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.
Showing posts with label memory loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memory loss. Show all posts
Saturday, September 17, 2016
Monday, November 24, 2014
Memory Loss
Earlier this fall, I was invited to attend a workshop hosted by our local Council of Churches. The subject was Alzheimers and other forms of dementia. I wanted to go despite the fact that it's not easy to find time when juggling a busy pastoral schedule. There are the workshops about Alzheimers and then there are people to visit who are struggling with their own, or their spouse's, or one of their parents' memory loss. When I think of the shut-ins in my one congregation, when I go down the list and name them and remember them, the number who are experiencing some form of memory loss startles me. In funeral sermons, it often becomes a theme: God remembers, even when we do not. God has inscribed us on the palms of God's hands. God keeps our days and our deeds in God's peace.
The workshop, however, was not so interested in the theological themes of my funeral sermons. The workshop was interested in care and in advocacy. The workshop was interested in early diagnosis, sanctuary, and care. What makes a congregation a safe place for those experiencing memory loss? Do we know our members well enough to know when they begin to lose their memory?
I was startled to learn that Alzheimers, as well as other forms of dementia, is considered a public health crisis. It is a public health crisis, although I don't remember hearing anything about it before I went to this workshop. Even afterwards, I listen for a mention on the news and don't hear anything. There are plenty of stories about Ebola, but nothing about Alzheimers. I am not good at statistics, but I remember at the workshop that they said it is a public health crisis now, and that it is going to get worse. It is worse in communities of color.
The other thing I remember is this: There are some forms of memory loss that are natural as we age. But Alzheimers is not a part of the normal aging process. It is a disease.
I remember back to the days when we were told that if we kept our minds active, doing crossword puzzles and reading and thinking, we could keep memory loss at bay. There are things we could do to reduce our chances. But when I look at my congregation, I know there are former avid readers and cross-word do-ers among those who are losing their memory.
There is one woman I visit who does not remember that her husband died thirty years ago. She thinks he died last year. Or last month. However, every time I mention the name of our church, she beams. "I go to that church," she tells me. Another woman imagines herself a little girl again, playing with her dolls. Sometimes she has long conversations with her husband, who has been dead for many years. One man became violent and his daughter had to remove him from one nursing home to another. But then, in the car, he suddenly said, 'I love you', something she had never heard him say. She almost drove off the road.
I remember visiting a lovely retired couple in their home. Every month I would bring them communion. He had ALS; she was legally blind. We had these wonderful conversations about music, art and travel until he became unable to speak; he could only blink his eyes yes, and no. After he died, I continued to visit her for a time. I remember how excited she was when she got one of those reading contraptions and she could suddenly read the Bible and her devotional books again for the first time. She was an active participant in a Bible study, and loved it.
And then, suddenly, and very quickly, she lost her memory. She became unable to care for herself, and finally, to speak.
At her funeral, I saw a picture of her in a nurse's uniform, during World War II, and realized how little I knew about her life. How little we know about each other's lives.
I'm struggling with this: that I do believe that it is our responsibility, part of the church's responsibility, to pay attention, to remember, to keep safe the vulnerable ones among us.
But how can we, if we are all losing our memory?
The workshop, however, was not so interested in the theological themes of my funeral sermons. The workshop was interested in care and in advocacy. The workshop was interested in early diagnosis, sanctuary, and care. What makes a congregation a safe place for those experiencing memory loss? Do we know our members well enough to know when they begin to lose their memory? I was startled to learn that Alzheimers, as well as other forms of dementia, is considered a public health crisis. It is a public health crisis, although I don't remember hearing anything about it before I went to this workshop. Even afterwards, I listen for a mention on the news and don't hear anything. There are plenty of stories about Ebola, but nothing about Alzheimers. I am not good at statistics, but I remember at the workshop that they said it is a public health crisis now, and that it is going to get worse. It is worse in communities of color.
The other thing I remember is this: There are some forms of memory loss that are natural as we age. But Alzheimers is not a part of the normal aging process. It is a disease.
I remember back to the days when we were told that if we kept our minds active, doing crossword puzzles and reading and thinking, we could keep memory loss at bay. There are things we could do to reduce our chances. But when I look at my congregation, I know there are former avid readers and cross-word do-ers among those who are losing their memory.
There is one woman I visit who does not remember that her husband died thirty years ago. She thinks he died last year. Or last month. However, every time I mention the name of our church, she beams. "I go to that church," she tells me. Another woman imagines herself a little girl again, playing with her dolls. Sometimes she has long conversations with her husband, who has been dead for many years. One man became violent and his daughter had to remove him from one nursing home to another. But then, in the car, he suddenly said, 'I love you', something she had never heard him say. She almost drove off the road.
I remember visiting a lovely retired couple in their home. Every month I would bring them communion. He had ALS; she was legally blind. We had these wonderful conversations about music, art and travel until he became unable to speak; he could only blink his eyes yes, and no. After he died, I continued to visit her for a time. I remember how excited she was when she got one of those reading contraptions and she could suddenly read the Bible and her devotional books again for the first time. She was an active participant in a Bible study, and loved it.
And then, suddenly, and very quickly, she lost her memory. She became unable to care for herself, and finally, to speak.
At her funeral, I saw a picture of her in a nurse's uniform, during World War II, and realized how little I knew about her life. How little we know about each other's lives.
I'm struggling with this: that I do believe that it is our responsibility, part of the church's responsibility, to pay attention, to remember, to keep safe the vulnerable ones among us.
But how can we, if we are all losing our memory?
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Conversations
Sometimes I think that my real job is having conversations.
The other day the Office Manager buzzed my office phone. "There is someone here who wants to talk to a pastor", she said. "Do you have time?" I said yes, I would be right out.
I know what this means, usually. Usually "someone wants to speak with a pastor" means someone is looking for a gas voucher, or a few groceries, or some help for the bus. Not always, but usually.
I greeted the man sitting in the reception area, and invited him to come back to my office. "How can I help you?" I asked.
He told me a little of his story. As it turns out, he was about my age. He had grown up in this area, but hadn't been back since he served Vietnam. He had gone over for a year in 1972. Since then he had lived in a variety of places. He had must moved back to a Small City near here because we are know for having a good VA system. (We do, I think.) He told me that his mother had been the first African-American nurse in one of our local hospitals. He talked about some of the advocacy work he had done in his life. He said that he still struggled with Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
He said he had been looking for churches in his city, but hadn't found the right one yet. Still, he found the people around here pretty friendly. I was glad to hear it. I hoped that it continued to be true. I secretly wished he had moved to my city. I'd invite him to worship with us.
He did need a gas voucher, he said, so that he could get back to the Small City where he now lived. I gave him a gas voucher, and was grateful for the conversation. We blessed each other as he left.
A few days later, I went to visit at a building that had a security code. I was looking for a parish member who had moved, but it turned out that she only moved one building down. The receptionist gave me the code, which I pressed to get in.
She used to be a regular worshipper at our early service. I remember exactly where she sat, on the aisle, in the middle. She had this unmistakable raspy voice, and she always grabbed my hand and asked how I was doing. She came to church by herself, early enough to get that aisle seat.
She hadn't been to church in a long time, but I recognized her. She was in a wheelchair now, but she had the same voice. I don't think she remembered who I was, but when I told her I was from church, her face lit up. "I go to that church," she said. "I know," I replied. "I remember you. You always sat in the same place."
"I moved here two months ago," she told me. I wasn't sure if that was true, but I went along with her. "My husband died two years ago," she said. She had been a widow ever since I knew her. We talked for awhile. She asked me again who I was. I told her I was from the church. She smiled, well, beamed, really. "I go to that church," she said.
She showed me pictures of her two sons, and their families. She was proud of them. I admired the pictures, admired the room. Said it was a great place. "Do you like it?"
She did. "Would you like someone to come and visit you, and give you communion, someone from the church?" I asked. She thought that was a great idea. When I said the name of the church, she smiled again. "That's my church," she said.
"My husband died two months ago," she said. "I am sorry to hear that," I told her, even though I knew she had been a widow for many years. She looked me in the face and said, "You're very pretty." I smiled. "I'm eighty-eight years old," she said.
Before I left, I mentioned again that someone would come to visit her from the church. "That's my church," she said, again. "I know. I remember you. I remember where you always sat."
Sometimes I think that my real job is having conversations: simple, small, ordinary conversations.
It keeps me humble to think it.
The other day the Office Manager buzzed my office phone. "There is someone here who wants to talk to a pastor", she said. "Do you have time?" I said yes, I would be right out.
I know what this means, usually. Usually "someone wants to speak with a pastor" means someone is looking for a gas voucher, or a few groceries, or some help for the bus. Not always, but usually.
I greeted the man sitting in the reception area, and invited him to come back to my office. "How can I help you?" I asked.
He told me a little of his story. As it turns out, he was about my age. He had grown up in this area, but hadn't been back since he served Vietnam. He had gone over for a year in 1972. Since then he had lived in a variety of places. He had must moved back to a Small City near here because we are know for having a good VA system. (We do, I think.) He told me that his mother had been the first African-American nurse in one of our local hospitals. He talked about some of the advocacy work he had done in his life. He said that he still struggled with Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
He said he had been looking for churches in his city, but hadn't found the right one yet. Still, he found the people around here pretty friendly. I was glad to hear it. I hoped that it continued to be true. I secretly wished he had moved to my city. I'd invite him to worship with us.
He did need a gas voucher, he said, so that he could get back to the Small City where he now lived. I gave him a gas voucher, and was grateful for the conversation. We blessed each other as he left.
A few days later, I went to visit at a building that had a security code. I was looking for a parish member who had moved, but it turned out that she only moved one building down. The receptionist gave me the code, which I pressed to get in.
She used to be a regular worshipper at our early service. I remember exactly where she sat, on the aisle, in the middle. She had this unmistakable raspy voice, and she always grabbed my hand and asked how I was doing. She came to church by herself, early enough to get that aisle seat.
She hadn't been to church in a long time, but I recognized her. She was in a wheelchair now, but she had the same voice. I don't think she remembered who I was, but when I told her I was from church, her face lit up. "I go to that church," she said. "I know," I replied. "I remember you. You always sat in the same place."
"I moved here two months ago," she told me. I wasn't sure if that was true, but I went along with her. "My husband died two years ago," she said. She had been a widow ever since I knew her. We talked for awhile. She asked me again who I was. I told her I was from the church. She smiled, well, beamed, really. "I go to that church," she said.
She showed me pictures of her two sons, and their families. She was proud of them. I admired the pictures, admired the room. Said it was a great place. "Do you like it?"
She did. "Would you like someone to come and visit you, and give you communion, someone from the church?" I asked. She thought that was a great idea. When I said the name of the church, she smiled again. "That's my church," she said.
"My husband died two months ago," she said. "I am sorry to hear that," I told her, even though I knew she had been a widow for many years. She looked me in the face and said, "You're very pretty." I smiled. "I'm eighty-eight years old," she said.
Before I left, I mentioned again that someone would come to visit her from the church. "That's my church," she said, again. "I know. I remember you. I remember where you always sat."
Sometimes I think that my real job is having conversations: simple, small, ordinary conversations.
It keeps me humble to think it.
Monday, August 11, 2014
If I Don't Write it Down, I Might Forget
Not long after I arrived at this current congregation many years ago, we began to get a phone call every Saturday afternoon. The caller always asked who was preaching that weekend.
The Saturday receptionist started getting curious, so the phone calls got a little longer. The caller was an elderly gentleman who usually came to the early service on Sunday morning. He wanted to know if the associate pastor was preaching. He liked the preaching of the associate pastor, and would make sure to come she was the one who was preaching.
We had a little joke about it. The receptionist called him my "fan." It is nice to have a fan, I decided. If I was in the office when he called, sometimes she would transfer the call back to me. When I saw him on Sunday morning, I would say hello to him and ask him how he was doing. He had a round face and thick glasses and a great smile. He looked like an elderly scholar.
I know that he had a family, because he talked about them, but I didn't know them. I never met them. He came to church by myself. There were a few other widowers who liked to come to the early service. They always sat together.
I don't remember his name any more.
At some point, the Saturday afternoon calls stopped.
We did a little checking, and found out that he was in a nursing home nearby. We put him on our shut-in list. I asked to visit him, but we had a seminary intern at the time, and the other pastor felt that it was better for the seminary intern to be the regular visitor, since he made other visits at the same nursing home.
Even so, I did stop by on occasion, especially when I was leading a church service at the facility. He seemed to move around a lot in the nursing home. Or, maybe I just didn't visit as often as I should have.
One day, when I came into his room to visit with him, he looked at me over his thick glasses and said, "Who are you?"
It broke my heart, just a little.
And then, one day, I went to visit him and he wasn't there. He had died.
No one called us.
I don't remember his name any more.
I'm writing this so that I don't forget. And if I do, maybe someone else will tell the story.
The Saturday receptionist started getting curious, so the phone calls got a little longer. The caller was an elderly gentleman who usually came to the early service on Sunday morning. He wanted to know if the associate pastor was preaching. He liked the preaching of the associate pastor, and would make sure to come she was the one who was preaching.
We had a little joke about it. The receptionist called him my "fan." It is nice to have a fan, I decided. If I was in the office when he called, sometimes she would transfer the call back to me. When I saw him on Sunday morning, I would say hello to him and ask him how he was doing. He had a round face and thick glasses and a great smile. He looked like an elderly scholar.
I know that he had a family, because he talked about them, but I didn't know them. I never met them. He came to church by myself. There were a few other widowers who liked to come to the early service. They always sat together.
I don't remember his name any more.
At some point, the Saturday afternoon calls stopped.
We did a little checking, and found out that he was in a nursing home nearby. We put him on our shut-in list. I asked to visit him, but we had a seminary intern at the time, and the other pastor felt that it was better for the seminary intern to be the regular visitor, since he made other visits at the same nursing home.
Even so, I did stop by on occasion, especially when I was leading a church service at the facility. He seemed to move around a lot in the nursing home. Or, maybe I just didn't visit as often as I should have.
One day, when I came into his room to visit with him, he looked at me over his thick glasses and said, "Who are you?"
It broke my heart, just a little.
And then, one day, I went to visit him and he wasn't there. He had died.
No one called us.
I don't remember his name any more.
I'm writing this so that I don't forget. And if I do, maybe someone else will tell the story.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Inscribed On the Palms of God's Hands
On Tuesday, I had a funeral for a woman who had Alzheimers. In the past, she had been very visible around church, active and opinionated and doing a lot of things. But for several years, she had been living in a nursing home and didn't know anyone. Someone told me, though, that she had a church directory and perked up whenever someone pulled it out and started paging through it.
For some reason, I decided to use a short passage from Isaiah 49 for one of the readings. Israel is complaining that God has forgotten her. God replies, "Can a woman forget her nursing child? ...Even these may forget, but I will never forget you. You are inscribed on the palms of my hands."
Even if you forget (and we do, even if we do not have Alzheimer's Disease), God will not forget you.
Even though this woman didn't remember any more, she still had friends who came to visit her, who paged through the church directory with her, who sang hymns to her. They reminded her of God's promises, promises that she had forgotten. And they remembered for her, when she could not remember.
So this is part of the Holy Spirit's work in us, and through us: to remind one another of God's promises, to keep saying and singing and praying: "You are a child of God. " To keep tracing the sign of the cross on each other's foreheads. To hold each other's hands, and say, "this is what God's hand feels like."
Remembering is holy work. But we don't just remember with our minds. We remember with our eyes and our ears, our hands and our feet.
Jesus' whole life is God remembering us. Jesus' whole life, his death, his resurrection is God, inscribing us on the palms of his hands.
For some reason, I decided to use a short passage from Isaiah 49 for one of the readings. Israel is complaining that God has forgotten her. God replies, "Can a woman forget her nursing child? ...Even these may forget, but I will never forget you. You are inscribed on the palms of my hands."
Even if you forget (and we do, even if we do not have Alzheimer's Disease), God will not forget you.
Even though this woman didn't remember any more, she still had friends who came to visit her, who paged through the church directory with her, who sang hymns to her. They reminded her of God's promises, promises that she had forgotten. And they remembered for her, when she could not remember.
So this is part of the Holy Spirit's work in us, and through us: to remind one another of God's promises, to keep saying and singing and praying: "You are a child of God. " To keep tracing the sign of the cross on each other's foreheads. To hold each other's hands, and say, "this is what God's hand feels like."
Remembering is holy work. But we don't just remember with our minds. We remember with our eyes and our ears, our hands and our feet.
Jesus' whole life is God remembering us. Jesus' whole life, his death, his resurrection is God, inscribing us on the palms of his hands.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)