It doesn't seem so long ago that I was in their living room, praying and talking. It was a difficult diagnosis. Terminal cancer. Three to six months, was what the doctor said.
They had had other plans for the future. He wanted to build a house for his wife and their teenage daughter. But he thought he had more time.
It wasn't so long ago that I was in their living room, talking about how they were going to spend the next three to six months, hoping to find a treatment that would give them just a little more time, and just a little less pain. Time to have friends help them finish a house -- their dream. Time to see children and grandchildren. Time to be alive.
And then this week I was there again, because he had decided to stop treatment, and go on hospice. We talked, and shared communion. He was on hospice, but he still had time.
Yesterday I was back. He was no longer talking. We prayed with him, and sang to him, and read scripture. Romans 8. Isaiah 43. John 10. "My sheep hear my voice, and they follow me," we read. "As the deer panteth for the water, so my soul length after thee," we sang.
His wife pointed out one of his hands. It was outstretched, and clenched, as if he was holding someone's hand. With one hand, he would hold on to us. But with his other hand, he was holding on to Jesus. Or Jesus was holding onto him.
It is December 21st. Just three days until we light the candles, and sing Silent Night in the dark. Just four days until the Feast of the Nativity, December 25, when the Word became Flesh and dwelt among us. I think about what I learned in Greek class about the word "dwelt", and that it meant "tabernacle". It was a reference to the Old Testament, when God lived in a tent, a tabernacle, a temporary shelter. In Jesus, God tabernacled with us, in a temporary shelter, human flesh, like ours.
I think about this man who was dying, and his savior, who also wore our mortal flesh. He is a Savior we can hold hands with. That is what the incarnation means. It is about the baby in the manger, the baby we can hold, and it is about the one who holds us, really and truly.
It is so close to Christmas I can feel its breath, I can almost see the flickering flames of the candles that we hold while we sing. It is so close to Christmas, so close that I can almost reach out and hold hands with Jesus. I can feel his small fingers around my finger, I can see his hands touch a blind man, I can see his hand grasp the hand of a dying man -- and hang on.
Maybe this is all we can do in life: hold hands. Hold hands with one another. and hold hands with Jesus.
Showing posts with label hospice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hospice. Show all posts
Friday, December 21, 2018
Saturday, September 17, 2016
The Voice of God
On Thursday morning, I got an email from a member of my congregation, telling me that she was transferring her membership to another congregation. She had prayed long and hard, she said, but she wanted to go "where her gifts were appreciated."
It was not the best beginning to the morning. I emailed her back saying that I understood, and that I did appreciate her gifts. Still, the content of the email followed me around for awhile, whispering doubts in my ears.
Later on, I called the daughter-in-law of a woman who was in hospice. The hospice care facility had called the day before, saying that the family requested a pastoral visit. They said I should get in touch with the woman's daughter-in-law first, which I did. So I called and got directions to their house.
I've been here about a year now, but I still don't know all parts of the community where I live. This was in an area of town where I had not been before, so I used both verbal directions and my car's GPS and found the cottage where this elderly woman and her husband lived.
I went in, and introduced myself to the man and his wife, explaining that his daughter-in-law had called me. I found out that the wife was from Germany. "I found her and I brought her back to Texas," he told me. He had been Baptist, but she made a Lutheran out of him. After that, he said he had held every leadership position in the church, except for pastor. He always wanted to be a pastor. I sat by the bed of his wife, and we talked a little bit about their lives. They had lived in Texas for a long time, but were new to this community. Their daughter-in-law came over, and joined the conversation. I could tell that this was a family who looked out for one another. I asked if the husband and daughter-in-law also wanted communion. They both said yes.
We talked a little bit about the church where I serve. The daughter-in-law was familiar with it, in fact had attended for awhile. They were members when it was a larger and livelier place, about the time when her children were small and the day care was just opening. I said it was smaller now, and that it was my job to build it up again.
She said, "Well, you have the right personality for that."
I don't know why she said that. We had known each other for about 20 minutes. I immediately felt a small voice, a tiny piece of hope, for no reason. I felt for a moment that perhaps I could do the work to which I had been called, in this place far from my home.
We began the communion service. The daughter-in-law knew the words of the confession by heart. I read from John 10, about the gate, and the shepherd, and the one who knows our names, and whose voice we know, and who leads us out, and in, to find pasture.
We prayed together. We shared the bread and the wine. We shared words of blessing.
The husband told me again that he had held every job in the church, except the pastor. I told him that all of those others jobs were important ones. They were callings from God.
I told them if they needed anything, they could call.
And the words of the conversation followed me around for a while, whispering in my ear, reminding me about the shepherd whose voice I follow, even though I do not know exactly where He will take me, and who has brought me here.
It was not the best beginning to the morning. I emailed her back saying that I understood, and that I did appreciate her gifts. Still, the content of the email followed me around for awhile, whispering doubts in my ears.
Later on, I called the daughter-in-law of a woman who was in hospice. The hospice care facility had called the day before, saying that the family requested a pastoral visit. They said I should get in touch with the woman's daughter-in-law first, which I did. So I called and got directions to their house.
I've been here about a year now, but I still don't know all parts of the community where I live. This was in an area of town where I had not been before, so I used both verbal directions and my car's GPS and found the cottage where this elderly woman and her husband lived.
I went in, and introduced myself to the man and his wife, explaining that his daughter-in-law had called me. I found out that the wife was from Germany. "I found her and I brought her back to Texas," he told me. He had been Baptist, but she made a Lutheran out of him. After that, he said he had held every leadership position in the church, except for pastor. He always wanted to be a pastor. I sat by the bed of his wife, and we talked a little bit about their lives. They had lived in Texas for a long time, but were new to this community. Their daughter-in-law came over, and joined the conversation. I could tell that this was a family who looked out for one another. I asked if the husband and daughter-in-law also wanted communion. They both said yes.
We talked a little bit about the church where I serve. The daughter-in-law was familiar with it, in fact had attended for awhile. They were members when it was a larger and livelier place, about the time when her children were small and the day care was just opening. I said it was smaller now, and that it was my job to build it up again.
She said, "Well, you have the right personality for that."
I don't know why she said that. We had known each other for about 20 minutes. I immediately felt a small voice, a tiny piece of hope, for no reason. I felt for a moment that perhaps I could do the work to which I had been called, in this place far from my home.
We began the communion service. The daughter-in-law knew the words of the confession by heart. I read from John 10, about the gate, and the shepherd, and the one who knows our names, and whose voice we know, and who leads us out, and in, to find pasture.
We prayed together. We shared the bread and the wine. We shared words of blessing.
The husband told me again that he had held every job in the church, except the pastor. I told him that all of those others jobs were important ones. They were callings from God.
I told them if they needed anything, they could call.
And the words of the conversation followed me around for a while, whispering in my ear, reminding me about the shepherd whose voice I follow, even though I do not know exactly where He will take me, and who has brought me here.
Friday, December 26, 2014
Lowly
"Do you want me to come right away?"
"Can you?"
I had a relaxing day after Christmas planned. I had a couple of phone calls to make (one about a baptism), and I had to finish a Sunday-after-Christmas sermon. That was all I had planned.
But then the call came in, about a man from our congregation. One of his relatives called to let me know that he had just put himself in hospice care. She thought he would like to have communion.
In my mind I thought that I could probably stop over the next morning, but when I called their apartment and spoke to his wife, she said that he was not eating anything, and that I should not bring communion. It was then that I blurted out, "Do you want me to come right away?"
He was up in a chair when I arrived, looking pale but smiling warmly. We started to catch up about his life and his illness, and how hospice was taking such good care of him. When I mentioned how I had rushed out of church without my communion kit, he seemed disappointed, and his daughter (who was also visiting) said that she could probably find a little wine and some small pieces of cracker.
While communion preparation was underway in the kitchen, I visited with the man and his wife. I asked him his favorite Bible verse; John 3:16 was what he said. It was a verse he thought of when he spent two years as a Mission Builder. He was proud of the work he had done helping build, or remodel three churches, one in Albuquerque, one in Nebraska, and one in Montana. "We spent two years living in trailers," his wife said.
"What did you do?" I asked him.
"I was the foreman."
The bread and the wine were ready, so confessed our sins and began the communion service.
"What Scripture would you like me to read? Would you like to hear the Christmas story?"
His daughter thought that was a fine idea. She remembered how he read the Christmas story for the whole family, every year. They read the Christmas story as the family grew, with children and grandchildren tumbling through their home.
So on the second day of Christmas, we read the Christmas story. I asked them which was their favorite part of the story. "I like the shepherds out in the field," he said. "Of course, an old farmer," his daughter said. "I like the angel," his wife said. A long time ago, she got to be be the angel in a church pageant. She got to stand in the pulpit, that holy place, and say the words, "Behold, I bring you good news of great joy!" She has never forgotten it. His daughter said she liked the angels singing. His son-in-law said, "I like all of it." Then we talked and we noticed the part about the manger, how Jesus was laid in a manger. And he said,
"He had to be lowly. He had to be the lowliest, to be one of the common, the ordinary. He couldn't be born in a palace, in a rich place. He had to be lowly, to be the lowliest, so that he could reach all of us."
Before we took communion, I asked if there was anything they wanted to pray for.
His daughter started to speak, but then closed her eyes and shook her head. He said, "When I think about my life, my future, I would like to be able to share my faith with my children and grandchildren one more time."
We shared the wine, the bread, the benediction.
I did not finish my sermon.
But I have this: Lowly. He had to be lowly. He had to be the lowliest, to reach all of us.
"Can you?"
I had a relaxing day after Christmas planned. I had a couple of phone calls to make (one about a baptism), and I had to finish a Sunday-after-Christmas sermon. That was all I had planned.
But then the call came in, about a man from our congregation. One of his relatives called to let me know that he had just put himself in hospice care. She thought he would like to have communion.
In my mind I thought that I could probably stop over the next morning, but when I called their apartment and spoke to his wife, she said that he was not eating anything, and that I should not bring communion. It was then that I blurted out, "Do you want me to come right away?"
He was up in a chair when I arrived, looking pale but smiling warmly. We started to catch up about his life and his illness, and how hospice was taking such good care of him. When I mentioned how I had rushed out of church without my communion kit, he seemed disappointed, and his daughter (who was also visiting) said that she could probably find a little wine and some small pieces of cracker.
While communion preparation was underway in the kitchen, I visited with the man and his wife. I asked him his favorite Bible verse; John 3:16 was what he said. It was a verse he thought of when he spent two years as a Mission Builder. He was proud of the work he had done helping build, or remodel three churches, one in Albuquerque, one in Nebraska, and one in Montana. "We spent two years living in trailers," his wife said.
"What did you do?" I asked him.
"I was the foreman."
The bread and the wine were ready, so confessed our sins and began the communion service.
"What Scripture would you like me to read? Would you like to hear the Christmas story?"
His daughter thought that was a fine idea. She remembered how he read the Christmas story for the whole family, every year. They read the Christmas story as the family grew, with children and grandchildren tumbling through their home.
So on the second day of Christmas, we read the Christmas story. I asked them which was their favorite part of the story. "I like the shepherds out in the field," he said. "Of course, an old farmer," his daughter said. "I like the angel," his wife said. A long time ago, she got to be be the angel in a church pageant. She got to stand in the pulpit, that holy place, and say the words, "Behold, I bring you good news of great joy!" She has never forgotten it. His daughter said she liked the angels singing. His son-in-law said, "I like all of it." Then we talked and we noticed the part about the manger, how Jesus was laid in a manger. And he said,
"He had to be lowly. He had to be the lowliest, to be one of the common, the ordinary. He couldn't be born in a palace, in a rich place. He had to be lowly, to be the lowliest, so that he could reach all of us."
Before we took communion, I asked if there was anything they wanted to pray for.
His daughter started to speak, but then closed her eyes and shook her head. He said, "When I think about my life, my future, I would like to be able to share my faith with my children and grandchildren one more time."
We shared the wine, the bread, the benediction.
I did not finish my sermon.
But I have this: Lowly. He had to be lowly. He had to be the lowliest, to reach all of us.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Feeding My Dad
I went to visit my dad yesterday, at the nursing home.
I was trying to get there about mid-morning. My mom has said that he is better in the mornings, or later in the afternoon. But then I needed to proof-read the Sunday bulletins, and make a couple of phone calls, and try to make a couple of appointments with homebound members, and help find a microphone for the people who will be using the fellowship hall today. So I got there just before lunchtime.
These days, I don't always recognize him for a minute when I first walk in. He was sitting in his latest wheelchair, which is huge and can be used for reclining. He used to have these lah-di-dah motorized wheelchairs, but he doesn't need them any more. Now, it's the comfort that matters.
I looked at this old man in his wheelchair, sitting at the head of one of the tables, and for a minute I stared at him and thought, "Is that my dad? He looks so old." But as I got closer I knew that it was him. They had cut his hair recently, and it looked nice. But he didn't have that nice wave in his hair any more, like when he was young.
I moved toward his table, and one of the aides volunteered to move him to another table, so that I could sit next to him. "He's a feeder," they said. "Do you want to feed him?" I said that I would.
I sat down next to him, and spoke into his ear. He tried to talk, and mostly stuttered, but he grabbed my hand. His hand was warm. In a little while, the food came: egg bake and red jello, carrots and peas, mandarin orange salad. I put a little jello up to his mouth, and waited for him to eat it.
Meanwhile, a social worker from hospice stopped by. They are just starting to come and visit my dad, and I was glad to meet her. She stayed and asked me some questions. Since I was feeding my dad jello, I remembered how we all used to go out on Sunday after church to the Forum cafeteria downtown. It was just an ordinary cafeteria in some ways, but it had this awesome art deco architecture. It was a great building. And they had every color of jello at the Forum cafeteria.
I got my dad to eat a little of the egg bake too. I could tell he was getting sleepy, but he ate most of the egg bake, and some of the jello. I thought about how he used to make us toast in the morning (he was not really a cook); sometimes he would put the peanut butter on the toast and forget and start to eat it himself. And we would shout, "Dad! That's our toast!"
The social worker asked me this question, "Did he used to be a sweet man?" I know what she meant, but it startled me. Suddenly I got this urge to find pictures for her, pictures of the dad I knew. I took out my iPad and found two very very old pictures, taken when I was a baby. I particularly wanted her to see the wave he used to have in his hair.
The picture I really wanted her to see was not so old, and was taken at my sister's wedding, many years ago. I like my dad's crinkly smile in that picture. He looks so happy.
Yes. He was a sweet man. Maybe he was a little too tender-hearted sometimes. I think he let my mom be the "bad cop" more than she really wanted to be. But he had a sentimental streak a mile wide. He really thought that love conquered all. His favorite movie was Pollyanna. He liked dogs. Our cat: not so much.
He enjoyed tinkering with radios and fixing televisions. He enjoyed talking to people. He wasn't that ambitious. The most important thing to him was that he took care of us.
So now, I'm taking care of him. Not as much as I should. Just once in awhile. I'm taking care of him, and singing in his ear and remembering.
I was trying to get there about mid-morning. My mom has said that he is better in the mornings, or later in the afternoon. But then I needed to proof-read the Sunday bulletins, and make a couple of phone calls, and try to make a couple of appointments with homebound members, and help find a microphone for the people who will be using the fellowship hall today. So I got there just before lunchtime.
These days, I don't always recognize him for a minute when I first walk in. He was sitting in his latest wheelchair, which is huge and can be used for reclining. He used to have these lah-di-dah motorized wheelchairs, but he doesn't need them any more. Now, it's the comfort that matters.
I looked at this old man in his wheelchair, sitting at the head of one of the tables, and for a minute I stared at him and thought, "Is that my dad? He looks so old." But as I got closer I knew that it was him. They had cut his hair recently, and it looked nice. But he didn't have that nice wave in his hair any more, like when he was young.
I moved toward his table, and one of the aides volunteered to move him to another table, so that I could sit next to him. "He's a feeder," they said. "Do you want to feed him?" I said that I would.
I sat down next to him, and spoke into his ear. He tried to talk, and mostly stuttered, but he grabbed my hand. His hand was warm. In a little while, the food came: egg bake and red jello, carrots and peas, mandarin orange salad. I put a little jello up to his mouth, and waited for him to eat it.
Meanwhile, a social worker from hospice stopped by. They are just starting to come and visit my dad, and I was glad to meet her. She stayed and asked me some questions. Since I was feeding my dad jello, I remembered how we all used to go out on Sunday after church to the Forum cafeteria downtown. It was just an ordinary cafeteria in some ways, but it had this awesome art deco architecture. It was a great building. And they had every color of jello at the Forum cafeteria.
I got my dad to eat a little of the egg bake too. I could tell he was getting sleepy, but he ate most of the egg bake, and some of the jello. I thought about how he used to make us toast in the morning (he was not really a cook); sometimes he would put the peanut butter on the toast and forget and start to eat it himself. And we would shout, "Dad! That's our toast!"
The social worker asked me this question, "Did he used to be a sweet man?" I know what she meant, but it startled me. Suddenly I got this urge to find pictures for her, pictures of the dad I knew. I took out my iPad and found two very very old pictures, taken when I was a baby. I particularly wanted her to see the wave he used to have in his hair.
The picture I really wanted her to see was not so old, and was taken at my sister's wedding, many years ago. I like my dad's crinkly smile in that picture. He looks so happy.Yes. He was a sweet man. Maybe he was a little too tender-hearted sometimes. I think he let my mom be the "bad cop" more than she really wanted to be. But he had a sentimental streak a mile wide. He really thought that love conquered all. His favorite movie was Pollyanna. He liked dogs. Our cat: not so much.
He enjoyed tinkering with radios and fixing televisions. He enjoyed talking to people. He wasn't that ambitious. The most important thing to him was that he took care of us.
So now, I'm taking care of him. Not as much as I should. Just once in awhile. I'm taking care of him, and singing in his ear and remembering.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Being a Pastor to a Pastor
I used to love to watch him and his wife, sitting in the front row at church every Sunday. He always took copious notes during the sermon. I learned that he called one of his daughters every Sunday night, and they compared notes about what they had heard on Sunday morning.
His first parish was in Hayti, South Dakota, not far from the small three-point parish where I had served for four years. I couldn't believe that he knew well those small towns where I had just come from. His last call had been as the senior pastor of a large suburban church. But he had now been semi-retired for many years. He served part-time as a visitation pastor at a neighboring church. But he worshiped with us.
Later on, when his wife became ill, I used to visit them both every month. We'd read scripture, pray and share communion. The first time I tried to pray the traditional version of the Lord's prayer, he gently told me, "We pray the newer version."
My colleague, the senior pastor, told me once that this retired pastor requested that I be the one to come and visit his wife. She was diagnosed with Alzheimers. Oftentimes when I visited, she would be anxious or afraid. She would say, "Don't leave me." He would answer, "I'm not going anywhere." She would say to him, "Your face is so wrinkled. How did your face get so wrinkled?" And he would just smile and hold her hand.
He was a tireless advocate for justice; he believed that care for the vulnerable was at the heart of the gospel. He often would go with me to the large rallies for our local faith-based organizing group.
He had a large garden, with tomatoes and sweet corn and beans and beets. Maybe he should have been a farmer. Maybe he was, in a way.
The other thing I noticed was that when he came to worship, I could tell he was remembering the Words of Institution. He would say them silently along with me.
Just two days ago we got a call here in the office that he had begun hospice care.
I went to his home. One of his daughters was with him.
I did not feel wise that day. He is wise. He has been praying with people, and comforting people, and reading to people for so many years. He has been sitting by hospital beds and in nursing homes for so many years.
This is what we did: We read about the trumpets in 1 Corinthians 15. I read from the gospel of John, the part when Mary mistakes Jesus for a gardener.
I did not feel wise. But I said, "It looks like soon you will be seeing Virginia (his wife) and Jesus." I said that it's hard when there are people you love here and people you love there.
And I prayed for strength for the journey.
His first parish was in Hayti, South Dakota, not far from the small three-point parish where I had served for four years. I couldn't believe that he knew well those small towns where I had just come from. His last call had been as the senior pastor of a large suburban church. But he had now been semi-retired for many years. He served part-time as a visitation pastor at a neighboring church. But he worshiped with us.
Later on, when his wife became ill, I used to visit them both every month. We'd read scripture, pray and share communion. The first time I tried to pray the traditional version of the Lord's prayer, he gently told me, "We pray the newer version."
My colleague, the senior pastor, told me once that this retired pastor requested that I be the one to come and visit his wife. She was diagnosed with Alzheimers. Oftentimes when I visited, she would be anxious or afraid. She would say, "Don't leave me." He would answer, "I'm not going anywhere." She would say to him, "Your face is so wrinkled. How did your face get so wrinkled?" And he would just smile and hold her hand.
He was a tireless advocate for justice; he believed that care for the vulnerable was at the heart of the gospel. He often would go with me to the large rallies for our local faith-based organizing group.
He had a large garden, with tomatoes and sweet corn and beans and beets. Maybe he should have been a farmer. Maybe he was, in a way.
The other thing I noticed was that when he came to worship, I could tell he was remembering the Words of Institution. He would say them silently along with me.
Just two days ago we got a call here in the office that he had begun hospice care.
I went to his home. One of his daughters was with him.
I did not feel wise that day. He is wise. He has been praying with people, and comforting people, and reading to people for so many years. He has been sitting by hospital beds and in nursing homes for so many years.
This is what we did: We read about the trumpets in 1 Corinthians 15. I read from the gospel of John, the part when Mary mistakes Jesus for a gardener.
I did not feel wise. But I said, "It looks like soon you will be seeing Virginia (his wife) and Jesus." I said that it's hard when there are people you love here and people you love there.
And I prayed for strength for the journey.
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