The patron saint of Berkeley Chapel is St. Luke, so tonight, we celebrated our patronal feast with Bishop Abraham Nhial of the Diocese of Aweil in the new nation of South Sudan as celebrant. In recognition of Luke not only as evangelist but as healer, we had healing stations during communion for those who were so inclined to go for healing and anointing. Since Seth died, I have avoided this, knowing how sensitive I am emotionally in contemplating that enormous loss and how difficult it would be for me to ask for healing for something I am not at all sure can be healed. However, tonight, I did go forward to our Associate Dean of Students, The Rev. Julie Kelsey, and told her I would really like for my broken heart to be healed. And she said a beautiful prayer and blessed me and anointed me with oil, and the tears came, as I knew they would.
I returned to my seat and prayed, and the tears stopped. But when I opened my eyes, there was a line of people waiting for healing, and directly in front of me was a woman who battled cancer all last year standing with her teenaged son. And as they waited in line, she was hugging him from behind or they had their hands intertwined, and it was such a beautiful and loving scene. And then my heart felt torn apart once again because I can't hold Seth or hug him or hold his hand or sing with him as this woman was doing. I don't know if the flood of tears that drenched my face had any healing power in them at all, but the warmth of the hand of the woman next to me and the shared tears of the one on the other side of me and the prayers that enveloped me at least let me know that I am loved and not alone. Although no one can know for sure how this death of my beloved son feels to me, that can at least walk with me in my grief, and that is an immeasurable gift.
At the end of our Wednesday Eucharist, our Dean, Joseph Britton, usually makes a slew of announcements or invites them from the congregation. Realizing that the atmosphere in the chapel this evening was charged with emotion and a healing presence, he dismissed with those announcements altogether. It was a remarkable display of sensitivity and grace.
Thank you to all of those who weep with me, who pray for me even when I am not aware of your prayers, and who love me in my sorrow as well as my joy. And thanks to Luke the Physician for being able to work healing in unexpected ways. Even when the heartbreak itself is beyond repair, grace abounds in the love we share in this community of faith. Thanks be to God.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
On Thursday, a 29-year-old Yale alum who oversaw the Music in the Schools program jumped to his death from the 4th floor of one of the buildings belonging to the school of music. I immediately went back two years and seven months to the moment I learned that Seth had attempted suicide, not yet knowing that he had succeeded. This young man's parents had to make the same drive from Poughkeepsie to New Haven that Tim and I made from Downingtown to Brooklyn. It was the worst night of my life, as I'm sure it was the worst day for them. And their nightmare has only just begun. At least I have had some time for the grief to be less acute, the memories not all painful, but I remember so well the questioning and the guilt and the regrets. So I wrote a piece for the Yale Daily News and submitted it this afternoon. It may or may not be published, but I felt compelled to write it anyway. It would seem that the new story of my life that has arisen out of the old is to reach out in whatever way I can. For now, that is the best that I can do. May John Miller rest in peace.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I did not know John Miller. Judging by the accounts I’ve read, he was extremely talented and, given the work he did in New Haven schools, I imagine he was also full of life, funny and fun, and self-giving to a fault. My son, Seth Alan Peterson, was like that, too. He was also like John in another way. He too committed suicide, dying at age 24 two years and seven months ago. Finishing up his theater studies at NYU and living in Brooklyn, he had a bright future ahead of him. In the summer of 2008, he was chosen as one of Broadway’s Rising Stars, performing on stage at Broadway’s Town Hall, demonstrating his extraordinary voice and acting talent. Seven months later he was dead.
Suicide brings on a very particular and peculiar kind of grief. The guilt and second-guessing and pure horror that someone could end one’s own life cause excruciating pain for family and friends. I have learned more about this than I care to know in the time since Seth died, and I thought it might be helpful to share some of that hard-earned knowledge.
You could not have prevented it. Even if you think that you could have on that particular occasion, there is no guarantee that it would not have happened some other time. If you are wondering why you didn’t go with John or ask him to come over if he seemed out of sorts, don’t take the blame on yourself. Seth’s roommate was in an adjoining room when he died. Having someone nearby made no difference at all.
If you’re trying to make rational sense of how something like this could happen to someone with such talent and such a bright future, you really can’t think about it rationally because there is no rational explanation. Normal people, those who are not sick in some way, do not kill themselves. Our most basic human instinct is for survival, so to cause one’s own demise subverts that in ways our healthy intellects can’t imagine.
If you’re thinking that John made a choice to end his life, I don’t really buy that. Whatever was tormenting him – depression, mental illness, some event that threw his mental wiring off kilter – that is what killed him. As I said before, it isn’t a rational choice. Suicides are committed by people driven to it by their own distorted mental and emotional reality. It isn’t really a choice.
The best way to come to terms with the death of someone who simply did not wish to live any more is to talk with others who have lived through it. I could not have survived my son’s death without the support of family and friends, my church community, and the care of others who have lost loved ones to suicide. It won’t make the pain go away, but it does help to know that you’re not the only one asking crazy questions and having morbid thoughts and trying to figure out the inexplicable.
I knew that Seth had contemplated suicide. I knew that he already decided how he would carry it out. At the time of his death, however, he was on an upswing, not a danger to himself according to his therapist. So even though he had a plan, the act itself was impulsive. In that moment, I don’t think that any thought of those he would leave behind in broken grief even occurred to him. Nor did my making a pact with him to call me if he reached that point. This is the nasty reality of suicide prevention. People have to be reached before they get to that point of no return. There is help available both here on campus, through your own health care professional, or through organizations such as The National Alliance on Mental Illness or The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Raise your awareness. Talk to someone. And know that those worst moments do pass.
When I heard the news of John Miller’s death, I was taken back to the interminable car ride my husband and I made to Brooklyn in the wee hours of the morning, hoping that Seth was still alive up to the moment we received a phone call from a police detective telling us he didn’t make it. John’s parents made a similar car ride from Poughkeepsie. That horror, that unimaginable grief, however, was not the end of the story. There is life after death. While I still don’t fully understand how I am supposed to make some good out of the tragedy of my son’s death, at the least I can bear witness that, even in its worst times, life is good and worth living.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I did not know John Miller. Judging by the accounts I’ve read, he was extremely talented and, given the work he did in New Haven schools, I imagine he was also full of life, funny and fun, and self-giving to a fault. My son, Seth Alan Peterson, was like that, too. He was also like John in another way. He too committed suicide, dying at age 24 two years and seven months ago. Finishing up his theater studies at NYU and living in Brooklyn, he had a bright future ahead of him. In the summer of 2008, he was chosen as one of Broadway’s Rising Stars, performing on stage at Broadway’s Town Hall, demonstrating his extraordinary voice and acting talent. Seven months later he was dead.
Suicide brings on a very particular and peculiar kind of grief. The guilt and second-guessing and pure horror that someone could end one’s own life cause excruciating pain for family and friends. I have learned more about this than I care to know in the time since Seth died, and I thought it might be helpful to share some of that hard-earned knowledge.
You could not have prevented it. Even if you think that you could have on that particular occasion, there is no guarantee that it would not have happened some other time. If you are wondering why you didn’t go with John or ask him to come over if he seemed out of sorts, don’t take the blame on yourself. Seth’s roommate was in an adjoining room when he died. Having someone nearby made no difference at all.
If you’re trying to make rational sense of how something like this could happen to someone with such talent and such a bright future, you really can’t think about it rationally because there is no rational explanation. Normal people, those who are not sick in some way, do not kill themselves. Our most basic human instinct is for survival, so to cause one’s own demise subverts that in ways our healthy intellects can’t imagine.
If you’re thinking that John made a choice to end his life, I don’t really buy that. Whatever was tormenting him – depression, mental illness, some event that threw his mental wiring off kilter – that is what killed him. As I said before, it isn’t a rational choice. Suicides are committed by people driven to it by their own distorted mental and emotional reality. It isn’t really a choice.
The best way to come to terms with the death of someone who simply did not wish to live any more is to talk with others who have lived through it. I could not have survived my son’s death without the support of family and friends, my church community, and the care of others who have lost loved ones to suicide. It won’t make the pain go away, but it does help to know that you’re not the only one asking crazy questions and having morbid thoughts and trying to figure out the inexplicable.
I knew that Seth had contemplated suicide. I knew that he already decided how he would carry it out. At the time of his death, however, he was on an upswing, not a danger to himself according to his therapist. So even though he had a plan, the act itself was impulsive. In that moment, I don’t think that any thought of those he would leave behind in broken grief even occurred to him. Nor did my making a pact with him to call me if he reached that point. This is the nasty reality of suicide prevention. People have to be reached before they get to that point of no return. There is help available both here on campus, through your own health care professional, or through organizations such as The National Alliance on Mental Illness or The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Raise your awareness. Talk to someone. And know that those worst moments do pass.
When I heard the news of John Miller’s death, I was taken back to the interminable car ride my husband and I made to Brooklyn in the wee hours of the morning, hoping that Seth was still alive up to the moment we received a phone call from a police detective telling us he didn’t make it. John’s parents made a similar car ride from Poughkeepsie. That horror, that unimaginable grief, however, was not the end of the story. There is life after death. While I still don’t fully understand how I am supposed to make some good out of the tragedy of my son’s death, at the least I can bear witness that, even in its worst times, life is good and worth living.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Ruins and High Kirks and Eid lights, oh my!
My time in Coventry is almost at an end, and I've yet to post a single thing about this extraordinary experience. It has been a wonderful adventure, but the work has kept me busier than I expected as I've read through files and archives of all that's happened with reconciliation ministry here at the cathedral as far back as the bombing on 14 November 1940. In the next couple of days, I will try to synthesize what I've learned from my reading as well as interviews with staff to come up with some kind of business plan (or at least a strategic framework) for the Community of the Cross of Nails moving forward.
Here are just a few highlights:
Just days before the bombing during that night in 1940, Provost (Dean) Richard Howard had included as part of his Remembrance Day prayers this bold petition:
This didn't win him too many friends. However, he followed that with this Christmas message just over one month later:
Tradition has it that the day after the destruction, Howard took a piece of charred wood and scrawled on the wall of the apse the words "Father, forgive." Not "forgive them" as Jesus said on the cross, but just "forgive," meaning "forgive all of us." In 1948, the words were carved into that wall as a permanent reminder of our call to forgive as well as to pray for our own forgiveness.
This message is what drew me to this place, a profound and prophetic message of radical reconciliation, acknowledgement of our own sins, that log in our own eye, in our efforts to build a more just world. That is why the Litany of Reconciliation, drafted in 1959, is based on the Seven Deadly Sins - we must recognize our own sinfulness and our own responsibility for the evil that plagues the world before we can hope to be messengers of peace and reconciliation.
Here are just a few highlights:
Just days before the bombing during that night in 1940, Provost (Dean) Richard Howard had included as part of his Remembrance Day prayers this bold petition:
Let us pray for our enemies:
Lord of boundless love, who in thine hour of agony
didst pray for those who nailed thee to the Cross,
we beseech thee for our enemies
that thou wouldest turn their hearts and incline them to mercy.
So that when this hour of conflict is passed
they and we may be united in the bonds of Christian love
and work together as friends
the advancement of thy kingdom by the power of thy Son,
Jesus Christ our Lord.
Lord of boundless love, who in thine hour of agony
didst pray for those who nailed thee to the Cross,
we beseech thee for our enemies
that thou wouldest turn their hearts and incline them to mercy.
So that when this hour of conflict is passed
they and we may be united in the bonds of Christian love
and work together as friends
the advancement of thy kingdom by the power of thy Son,
Jesus Christ our Lord.
This didn't win him too many friends. However, he followed that with this Christmas message just over one month later:
What we want to tell the world is this:
that with Christ born again in our hearts today,
we are trying, hard as it may be, to banish all thoughts of revenge;
we are bracing ourselves to finish the tremendous job
of saving the world from tyranny and cruelty;
we are going to try to make a kinder, simpler –
a more Christ-Child-like sort of world in the days beyond this strife.
that with Christ born again in our hearts today,
we are trying, hard as it may be, to banish all thoughts of revenge;
we are bracing ourselves to finish the tremendous job
of saving the world from tyranny and cruelty;
we are going to try to make a kinder, simpler –
a more Christ-Child-like sort of world in the days beyond this strife.
Tradition has it that the day after the destruction, Howard took a piece of charred wood and scrawled on the wall of the apse the words "Father, forgive." Not "forgive them" as Jesus said on the cross, but just "forgive," meaning "forgive all of us." In 1948, the words were carved into that wall as a permanent reminder of our call to forgive as well as to pray for our own forgiveness.
This message is what drew me to this place, a profound and prophetic message of radical reconciliation, acknowledgement of our own sins, that log in our own eye, in our efforts to build a more just world. That is why the Litany of Reconciliation, drafted in 1959, is based on the Seven Deadly Sins - we must recognize our own sinfulness and our own responsibility for the evil that plagues the world before we can hope to be messengers of peace and reconciliation.
All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.
The hatred which divides nation from nation, race from race, class from class,
Father forgive.
The covetous desires of people and nations to possess what is not their own,
Father forgive.
The greed which exploits the work of human hands and lays waste the earth,
Father forgive.
Our envy of the welfare and happiness of others,
Father forgive.
Our indifference to the plight of the imprisoned, the homeless, the refugee,
Father forgive.
The lust which dishonours the bodies of men, women and children,
Father forgive.
The pride which leads us to trust in ourselves and not in God,
Father forgive.
Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.
To gather with a group of faithful pilgrims on a Friday at noon to pray the
litany in the ruins of the cathedral and to celebrate the Eucharist is a
powerful and humbling reminder of all the forces in our world that bend toward
destruction and our calling to proclaim a different message, one of love and
peace, forgiveness and reconciliation. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
For Tim, undoubtedly a highlight of this trip was a weekend "dash to the kirk" as it was put by David Porter, Canon for Reconciliation Ministry at Coventry Cathedral. David is greatly amused at how we Americans will think nothing of hopping into a car and driving for six hours for a weekend excursion. However, we had vowed to get to Scotland on this visit, and to Scotland we went. I know that Tim and I constantly tease each other about our competing Reformed and Anglican traditions, but it was quite moving for me to see how meaningful it was for him to worship in the same church, St. Giles Cathedral, in which John Knox, the founder of Scottish Presbyterianism, served for a dozen or so years. I do fear, however, that Tim's visit to the High Kirk may have further hardened his resolve to remain true to his Presbyterian roots and hence weakened my influence to claim him for the Episcopal Church.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
This past Monday evening, several of the reconciliation team made our way to the largest mosque in Coventry to witness the lighting of the Eid lights. This was something new to me, but, as it was explained, it is something as akin to our lighting our Christmas lights during Advent in preparation for the actual celebration of the Nativity. Eid, the three-day celebration at the end of the month of Ramadan, is not until next week, but the lights are a way of marking the approach of these celebratory and holy days for Muslims. Following the flipping of the switch by the Lord Mayor of Coventry (which was nothing more than symbolic as the real lighting was effected by a representative from the electric company with a screwdriver and an open panel on a light pole!), we were invited into the Muslim Community Resource Center for a wonderful meal to break the day's fast. After a brief presentation, the imam indicated that sunset had arrived, so all the Muslims went downstairs to say their prayers while the rest of us began to eat the food that was set before us. Our friends later returned and eagerly heaped their plates with food, having not eaten since before sunrise that morning. The hospitality we were shown was humbling. I, along with one of the reconciliation interns, was treated as an honored guest as an American. I so enjoyed talking with these new-found friends about my distress at the fear and hatred demonstrated by so many Americans toward Muslims, wishing that everyone of us could sit down and break bread. Reconciliation is about relationship, and there is no more powerful symbol of that than the sharing of a meal. Even Jesus knew that.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I have only a couple of days remaining here which I will spend writing up my findings into some sort of report for David Porter. Whether or not I have anything new and useful to say, I do not know. My promise to him when discussing the possibility of my doing some consulting work here was that I would provide the Community of the Cross of Nails whatever organizational expertise I have to offer in exchange for learning everything I can about what it is that they do here. While I hope that CCN can benefit from my time here, I already know who has received the greatest gift during this fortnight in Coventry.
Monday, August 1, 2011
More adventures in CPE
Not many people in a Clinical Pastoral Education program have the experience that my 5 classmates and I had this past weekend. We were chaplains at Camp Evergreen, a bereavement program of Diakon Hopsice St. John for children age 8 to 16 who have lost a family member or other loved one. Children grieve differently than adults, and it's so very important that they are actually allowed and encouraged to grieve. When Tim's dad died just before his 9th birthday, it was as if his memory was supposed to die, as well - he was not mentioned, his family did not share memories, his mother was in too much pain to help her children through this very necessary process of grieving, and that created a great deal of emotional baggage that Tim had to face as an adult. Not so with these fortunate children attending Camp Evergreen. Every activity is designed to help them both have fun and express their loss in a way that suits their own emotional and developmental level.
Fifteen children attended camp this year, dealing with losses that occurred as recently as June and and long ago as 4 years. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, siblings, cousins - the kids had lost at least one of these, sometimes with the addition of a pet death that they also grieved. This camp allows them to see that they are not alone, they don't stand out among their peers as someone who is odd or different. They can just be themselves and bond with other kids dealing with similar issues. Watching them grow comfortable with one another and make friends was so heartwarming for the adults. In one cabin of girls, they took three mattresses off of the bunks and put them on the floor so that they could all sleep together. How awesome is that?
Of the craft activities in which they participated, the broken pot may have been my favorite. They took a terra cotta pot and wrote emotion words on the inside describing how they felt about their loss, words like "sad" and "lonely" and "guilt" appeared in several. The children then wrapped the pot in newspaper, tapped it with a hammer to break it into large pieces (though some had many small pieces with which to contend), and then glued them back together. This represents how our hearts may be broken in pieces by the death of someone we love, but the pieces do go back together, even though the scars remain. The children then decorated the pots of paints and stickers, and took them home to plant new life into them.
Part of the weekend included a challenge course where the children were encouraged to take a risk, to do as much as one felt one was able to do on a rope course and climbing wall. Some were hesitant to walk the rope with other children and adults acting as spotters, but in the end, everyone (including me!) made it the length of the rope. Their were many team-building and trust-building activities, as well, all designed to be fun, but always with the purpose of healing and wholeness. Of course, this was a very hot late July weekend, so down time in the pool on Saturday afternoon was a refreshing relief for all of us!
Throughout the weekend, I thought of those persons that I know who lost parents as children and so wished they had this kind of opportunity to help them through. I also thought a lot of Seth and my own continuing grief over his death. Though I might use different words or have different methods of dealing with that, the need to put the pieces back together is as real for me as for each one of these children. Trying to create something good out of something so unrelentingly difficult and sad is a challenge for all of us. The resilience of these children was such an inspiration, though. They risked sharing their grief with their peers as well as the adults and received such love and encouragement in return. This is a valuable lesson for me as a grieving mother but also as a future pastor who will be able to use some of what I have learned to help other children who mourn. What a gift!
Fifteen children attended camp this year, dealing with losses that occurred as recently as June and and long ago as 4 years. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, siblings, cousins - the kids had lost at least one of these, sometimes with the addition of a pet death that they also grieved. This camp allows them to see that they are not alone, they don't stand out among their peers as someone who is odd or different. They can just be themselves and bond with other kids dealing with similar issues. Watching them grow comfortable with one another and make friends was so heartwarming for the adults. In one cabin of girls, they took three mattresses off of the bunks and put them on the floor so that they could all sleep together. How awesome is that?
Of the craft activities in which they participated, the broken pot may have been my favorite. They took a terra cotta pot and wrote emotion words on the inside describing how they felt about their loss, words like "sad" and "lonely" and "guilt" appeared in several. The children then wrapped the pot in newspaper, tapped it with a hammer to break it into large pieces (though some had many small pieces with which to contend), and then glued them back together. This represents how our hearts may be broken in pieces by the death of someone we love, but the pieces do go back together, even though the scars remain. The children then decorated the pots of paints and stickers, and took them home to plant new life into them.
Part of the weekend included a challenge course where the children were encouraged to take a risk, to do as much as one felt one was able to do on a rope course and climbing wall. Some were hesitant to walk the rope with other children and adults acting as spotters, but in the end, everyone (including me!) made it the length of the rope. Their were many team-building and trust-building activities, as well, all designed to be fun, but always with the purpose of healing and wholeness. Of course, this was a very hot late July weekend, so down time in the pool on Saturday afternoon was a refreshing relief for all of us!
Throughout the weekend, I thought of those persons that I know who lost parents as children and so wished they had this kind of opportunity to help them through. I also thought a lot of Seth and my own continuing grief over his death. Though I might use different words or have different methods of dealing with that, the need to put the pieces back together is as real for me as for each one of these children. Trying to create something good out of something so unrelentingly difficult and sad is a challenge for all of us. The resilience of these children was such an inspiration, though. They risked sharing their grief with their peers as well as the adults and received such love and encouragement in return. This is a valuable lesson for me as a grieving mother but also as a future pastor who will be able to use some of what I have learned to help other children who mourn. What a gift!
Sunday, July 3, 2011
More on CPE
Eight deaths in four weeks. That's how many of my hospice patients have died since I started Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) on June 1st. Writing it like that makes me feel like the Chaplain of Death, but it really isn't like that. Being with people facing a terminal diagnosis or impending death is a wonderfully exhausting privilege. There isn't much room to hide at times like that, so I've had some of the most vulnerable and sincere encounters with these people I hardly know simply because they know - and I know - that they don't have much time left.
I was a bit worried when I learned early on that we try to represent our hospice group at all viewings or funerals. Funeral homes are just not my favorite places. However, I must say that the gratitude from family members with whom I have sat and talked through the last days helps the funereal surroundings fade into the background. This is what my ministry this summer is about, and, exhausting as it is, I can feel it working deep within me and beginning to suffuse every aspect of my life.
I preached at St. Peter's in the Great Valley this morning. In fact, I played the organ and preached, which was an interesting experience! I had written a sermon reflecting on my hospice work using the lectionary for the 3rd Sunday after Pentecost, but I found out yesterday that the readings for Independence Day had been transferred from Monday to today, so back to the drawing board I went to come up with another few things to say. So I have this hospice sermon kind of sitting there, waiting for these readings to come around again in three years. I think I'll just share it here, and if you hear me preach it some day, I hope you will have forgotten that you already read it.
I was a bit worried when I learned early on that we try to represent our hospice group at all viewings or funerals. Funeral homes are just not my favorite places. However, I must say that the gratitude from family members with whom I have sat and talked through the last days helps the funereal surroundings fade into the background. This is what my ministry this summer is about, and, exhausting as it is, I can feel it working deep within me and beginning to suffuse every aspect of my life.
I preached at St. Peter's in the Great Valley this morning. In fact, I played the organ and preached, which was an interesting experience! I had written a sermon reflecting on my hospice work using the lectionary for the 3rd Sunday after Pentecost, but I found out yesterday that the readings for Independence Day had been transferred from Monday to today, so back to the drawing board I went to come up with another few things to say. So I have this hospice sermon kind of sitting there, waiting for these readings to come around again in three years. I think I'll just share it here, and if you hear me preach it some day, I hope you will have forgotten that you already read it.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Hospice
I thought I knew what hospice was. In the past week, I have learned just how little I do know. Hospice is not just for people who are dying. Can you believe that? Indeed, many who enter into hospice services are facing their final days of life, but many, upon receiving hospice care, are stabilized and actually removed from service. They can re-enter hospice later, if needed, though not all do. Hospice is as much about providing end-of-life care to caregivers and family members as it is to offer comfort and palliative care to a patient. I've come to believe that the real beauty of hospice is to free families and individuals to live full lives for whatever time they have remaining, able to be fully present to one another, to share memories, to say "I love you," and also "goodbye."
For the summer, I am serving as chaplain for Diakon Hospice St. John (DHSJ), part of Diakon Lutheran Social Ministries. This is part of my Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE), a significant period of training for those going into any type of pastoral care ministry. DHSJ has an office site, so its personnel travel to various care facilities and patient homes. I've spent a lot of time on the road, which is, in a way, a blessing, because it gives me time to process the encounters I've had before moving on to the next one. Our patients range from those with good mental acuity to those who are completely non-responsive. Some have dementia or Alzheimer's, but many simply have bodies that have run their course while their minds remain clear.
I am still learning how to prepare for my visits as the hospice chaplain. Sometimes, the patient has a strong relationship with a congregation and receives pastoral visits from his or her own clergy. In those cases, my visits are a supplement, providing a ministry of presence between visits from the patient's pastor. My mentor, the DHSJ chaplain, has been such a wonderful model for me! She's known as "the singing chaplain" and loves to sing to patients, especially old hymns that still resonate even in the most clouded memory. I have found this to be a great comfort to me, particularly with those patients who cannot respond to me or those who are confused and unable to articulate coherently. I will often get a response - a smile or a touch - where there was none before. The Lord's Prayer and the 23rd Psalm can generate a similar response. It never ceases to amaze me how an aging mind can recall events and songs and phrases from so long ago when there is no memory of even five minutes before.
I can't even begin yet to fully process this hospice work. Sometimes I struggle to know just what to do or say, especially when the patient is trying so hard to communicate but just can't. Even a touch can produce fear or obvious discomfort in the patient, even if its intent is to indicate care and concern. All I can do, mostly, is pray...a lot. I know that God is already present; I do not bring God there. This is very important for me to remember. This is God's work. I stand on holy ground with each encounter. Please keep me in your prayers as I engage in this daunting responsibility.
For the summer, I am serving as chaplain for Diakon Hospice St. John (DHSJ), part of Diakon Lutheran Social Ministries. This is part of my Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE), a significant period of training for those going into any type of pastoral care ministry. DHSJ has an office site, so its personnel travel to various care facilities and patient homes. I've spent a lot of time on the road, which is, in a way, a blessing, because it gives me time to process the encounters I've had before moving on to the next one. Our patients range from those with good mental acuity to those who are completely non-responsive. Some have dementia or Alzheimer's, but many simply have bodies that have run their course while their minds remain clear.
I am still learning how to prepare for my visits as the hospice chaplain. Sometimes, the patient has a strong relationship with a congregation and receives pastoral visits from his or her own clergy. In those cases, my visits are a supplement, providing a ministry of presence between visits from the patient's pastor. My mentor, the DHSJ chaplain, has been such a wonderful model for me! She's known as "the singing chaplain" and loves to sing to patients, especially old hymns that still resonate even in the most clouded memory. I have found this to be a great comfort to me, particularly with those patients who cannot respond to me or those who are confused and unable to articulate coherently. I will often get a response - a smile or a touch - where there was none before. The Lord's Prayer and the 23rd Psalm can generate a similar response. It never ceases to amaze me how an aging mind can recall events and songs and phrases from so long ago when there is no memory of even five minutes before.
I can't even begin yet to fully process this hospice work. Sometimes I struggle to know just what to do or say, especially when the patient is trying so hard to communicate but just can't. Even a touch can produce fear or obvious discomfort in the patient, even if its intent is to indicate care and concern. All I can do, mostly, is pray...a lot. I know that God is already present; I do not bring God there. This is very important for me to remember. This is God's work. I stand on holy ground with each encounter. Please keep me in your prayers as I engage in this daunting responsibility.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Home, and other things
I think that someone could drop me in the middle of North Carolina, blindfolded, from an airplane (with a parachute, I think), and I would know where I was when I landed. There's something about my home state with its fragrance of dirt and tobacco and pine trees that has a familiarity steeped into my bones. Even though I've lived in Pennsylvania more than twice as long as I did in NC, I don't have that same feeling about this Keystone state, much as I love living here. And for those of you who don't know this state, it's mostly rich farmland anchored by a couple of big cities on either end and a few more moderate-sized ones scattered about. But for me, it doesn't have the same feel or taste of smell as the state in which I grew up, which is a great mystery to me.
While Pennsylvania is my home, it's not really my "home." I'm not talking about some 'home over Jordan' here, either. My home is that place where I belong, and for me, that's wherever Tim and I have put down our roots with the dogs and the cat to round out our family in this place at this time. On my back and forth trips to New Haven, I'll often say that I'm going home when headed north on the NJ Turnpike, but that's not really so. It's just a temporary place to shelter me while I study at YDS, and yet, when Tim is there with me, it is home. The weekend before finals, not only was Tim there but the pups were, too, and it was heavenly, if a bit crowded!
I suppose that all these thoughts of home have bubbled to the surface in the past week or so as I've begun to resettle into my PA home with Tim while also making a trip down to NC to see my 81-year-old mother and my sister and nieces and brother-in-law. There's always a bit of nostalgia in being all grown up amongst one's family. The rules have changed as have the roles, and it just doesn't feel like home anymore. Week after next, I'll be going out to California to see my daughter, Rachel, and even though she and I once called the same place home, being with her where she is won't be home for me, either. It's all very strange.
Now that I am home with Tim and the furry kids with no papers waiting for me and no particular reading to do, I can truly revel in this home that we have created for ourselves, and I realize that it's not so much this house as it is a state of mind. Whoever said 'home is where the heart is' sure knew what s/he was talking about.
While Pennsylvania is my home, it's not really my "home." I'm not talking about some 'home over Jordan' here, either. My home is that place where I belong, and for me, that's wherever Tim and I have put down our roots with the dogs and the cat to round out our family in this place at this time. On my back and forth trips to New Haven, I'll often say that I'm going home when headed north on the NJ Turnpike, but that's not really so. It's just a temporary place to shelter me while I study at YDS, and yet, when Tim is there with me, it is home. The weekend before finals, not only was Tim there but the pups were, too, and it was heavenly, if a bit crowded!
I suppose that all these thoughts of home have bubbled to the surface in the past week or so as I've begun to resettle into my PA home with Tim while also making a trip down to NC to see my 81-year-old mother and my sister and nieces and brother-in-law. There's always a bit of nostalgia in being all grown up amongst one's family. The rules have changed as have the roles, and it just doesn't feel like home anymore. Week after next, I'll be going out to California to see my daughter, Rachel, and even though she and I once called the same place home, being with her where she is won't be home for me, either. It's all very strange.
Now that I am home with Tim and the furry kids with no papers waiting for me and no particular reading to do, I can truly revel in this home that we have created for ourselves, and I realize that it's not so much this house as it is a state of mind. Whoever said 'home is where the heart is' sure knew what s/he was talking about.
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