Held by love…

What do a memorial service, a wedding, and a blessing of the hands have in common?  Other than a Jamie feeling both incredibly blessed and tired as they all took place within four days of one another? Other than the fact that it was such a privilege to play a part in each?   On the surface, it may seem—not very much at all.

At the memorial service, as we remembered an amazing young woman, there were moments of laughter as those gathered recollected how she always kept folks on their toes.  And, there were moments of tears—mourning not only for her life, but also aching for her story that could have been.  At the same time, it was profoundly beautiful to see a community of people come together to reach their hands to one another…to offer words of encouragement…to hold each other in love.

The wedding was pure celebration as two incredible people joined their lives together in front of loved ones.  There were moments of laughter—joy so pure it bubbled up, and moments of tears—remembering those who had died but were there in spirit.  Rings were placed on their hands as vows were exchanged, and later, their hands were bound together in the ancient tradition of hand fasting.  Of course, there was the celebration kiss and rounds of applause followed by a fabulous party.  And, it was profoundly beautiful to see a community of people come together to reach their hands to one another…to offer words of encouragement…to hold each other in love.

The hand blessing took place at the home  of an amazing woman who inspires me with her compassion and strength.  In her living room she leads a support group for folks whose loved ones are living with frontotemporal dementia.  Throughout their sharing there were moments of laughter as funny moments were relayed, but also tears as they spoke of the sense of loss.  Towards the end of their time together, I read a blessing of hands to remind them of the work and compassion their hands are involved in every day.  As I did so, they joined hands.  It was profoundly beautiful to see a community of people come together to reach their hands to one another…to offer words of encouragement…to hold each other in love.

So, what do a memorial service, a wedding, and a blessing of the hands have in common?  Each of these life moments—seemingly different—found their home in ritual and in community.  Throughout our lives, ritual marks time as sacred—as set apart.  Ritual has the possibility of creating a sanctuary—a place where our deepest sorrows, profound joys, and intense struggles can be held.  And when community joins hands with ritual some beautiful happens—we find people who will share our tears, laughter, and struggle.  In the midst of our deepest hours of need, in the midst of the greatest celebration, in the midst of struggles that threaten to overtake us, we find we are held by love.   And, at the end of the day, isn’t that what it’s all about—to be held by love?

Beading Memories…

Today, I met with a little girl who is missing her great grand-mother–someone with whom I had the privilege of visiting for several months before her death a few months ago.  As we spoke, I presented her with a bag of beads and some thread.  I encouraged her to pick the beads that reminded her of her great grandmother and to place them on the string.  She remembered her great grandmother praying the Rosary, and I told her this was sort of like that…When feeling sad and/or simply missing her, she could hold the beads and as she looked at each one, remember the woman who shaped her young life.   As she picked each one, she told me a different story.  The flower was for the flowers she and her sister used to place in their great grandmother’s hair after brushing it, the heart for the way she loved them, the butterfly that the little girl had drawn for her when she first became sick…As the stories came, so did tears and laughter.  Even though she is young, she was able to be amazed at how vivid her memories are. When she finished her beading, we tied it into a bracelet and she went away to play. As I finished visiting with her mother, I saw the sweet girl looking at her bracelet, touching each bead in turn and telling her younger sister what they meant.

It got me wondering…if I were to bead some of my memories of people who have passed away, what would it look like?

A cupcake for my Nana–she was the first person with whom I baked.  Lemon cupcakes. I can still taste them and feel a surge of pride at my first home baked creation.   A recliner chair for my Papa–though he died when I was six, I can still remember the absolute knowledge I was loved as he held me in his arms while sitting in that chair.  I can still smell the pipe smoke on his shirt.   A sun for the way my Uncle Dennis’s smile could light up a room.  A pen for my cousin Elizabeth–she became one of my early pen pals and made me excited to write back. A winking eye for the times my other Papa and I would wink at each other as we said in turn, “Hiya handsome!”… “Hiya gorgeous!”.  And then of course, there are my precious patients…

A smiley face in memory of the first time a smile broke through M’s face–so often frozen by her form of dementia–for me.  A heart for B telling me to use my heart and for V reminding me, “in the end, it’s only love that matters”.  An angel for H who gave me my first glimpse of heaven when she described the angels in the room.  Hand’s clasped in prayer for T who always ended our visits saying, “let’s pray, mija”.  A milkshake for the many chocolate and strawberry shakes E and I shared as he would playfully whisper, “better than what I had today!”.An exclamation point for A who–being able to see beauty in even the hardest moments–would always exclaim, “oh wow!”….

It is inspiring to me the way memories take shape…I simply don’t have enough beads for them all.  But if I did, I believe they would make the most beautiful strand of beads. And you…if you could strand your memories of those who have died, what beads would you use?

“Keep us in faith, fill us with hope, deepen us through love…”

Easter—the day Christians around the world celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ—is almost here.  It is a glorious day, indeed.   Shouts of “He is Risen indeed!” fill the air with joy,  the scent of flowers fills the space,  and the triumphal sound of brass instruments send vibrations through the heart.  It is no wonder that, next to Christmas Eve when Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus, Easter is the most well attended Sunday of the year—it is so full of joy!

And yet, I often feel sorry for those who celebrate only the birth and resurrection of Jesus.  I understand that those are profoundly joyful occasions—and God knows we need joy in our world—however, life is not always joyful.  Sometimes life is pretty damn hard.  I take great comfort in my faith knowing I follow (try to follow) One who knows what it means to suffer.   It means we are not alone in our suffering—that God is always with us, keeping us in faith, filling us with hope, and deepening us through love…

On Thursday, I went to the home of one of my patient’s who is no longer able to get to church.  He had mentioned in a previous visit that he would miss the liturgy of what some refer to as Maundy Thursday.  This is the night, in many churches, when Christians re-enact some of the moments of the last night of Jesus before he was crucified.  A moving part of the service is that of the washing of the feet—just as Jesus washed the feet of his disciples.

“You call me Teacher and Lord—and you are right, for that is what I am. ¹⁴So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. ¹⁵For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. ¹⁶Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. ¹⁷If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.

(John 13:13-17)

I sat on the floor in front of his bed and took each foot–one at a time–and gently began to pour the water over them.  I looked in to his eyes and spoke to him of the ways Christ journeys with him and the love he has for him.  As I dried them with a towel, I thought of Jesus–here was a man, about to die, washing the feet of his friends to prepare them for a journey.  I thought of this patient—here is a man about to die, having his feet washed, preparing for another journey.

This patient finds it hard to speak now—illness is robbing him of his voice.  But, when asked after the service what he was feeling, he answered, “peace…great peace”.  This particular patient finds great peace in his faith—a faith that is solid enough to stand not only in joyful moments of birth and resurrection, but also in difficult moments of sorrow and death.  

I leave you now with a prayer from a Good Friday Service—the night we remember Jesus’ crucifixion—the night we sit at the foot of the cross.   I was struck by its message and meaning as I thought about the many beautiful people who have died in this last year and about those who grieve their losses…

Go, silent friend, your life has found its ending.  To dust returns your weary mortal frame.  God, who before birth, called you into being, now calls you back, his accent still the same.

 Lord Jesus, we let you go.

You cannot cling to life forever, nor can we cling to a dying frame, nor do we begrudge you that peace which passes all understanding, which you have promised us.

 So go to heaven, where you will welcome those who die in your faith, whose death, we remember.

 Tell them that we love them, that we miss them, that they are not forgotten.

 All cheered by the prospect of a day when there will be no more death or parting, and all shall be well and all shall be one, may they who have died before us be among the first to welcome us to heaven, where, with you enthroned in glory, and in the company of the blessed virgin Mary and all the saints, we will share the everlasting feast of your family.

 Till then, keep us in faith, fill us with hope, deepen us through love, to the glory of your holy name.

 Amen.

“Wild Goose Publications”

 

Blessings…

When people ask me how I can handle my vocation (usually with statements of, “wow, that must be so depressing.  How can you handle it?”), I find myself replying, “Actually, I feel as though my work is a blessing”.  Wikipedia defines blessing as, “the infusion of something with holiness, spiritual redemption, divine will, or one’s hope or approval.” So many instances I see flickers of holiness and redemption and those moments take my breath away.  Especially as they come in sometimes unexpected places…

For the first time, I led a worship service at a facility for people living with Alzheimer’s’ and other related dementias.    Many of these folks are pretty far along in their dementia and so I wasn’t sure what to expect.  However, I knew God’s blessing was there the moment they began to sing the Doxology.  And, the holiness seemed to infuse the space  more as even the most timid voice later sang out on , “Jesus Loves Me”. For a people often forgotten by society, this blessing  reminds them of God’s love–that God always knows them and their stories.

A week earlier, I did a memorial service for a young caregiver who recently passed away.  Afterwards, I offered the blessing of the hands for the caregivers gathered as a reminder that their hands are instruments that provide dignity and love.  Several residents there held out their hands for blessings as well.  As I knelt in front of each resident, I looked into their eyes and took their hands in mine, “May God bless your hands with compassion”.  For these residents—aging and losing independence—the blessing was spiritual redemption.  God can still work through their hands and hearts to love this world.

Yesterday, I saw a dying man, no longer able to speak, beckon to his wife with his hands.  The two have had their share of strife in the last 50 years and have only recently worked their way towards forgiveness.  He took her hands in his, raised them to his lips, and kissed them.  She then kissed his forehead.  Their blessings were statements of hope.

What I am learning is that blessing comes in so many forms—it is the way we touch each other with care, the words of gratitude and love we offer to each other, a song that fills our heart, and forgiveness offered and received.   I have learned that blessing can be offered and received no matter where we are in life—even as our bodies age and stop working, even as our memories fade.

Today, a man I blogged about in an earlier post died.  He was one of my beautiful teachers in life that taught me to open my eyes and heart to the blessings that exist all around us.  I am grateful that I sat with him yesterday and told him the way he had blessed my life.  Though he was non-responsive by that point, I believe he heard me.  Because you see,  that’s the other thing about blessing…it is never too late to offer or receive.

And so, I leave a blessing with you from a wonderful book, “To Bless the Space Between Us” by John O’Donohue.    And, I ask you…What are the blessings in your life?

May all that is unforgiven in you

Be released.

 May your fears yield

Their deepest tranquilities.

 May all that is unlived in you

Blossom into a future

Graced with Love.

PS:  The photo at the start of this entry is a beautiful Albuquerque sunset I took one night while driving with my daughter.  It was so stunning I pulled over to the side of the road so we could admire it.  I believe that God blesses us everyday with moments like that…We just need to keep our hearts open to receive.

“A gift for mother, a gift for me”: Guest blogger shares her experience with hospice

 

 

By now, it is probably clear that I live a good portion of my  life standing on top of the hospice soap box.  I truly believe in the gift of hospice–the gift of allowing people to both die and live with dignity, compassion, and beauty.   So, I decided to let my readers hear it from someone else.  I recently went to visit the daughter of one of the women with whom I was blessed to work.  The daughter was sharing her wish with me that everyone could know how wonderful hospice is–what it can mean to a family as they confront mortality.  And thus appears my first (hopefully not last) guest blogger.

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In a single moment of clarity a path was chosen for mother’s end of life.  It was to bring her home with the loving support, care, and guidance of family, friends, and the remarkable staff of Hospice de la Luz.

There were many unknowns that came with this choice–ever changing details needing attention.  What did remain a constant was the reliable, warm and caring guidance given by the hospice staff.

In choosing home hospice for my mom I had some fears.  Greater than any fear or worry was the certainty that this was the most loving thing I could ever do for my mother and our family.  By entering into this process with an open heart and a willing mind the experience became a gift like nothing else could ever be.

In choosing to share our home through out such an emotional, spiritually intimate experience I quickly realized that whatever barriers I had built up over the years were best removed.  As it turned out, this gift for my mother was also a gift for me.

Thanks to the hospice staff I had the freedom to feel.  At times there was laughter, other times tears.  And then there were the times of contented quiet.  Sitting beside my mother, gently holding her hand, knowing that she was ending her life in the familiar comfort of her home with the love of her family and dear friends surrounding her.

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(Jamie’s note:  How well I remember this patient and her daughter–afternoons on the patio with a cup of coffee and hands open in prayer.  The people with whom I work live on in my heart long after death arrives.  What a blessing it is to be in this vocation)

Tears Speak…

Over the last couple of weeks at work, I have witnessed many beautiful moments—a grand-daughter (grown) caring for her grand-mother with a smile on her face, a son tenderly kissing his ailing father on the forehead, a family join hands in prayer around the bedside of their actively dying loved one, and laughter echoing through the room as memories of times past are shared.  In each moment, there were tears.   One patient said to me as she was crying, “I’m sorry.  I’m such a cry baby”.  I wonder why we are sometimes afraid of our tears.  I have often thought of them as the partner of laughter.  Tears are a form of expression…tears speak.

Tears fall for many reasons in our lives.  Sometimes we cry tears of joy—joy at the birth of our child, a graduation, a marriage, a happy memory.  Tears often fall down our face because of a sadness inside that is so overwhelming it can only be expressed through tears—news that life is changing in challenging ways, a fight with a friend, the injustice that pervades our earth, the death of someone we love deeply.  Sometimes they start slowly—the one small tear rolling down our cheek.  Sometimes they gush out.  Sometimes they stay locked inside. Tears can be expected, or catch us off guard.  Sometimes, they come silently and other times, with a choking sob whose sound reverberates through the space we occupy.  Whatever the case may be—one thing is for certain—In the words of Washington Irving,..

“There is a sacredness in tears. 

They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. 

They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. 

They are messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love”

In gratitude of caregivers…

For the last two days, I have had the privilege of leading a brief “memorial” time at a wonderful facility where many of my hospice folks live/have lived.  The purpose of the service was to honor the memories of those who have died in the last year.    I told the caregivers gathered of something Mary Oliver once wrote, “to live in this world, you must be able to do three things.  To love what is mortal, to hold it against your bones knowing your life depends on it.  And, when the time comes to let it go, let it go, let it go”.    They, I reminded them, understand these lines perhaps very well.  They love what is mortal on a daily basis—they care for people whose memories are slipping away, who may need help with day-to-day activities (brushing hair, getting dressed, eating, etc).   They come to hold these folks close to their bones—with great love and compassion.  And, so often, they have to let them go.

Soon, I began to read the names of each person who had died in the last year and placed a carnation in a vase for each name read as well as for a series of memories.  For some, tears flowed freely.  As I watched the faces of the caregivers gathered in the room it struck me—these are not just names they are saying good-bye to.  These are people they knew intimately and with whom they shared compassion on a daily basis.  Each flower was not just a name…

Each flower represented a tender moment—a hand held, a cheek kissed.  Each flower was a song sung and story read, a brush through the hair, or a meal fed.  Each flower was a symbol of compassion and dignity at a time when so much of our society is ready to dismiss.  Each flower was an act of kindness in a sometimes difficult world.  Each flower was love offered .

If I only had a flower for each caregiver in the world…whether they are paid caregivers or family who have become caregivers.  You all have my deepest awe and gratitude.  Thank you for the love and compassion you provide on a daily basis…

In closing, I leave with you a blessing of the hands my colleague and I sometimes do for the caregivers with whom we work.

 Blessed be these hands that touched life.

Blessed be these hands that have felt pain.

Blessed be these hands that have embraced with compassion.

Blessed be these hands that have clenched in anger, or withdrawn in fear.

Blessed be these hands that lovingly make sure needed supplies are on hand.

Blessed be these hands that have cleaned beds and disposed of wastes.

Blessed be these hands that brush the hair and bathe the body.

Blessed be these hands that administer medicine that eases the pain.

Blessed be these hands that hold others in prayer.

Blessed be these hands that have reached out and been received.

Blessed be these hands that have comforted the dying and held the dead.

Blessed be these hands.

And now, may these hands now be blessed..

With dignity, with hope, with compassion.

For we hold the future in these hands.