in fact he credits his illness with helping him to focus solely on what he was researching, with no distractions. The evil itself seems to be less the deciding factor in these men’s lives than how they responded to it.
I believe that’s really what God is saying to Jeremiah through this passage. It bears noting that the prophet is told specifically to go to the potter’s house in order to hear God’s message. The prophet observes the potter working with the clay, which is completely reliant on the potter and the wheel as to what shape it will take. I read a little online about what a potter does; he stated that there are three types of clay with which he cannot work: clay that is completely dry, clay that lacks moisture, and clay that has hidden air in it. The first two made sense to me; it was the description of the third I found fascinating. He explains that a pot may look perfect, but in fact have a hidden pocket of air in it. When the potter puts the clay in the fire and heats it up, the air trapped inside expands and explodes the pot. I’m certain the prophet saw a beautiful metaphor in these facts as he observed the process and then heard the Word of God speaking to him about it. It’s a good and wonderful thing to be saved by God’s grace, yes. It’s a good and wonderful thing to know the love of Christian fellowship and the joy of discipleship. But keep in mind that our statement of faith in the United Church of Christ also says that there is a cost to discipleship. Bonhoeffer learned this so well that it became the title of his magnum opus, published when he was only 31 years old. Evil shapes who we are as people because, like the clay pots being fired, it perfects us. It’s not without trial that we learn how to be better people and better Christians.
It’s rather an odd idea, that evil would have a good purpose in the life of a Christian. But God DOES promise that those who turn away from evil will be heard, and saved. When I was in my first year of seminary studies, all incoming students were required to take their first course together; it was called Pilgrimage in Faith. We spent four hours together every Monday evening, beginning with lecture, then a communal dinner, then small group discussions, and finally ending the evening with a brief worship service. During that class, a fellow student wrote a beautiful poem in her native Spanish about the seminary process; she shared it with us at the end of the academic year. It includes a directive from God to the student: vas a llorar porque dentro el fuego debes pasar…vas a sangrear. You’ll cry because you have to go through the fire. You’ll bleed. You won’t get through this without some pain. But I’ll be there with you, the entire time, supporting you. I feel your pain as keenly as you do, because I’ve been there myself. And I, too, had God there with me, the entire time, supporting me.
The final verses of this passage deliver the good news in the midst of the talk of using evil to teach the message: that if the evil does not consume us, that if we do not allow ourselves to bend to it, God does intend good. One might ask, but then how do you explain how evil shaped the woman who had cancer and lost her boyfriend and her faith as well? How do you explain the physical deformity in a man with the mind of a genius who is so focused on reason that he has no time for faith? Evil is not a tool that God uses to test people and how much faith they have; if that were true, I don’t think any of us would be sitting here now! Evil is a barrier to be conquered regardless of the eventual outcome in our personal lives. It is not evil that shapes us and our faith; it is in fact our faith that shapes us and how we respond to evil. Bonhoeffer wrote, “If our Christianity has ceased to be serious about discipleship, if we have watered down the gospel into emotional uplift which makes no costly demands and which fails to distinguish between natural and Christian existence…we…have then forgotten that the cross means rejection and shame as well as suffering.” We would never fully understand the grace of God without also understanding the pain of God.
So I’ll boldly assert here today that evil can actually be a good thing in the life of a Christian. It brings us closer to God, and closer to understanding God’s purpose for us. The question is, how will you respond to it? Are you completely dry? Do you have too little moisture? Are there hidden pockets of air in you that will cause you to explode when you’re tested in the fire? Which type of clay are you?
Friday, February 26, 2010
To Live as a Good Man
I mentioned in a previous blog that actor Leonardo DiCaprio is one of my favorites, though if I’m being honest I have to confess that I’m no big fan of “Titanic” (I thought the characters were too shallow & the script rather silly at times; so sue me!). I first noticed him in “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?” as Arnie Grape, the mentally challenged brother of a young man who struggles to do right by his family. It wasn’t until I was just finishing seminary, though, that I really took notice after seeing “The Departed” and “Blood Diamond” only five days apart. I was struck by the theme common to all these films: a man who is haunted by memories of family, and how we human beings deal with personal tragedy. Does it consume us? Or do we live with it and through it? After nearly two years as a chaplain, I thought I knew the answer. If there’s one lesson I’ve needed to be taught repeatedly, it’s always expect the unexpected – because the moment you feel smug, you’ll get knocked on your ass.
Tuesday morning February 16 dawned sunny, but very cold. But hey, who cared – it was Mardi Gras! I was out early, enjoying breakfast with a fellow chaplain at a favorite spot (Riccobono’s Panola Street Café); then we went to watch the Krewe of Rex parade down Napoleon Avenue to St Charles Avenue for the 139th consecutive year. I caught four beads and a doubloon, which left me in a good frame of mind for the rest of the day. Came home & slept four hours, feeling satisfied that the on-call I was scheduled for that night would be a good one. After all, I’ve grown a lot as a chaplain, I’m far more able to open up to people and in turn help them to cope. I checked on several patients and then went to bed just after midnight. I’d had a feeling that I wouldn’t get called at all in the night, so it was sort of a shock when the phone rang at 4am. I’m a light sleeper, so it did nothing more than rouse me out of a doze when a nurse told me that one of the patients in the ICU had just died. His mother told me that he’d always said he would die young like his daddy, who went from a heart attack at age 53. He was indeed a young man, with health problems that kept him in and out of the hospital for the past 7 years. During his last hospitalization, he told his mother “Daddy came for me, but I told him I wasn’t ready yet.” This time he was, and he died six months before his own 53rd birthday. I got back to the office at 5:30am, and figured it was pointless to go back to bed since I had just a few hours left. I could get sleep at home; in fact, I had to – because Wednesday evening a friend and I had free passes to a pre-screening of Leonardo DiCaprio’s latest film, “Shutter Island”. I’d planned to grab some breakfast when the cafeteria opened at 6am, but instead wasted an hour puttering on the computer. The chaplain who’d shared a meal with me the previous day arrived at 6:30 in order to be ready for the Ash Wednesday Service early that day. We talked for only a few minutes when the pager went off; this time the ER told me to come immediately because a 6-week-old baby was coding and the family needed support.
Going through the main entrance to the ER, I checked with the nurse at the desk, who indicated the room where about 15 medical staff were still working on the infant, & told me that her parents were in the Family Consult Room on the other end. On my way down the hall to see them, one of the maintenance crew looked at me gravely & said, “What a way to start a morning.” I asked what he’d seen; he said that some time earlier, he’d heard a lot of yelling from the front of the unit, then a nurse came running down the hall with the baby in her arms. I said I’d do what I could, and went to meet Mom and Dad. They were huddled together on a small couch; instantly I was struck by their disheveled state. Mom was wearing a ratty nightgown and slippers; Dad was actually barefoot. I introduced myself, and asked what happened. Mom told me that she’d found her baby not breathing, and they rushed here. She prayed aloud repeatedly, insisting that God wouldn’t take her baby away. Meanwhile, another woman who barely acknowledged anything, sat across from the couple, next to me, praying aloud in a whisper I couldn’t hear. I stared at Dad’s bare feet, thinking of the love of a parent for a child, one that puts such emphasis on another life that he doesn’t take time to grab a pair of shoes before heading out in 35-degree temperatures. I got Mom speaking briefly, about her two older children, and how they spoiled their baby sister, but the other two were too tightly wound to do much talking. Baby girl was born on Epiphany, I was told, and was six weeks old the day before. The phrase “the end of carnival” ran through my brain, but without significance. After about 30 minutes, two doctors came in; one sat next to Mom while the other stood at the door, as if wanting to leave but knowing she had to be there. The one looked Mom in the face & said how sorry she was; they’d tried everything they could, but were unable to save her baby girl.
There aren’t words sufficient to describe the grief process, and I have found that this is especially true when a young person dies. Some people can’t express; some people express very boldly. The woman next to me remained silent. While Mom wailed a denial, Dad began to cry, and in his pain actually smashed his head against the wall several times. At first he refused to go and see his daughter with his wife, who begged to see her baby. We encouraged him and he relented; I accompanied him back down the hall, at the ready if he should fall. Three nurses joined us in the room, quickly pulling the door closed behind us as the parents began to yell their grief again. We all stood there helplessly, witness to their grief and absolutely powerless to do or say anything to comfort. Mom wavered back and forth between English and Spanish, muttering about her ‘princesa’ and begging for a wrap or a blanket because her little girl was so cold. I was immobilized, but finally one of the nurses leaned down and said quietly, “she IS wrapped.” Two more nurses went to get the other woman, who I later learned is the maternal grandmother. As they opened the door and she took in the scene in the room, her legs collapsed beneath her and they rushed to grab a chair for Grandma. Then Mom began insisting that her little girl was only asleep, repeatedly assuring her husband that it was okay. This will stand as one of those indelible memories for me: Mom rocking back and forth, muttering her mantra: “solo esta durmiendo. Solo esta durmiendo.” After a time, I leaned down myself and said gently, in Spanish, that her daughter was indeed sleeping, for a time, but would be waiting for Mom and Dad until they were all reunited by God. The nurses looked at me expectantly; I knew they were waiting for a prayer. What on earth could I say? As if God were listening, the loudspeaker suddenly began playing “Lullaby and Goodnight”. For those not familiar with hospitals, this is the signal that a child was just born. I glommed onto that, put one hand on each parent and gave thanks to God for the gift of life, and especially the life of this child, and asked for God’s presence in the days to come as the family learned to let go of their baby girl for now, until we’re all raised to new life. The prayer seemed to bring a brief sense of calm. Then Dad (who had been stroking his daughter’s tiny hand), took the miniscule breathing tube in his mouth and began to blow air gently into it, as if he himself could somehow resurrect his baby girl. All the nurses, as well as me, had to look away.
I spent about an hour with the family, leaving just before my shift was finished. Went through all the motions, wrote notes, reported to the chaplains coming on duty, and left. Getting home at 9am, I promptly went to bed and slept for five hours, needing every minute since I’d gotten only two the previous night. In preparation for the movie, I walked down to the CVS to buy some snacks, then crossed the street and entered the Creole Creamery, with the firm intent of indulging in food as a form of self-care (something I’ve only done once before). I bought a big scoop of Chockwork Orange ice cream, and delighted in every lick of the deep, rich chocolate and bittersweet chunks interwoven with citrus. I’d hoped it would help me move past the numbness permeating my being, but it didn’t. It didn’t stop tears from repeatedly forming in my eyes as I thought of that father, trying to blow life back into his daughter. I watched a kid with his mom walking across the street by the Chase Bank, heard a radio blasting out Steve Winwood’s “Higher Love” from the Thai restaurant on the corner, and wanted to scream down the street, “What the HELL is wrong with everyone?!? You’re all going on as if nothing has happened. Don’t you realize that this little girl is DEAD?! DEAD! – and now her family has to deal with that!” You’re a chaplain, I quickly told myself. You’ve seen it happen before, been witness to it more times than you care to recall. What was it that made this one so difficult to process? I didn’t know, and given my state of mind, was rather less than exuberant about seeing a film with such a dark theme. I kept my concerns to myself, not wanting to burden my friend who’d gone to the trouble to secure us the passes.
I found escapism of a sort in the film, but not the escape that Teddy Daniels experiences. In the end, what made the biggest impression on me was the very last line in the film: would you rather live as a monster or die as a good man? I considered those words in light of the ministry I do with patients and their families, and indeed in light of what it means to be a good human being. Can we not die to the monsters and live as good men? Is it a monster who warns his mother for years that he will not live a long life? Or is it a good man, a caring son, who wants to prepare his mother for what will be a painful thing? Is it a monster who tells a family that their baby girl is gone? Or is it a good man who grieves with them, prays with them, and cries for them as genuinely as if this girl were his own? The phrase runs round and around in my brain. When I envision it, what I see again in my mind is a father with no shoes on, concerned more for his child than for his own comfort. Waking to what he thought would be a pleasant day, only to find that Carnival is over in every conceivable way. Putting others first, even to extreme personal discomfort, and doing everything possible to bring life to the moment, to share in that life, to be a part of that life as long and as deeply as he is able. I believe that’s what it means to live as a good man.
Tuesday morning February 16 dawned sunny, but very cold. But hey, who cared – it was Mardi Gras! I was out early, enjoying breakfast with a fellow chaplain at a favorite spot (Riccobono’s Panola Street Café); then we went to watch the Krewe of Rex parade down Napoleon Avenue to St Charles Avenue for the 139th consecutive year. I caught four beads and a doubloon, which left me in a good frame of mind for the rest of the day. Came home & slept four hours, feeling satisfied that the on-call I was scheduled for that night would be a good one. After all, I’ve grown a lot as a chaplain, I’m far more able to open up to people and in turn help them to cope. I checked on several patients and then went to bed just after midnight. I’d had a feeling that I wouldn’t get called at all in the night, so it was sort of a shock when the phone rang at 4am. I’m a light sleeper, so it did nothing more than rouse me out of a doze when a nurse told me that one of the patients in the ICU had just died. His mother told me that he’d always said he would die young like his daddy, who went from a heart attack at age 53. He was indeed a young man, with health problems that kept him in and out of the hospital for the past 7 years. During his last hospitalization, he told his mother “Daddy came for me, but I told him I wasn’t ready yet.” This time he was, and he died six months before his own 53rd birthday. I got back to the office at 5:30am, and figured it was pointless to go back to bed since I had just a few hours left. I could get sleep at home; in fact, I had to – because Wednesday evening a friend and I had free passes to a pre-screening of Leonardo DiCaprio’s latest film, “Shutter Island”. I’d planned to grab some breakfast when the cafeteria opened at 6am, but instead wasted an hour puttering on the computer. The chaplain who’d shared a meal with me the previous day arrived at 6:30 in order to be ready for the Ash Wednesday Service early that day. We talked for only a few minutes when the pager went off; this time the ER told me to come immediately because a 6-week-old baby was coding and the family needed support.
Going through the main entrance to the ER, I checked with the nurse at the desk, who indicated the room where about 15 medical staff were still working on the infant, & told me that her parents were in the Family Consult Room on the other end. On my way down the hall to see them, one of the maintenance crew looked at me gravely & said, “What a way to start a morning.” I asked what he’d seen; he said that some time earlier, he’d heard a lot of yelling from the front of the unit, then a nurse came running down the hall with the baby in her arms. I said I’d do what I could, and went to meet Mom and Dad. They were huddled together on a small couch; instantly I was struck by their disheveled state. Mom was wearing a ratty nightgown and slippers; Dad was actually barefoot. I introduced myself, and asked what happened. Mom told me that she’d found her baby not breathing, and they rushed here. She prayed aloud repeatedly, insisting that God wouldn’t take her baby away. Meanwhile, another woman who barely acknowledged anything, sat across from the couple, next to me, praying aloud in a whisper I couldn’t hear. I stared at Dad’s bare feet, thinking of the love of a parent for a child, one that puts such emphasis on another life that he doesn’t take time to grab a pair of shoes before heading out in 35-degree temperatures. I got Mom speaking briefly, about her two older children, and how they spoiled their baby sister, but the other two were too tightly wound to do much talking. Baby girl was born on Epiphany, I was told, and was six weeks old the day before. The phrase “the end of carnival” ran through my brain, but without significance. After about 30 minutes, two doctors came in; one sat next to Mom while the other stood at the door, as if wanting to leave but knowing she had to be there. The one looked Mom in the face & said how sorry she was; they’d tried everything they could, but were unable to save her baby girl.
There aren’t words sufficient to describe the grief process, and I have found that this is especially true when a young person dies. Some people can’t express; some people express very boldly. The woman next to me remained silent. While Mom wailed a denial, Dad began to cry, and in his pain actually smashed his head against the wall several times. At first he refused to go and see his daughter with his wife, who begged to see her baby. We encouraged him and he relented; I accompanied him back down the hall, at the ready if he should fall. Three nurses joined us in the room, quickly pulling the door closed behind us as the parents began to yell their grief again. We all stood there helplessly, witness to their grief and absolutely powerless to do or say anything to comfort. Mom wavered back and forth between English and Spanish, muttering about her ‘princesa’ and begging for a wrap or a blanket because her little girl was so cold. I was immobilized, but finally one of the nurses leaned down and said quietly, “she IS wrapped.” Two more nurses went to get the other woman, who I later learned is the maternal grandmother. As they opened the door and she took in the scene in the room, her legs collapsed beneath her and they rushed to grab a chair for Grandma. Then Mom began insisting that her little girl was only asleep, repeatedly assuring her husband that it was okay. This will stand as one of those indelible memories for me: Mom rocking back and forth, muttering her mantra: “solo esta durmiendo. Solo esta durmiendo.” After a time, I leaned down myself and said gently, in Spanish, that her daughter was indeed sleeping, for a time, but would be waiting for Mom and Dad until they were all reunited by God. The nurses looked at me expectantly; I knew they were waiting for a prayer. What on earth could I say? As if God were listening, the loudspeaker suddenly began playing “Lullaby and Goodnight”. For those not familiar with hospitals, this is the signal that a child was just born. I glommed onto that, put one hand on each parent and gave thanks to God for the gift of life, and especially the life of this child, and asked for God’s presence in the days to come as the family learned to let go of their baby girl for now, until we’re all raised to new life. The prayer seemed to bring a brief sense of calm. Then Dad (who had been stroking his daughter’s tiny hand), took the miniscule breathing tube in his mouth and began to blow air gently into it, as if he himself could somehow resurrect his baby girl. All the nurses, as well as me, had to look away.
I spent about an hour with the family, leaving just before my shift was finished. Went through all the motions, wrote notes, reported to the chaplains coming on duty, and left. Getting home at 9am, I promptly went to bed and slept for five hours, needing every minute since I’d gotten only two the previous night. In preparation for the movie, I walked down to the CVS to buy some snacks, then crossed the street and entered the Creole Creamery, with the firm intent of indulging in food as a form of self-care (something I’ve only done once before). I bought a big scoop of Chockwork Orange ice cream, and delighted in every lick of the deep, rich chocolate and bittersweet chunks interwoven with citrus. I’d hoped it would help me move past the numbness permeating my being, but it didn’t. It didn’t stop tears from repeatedly forming in my eyes as I thought of that father, trying to blow life back into his daughter. I watched a kid with his mom walking across the street by the Chase Bank, heard a radio blasting out Steve Winwood’s “Higher Love” from the Thai restaurant on the corner, and wanted to scream down the street, “What the HELL is wrong with everyone?!? You’re all going on as if nothing has happened. Don’t you realize that this little girl is DEAD?! DEAD! – and now her family has to deal with that!” You’re a chaplain, I quickly told myself. You’ve seen it happen before, been witness to it more times than you care to recall. What was it that made this one so difficult to process? I didn’t know, and given my state of mind, was rather less than exuberant about seeing a film with such a dark theme. I kept my concerns to myself, not wanting to burden my friend who’d gone to the trouble to secure us the passes.
I found escapism of a sort in the film, but not the escape that Teddy Daniels experiences. In the end, what made the biggest impression on me was the very last line in the film: would you rather live as a monster or die as a good man? I considered those words in light of the ministry I do with patients and their families, and indeed in light of what it means to be a good human being. Can we not die to the monsters and live as good men? Is it a monster who warns his mother for years that he will not live a long life? Or is it a good man, a caring son, who wants to prepare his mother for what will be a painful thing? Is it a monster who tells a family that their baby girl is gone? Or is it a good man who grieves with them, prays with them, and cries for them as genuinely as if this girl were his own? The phrase runs round and around in my brain. When I envision it, what I see again in my mind is a father with no shoes on, concerned more for his child than for his own comfort. Waking to what he thought would be a pleasant day, only to find that Carnival is over in every conceivable way. Putting others first, even to extreme personal discomfort, and doing everything possible to bring life to the moment, to share in that life, to be a part of that life as long and as deeply as he is able. I believe that’s what it means to live as a good man.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Quality vs Quantity
Last year was my first New Year’s Eve spent in New Orleans. I celebrated with my group of new friends in a fascinating way – a jubilee was held at one’s house, and amid good food, great wine and stimulating conversation we bonded into one. Then, at the appointed hour, we all sat and shared slices of a single King Cake. A New Orleans communion involves more than remembering Who is responsible for our existence and why. Each one of us, as we ate, shared his or her best memories about 2008 and what made it unique, and our hopes for the coming year. Every share and hope was toasted with fervor by the entire group. After three months in residency, I had learned to open up to the extent that I shared how grateful I was for the new friends I had, how I felt as if my life were truly beginning after being on hold for many years, and that I looked forward to more learning in 2009.
Unfortunately, I am present in spirit only at tonight’s Jubilee because every other chaplain had plans for this year’s end and I was asked if I would please work this night. I accepted before remembering what a joyous experience we’d had last year. Initially I felt extreme disappointment over missing this evening, and if I'm being totally honest maybe even a little resentful (I realize that that makes no sense, but when do emotions ever make sense?) but I have to say now that I think it better that I was here. Once again God called me to put others first, to be part of someone else’s life experience, and to learn from it a lesson for my own existence.
When I arrived this afternoon, I was told about the two patients at highest risk: Tom, who was quite elderly, and Paul, who was only 25 but had a very weak heart. They were to try something experimental on Paul that would help his heart to function at the rate of a normal, healthy heart for as many as 8 consecutive hours. I’m guessing that this would save him the tremendous sacrifices that heart transplant recipients go through, because his nurse told me that he absolutely refused a transplant. He chose to live life on his own terms, which meant he would not allow his immune system to be destroyed and then replaced with steroid therapy and someone else’s heart. The doctors wanted Paul to reach a slightly higher level of good health function before they tried the experiment, but it wasn’t to happen. Three hours after I arrived, he coded and died. His mom told me afterward that he couldn’t bring himself to live a life that was less than what he considered normal for a 25-year-old, so he did many things that a person with heart problems really shouldn’t even be able to do. As is usual, the medical professionals were frustrated and confused by this. His nurse told me that he had ignored medical advice, did what he wanted, and now he was paying for it - not in an unkind tone, but in a manner that made it plain she couldn't quite understand that decision. But what stuck out to me was that he’d asked his nurse early this afternoon if the two could talk in private, without his mother present (so she wouldn’t be upset). The nurse closed the door behind them, and he said to her point blank, “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” She skirted the truth a little, as every doctor usually does (I understand this; how can we truly know?), and replied, “There’s a very strong possibility that you will, yes.” And he told her that he wanted to sign a DNR order while he still had the capacity.
His nurse was very puzzled by his refusal to consider organ transplant, to live a life too full of restrictions and too void of natural activities. His mother understood perfectly, though, as she explained to me after he died that Paul had always understood that he would not live to be an old man. What was important to him was quality, not quantity. Looking down at Paul, I thought of all the things I’ve learned this past year, all the changes I’ve made for the better, and how very much every patient visit now is filled with quality words – and not a quantity of words. I’ve become the open-hearted minister I so longed to become when I first searched for a residency in CPE, and so I said a prayer asking that God welcome him home and that the good memories his family and friends have remain alive to keep their hearts warm until they are one day reunited. Simple, short and heartfelt – that’s what authentic ministry is for me.
The Spanish have a New Year’s Eve tradition of downing twelve grapes to the twelve chimes on the clock as it strikes midnight, followed by a toast. Tradition holds that if this is done, the following year will be prosperous. Yet I have no grapes here in the office, no chiming clock that will give me twelve bells of renewal, and – alas! – no Cava to drink in toast afterward. Nevertheless, I celebrate Jubilee with my friends in absentia, I down las doce uvas de la suerte in principle if not in deed, just as I believe Paul does with his family and friends in their memories, by thinking of all those quality things that have entered and enriched my life, and now make me a more complete person. 2009 has been the finest year of my life so far. On the stroke of midnight in the EST, where I was raised, I offer up the final salud! to this year and say that I fully expect even more quality in 2010. God welcome you home, Paul, and thank you for reminding me that quality over quantity is what matters in life.
Unfortunately, I am present in spirit only at tonight’s Jubilee because every other chaplain had plans for this year’s end and I was asked if I would please work this night. I accepted before remembering what a joyous experience we’d had last year. Initially I felt extreme disappointment over missing this evening, and if I'm being totally honest maybe even a little resentful (I realize that that makes no sense, but when do emotions ever make sense?) but I have to say now that I think it better that I was here. Once again God called me to put others first, to be part of someone else’s life experience, and to learn from it a lesson for my own existence.
When I arrived this afternoon, I was told about the two patients at highest risk: Tom, who was quite elderly, and Paul, who was only 25 but had a very weak heart. They were to try something experimental on Paul that would help his heart to function at the rate of a normal, healthy heart for as many as 8 consecutive hours. I’m guessing that this would save him the tremendous sacrifices that heart transplant recipients go through, because his nurse told me that he absolutely refused a transplant. He chose to live life on his own terms, which meant he would not allow his immune system to be destroyed and then replaced with steroid therapy and someone else’s heart. The doctors wanted Paul to reach a slightly higher level of good health function before they tried the experiment, but it wasn’t to happen. Three hours after I arrived, he coded and died. His mom told me afterward that he couldn’t bring himself to live a life that was less than what he considered normal for a 25-year-old, so he did many things that a person with heart problems really shouldn’t even be able to do. As is usual, the medical professionals were frustrated and confused by this. His nurse told me that he had ignored medical advice, did what he wanted, and now he was paying for it - not in an unkind tone, but in a manner that made it plain she couldn't quite understand that decision. But what stuck out to me was that he’d asked his nurse early this afternoon if the two could talk in private, without his mother present (so she wouldn’t be upset). The nurse closed the door behind them, and he said to her point blank, “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” She skirted the truth a little, as every doctor usually does (I understand this; how can we truly know?), and replied, “There’s a very strong possibility that you will, yes.” And he told her that he wanted to sign a DNR order while he still had the capacity.
His nurse was very puzzled by his refusal to consider organ transplant, to live a life too full of restrictions and too void of natural activities. His mother understood perfectly, though, as she explained to me after he died that Paul had always understood that he would not live to be an old man. What was important to him was quality, not quantity. Looking down at Paul, I thought of all the things I’ve learned this past year, all the changes I’ve made for the better, and how very much every patient visit now is filled with quality words – and not a quantity of words. I’ve become the open-hearted minister I so longed to become when I first searched for a residency in CPE, and so I said a prayer asking that God welcome him home and that the good memories his family and friends have remain alive to keep their hearts warm until they are one day reunited. Simple, short and heartfelt – that’s what authentic ministry is for me.
The Spanish have a New Year’s Eve tradition of downing twelve grapes to the twelve chimes on the clock as it strikes midnight, followed by a toast. Tradition holds that if this is done, the following year will be prosperous. Yet I have no grapes here in the office, no chiming clock that will give me twelve bells of renewal, and – alas! – no Cava to drink in toast afterward. Nevertheless, I celebrate Jubilee with my friends in absentia, I down las doce uvas de la suerte in principle if not in deed, just as I believe Paul does with his family and friends in their memories, by thinking of all those quality things that have entered and enriched my life, and now make me a more complete person. 2009 has been the finest year of my life so far. On the stroke of midnight in the EST, where I was raised, I offer up the final salud! to this year and say that I fully expect even more quality in 2010. God welcome you home, Paul, and thank you for reminding me that quality over quantity is what matters in life.
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