Beading Memories…

Sometimes, when working with families who are grieving, I see people struggling for a way to hold on to their loved ones–to grab hold of their memories. Especially with children who may be experiencing their first death. In some cases, I turn to beads with the idea being something like a rosary. As they touch each bead–usually symbolizing something particular in their heart–they can remember something beautiful about their loved one.

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 a face–so often frozen by her form of dementia–for me. A heart for a patient telling me to use my heart and for reminding me, “in the end, it’s only love that matters”. An angel for the one who gave me my first glimpse of heaven when she described the angels in the room. Hand’s clasped in prayer for the one who always ended our visits saying, “let’s pray, mija”. A milkshake for the many chocolate and strawberry shakes shared. An exclamation point for a wonderful person 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?

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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.

I have seen 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 person who became  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.

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“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)

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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.

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A Blessing with Roots…

Tug at this blessing

and you will

find it is a thing

with roots.

 This is a blessing

that has gone deep

into good soil,

into sacred dark,

into the luminous hidden.

 It has been months

since the ground

gathered the seed

of this blessing

into itself,

years since the earth

Enfolded it.

 Sometimes

that’s how long a blessing takes…

–Jan Richardson, “A Blessing with Roots”

In my line of work as a hospice chaplain, I spend a lot of time with people at the end of their lives.  Many of them are far along in their years and because of age and/or dementia, their memories are waning.  What is so striking to me is how many of them can recall their roots—their blessings that have long been “deep in the sacred dark”.   They may not remember what happened in recent months, but they are able to dig in to the soil of their life story and find their roots—their family and their friends from childhood through adolescence.

One woman with advanced dementia remembers dancing with her high school crush on her 17^th birthday as vividly as though it happened yesterday.   When she speaks of it, her face lights up.  Another woman remembers playing with her cousins and friends on the family farm and how they liked go run after the cows.  A man still lights up when he remembers the feeling of square dancing with the “young lady” who is now his wife while another woman can remember conversations with her girlfriends about the boys they liked.    Even as the branches of their lives have stretched and grown throughout their lives, it is their roots that keep them tied—even when memories have faded—to the essence of who they are.

A few nights ago, our house filled with friends—some new and some “blasts from the past”.  The walls began to echo with the sounds of stories being told, memories being shared, and the laughter (and/or occasional tears) of children.  My heart was full of joy as I saw these friends—many of them deeply important to my adolescent experience/survival—interact with children that have been added and with people who are becoming new friends.    For many of us in the room, we had survived the tumultuous time of adolescence together—we shared many tears, arguments, and laughter.  How good to see they ways the branches of their lives have stretched and grown and how good to see that blessings are still found in our roots as well.

So much of today’s world is about moving forward and climbing upward.   We are so often told, “don’t look back”.  And yet, are not the branches of the tree dependent on the roots for nurture and for strength to hold on in the storms of life?   While I want my daughter to have a life full of discovery, wonder, and adventure, first I will have to give her roots…Roots that are grounded in love and laughter—life that is grounded in the embrace of family and presence of friends.  I have learned from my friends in hospice that we ought not ever take the roots, buried deep in the “good soil…the sacred dark” for granted.  For it is from our roots that our lives will one day have, in the continuing words of Jan Richardson, “a stunning harvest, a plenteous feast”

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“Friends are God’s way of taking care of us”

It’s funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools – friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty – and said ‘do the best you can with these, they will have to do’. And mostly, against all odds, they do. 

Anne Lammot, “Traveling Mercies”

I was called to the death of an older woman who had been living with dementia in the last years of her life.  She could still remember family, but many of her memories had been lost to her. Living in the same assisted living home with her was another older woman who had recently had a stroke that made it difficult for her to articulate.  Somehow these two women—one whose memory was slipping away and another whose speech was trying to find its way back—became dear friends.  For days, as the one with dementia lay dying, her friend came and held her hand, stroked her hair, and uttered silent prayers. Friendship was the rusty bent tool that sat in the valley of the shadow of death and said, “I am with you”.

The love between these two women who had only met in recent years moves me to think of my own friends in life.  You are the rusty bent (and beautiful!) tools that saw me through those turbulent-oh my God, how do any of us survive?-adolescent years.  Other friends I was blessed to meet later on–through the college, missionary, seminary, residency, and vocational years. Whenever our paths joined, it was your laughter that joined mine in moments of ridiculousness and merriment, and your arms that held me as I cried.  Even after I had hurt you, you offered sweet forgiveness, and many times, you encouraged me as I discerned God’s call.  You were there for the heartbreaks, to remind me that I deserved better, and for the celebration when I met my sweet husband.  You held me in moments of great loss, and you rejoiced at the birth of my daughter and took her in to you heart as well.   My God, how I love you all.

The gift of friendship is such an amazing blessing from God, one well worth remembering.  Some friends are those with whom we are deeply rooted–childhood friends who “knew us before”…Other friends are ones with whom are branches grow–who challenge us to stretch towards the brilliant sun and sky.  All friends, from whatever walk of life they come, are blessings…

Who are the dear ones in your life that are there not just for the joyful laughter, but also the tears streaming down the face?  Who is there for every heartbreak, every hurtful moment, and who has forgiven even when you have been the cause of pain?  Who will be there for you when the body may begin to fail and the memories fade?  Who will hold your hand, stroke your hair, and offer silent prayers even when they cannot find words?   On this journey of life—with all of its mess and beauty—who are your rusty bent old tools?

 (PS:  Note about the accompanying picture.  The two girls in the picture are my daughter and her dear friend—also like an older sister to her.  The friend’s mother and I met when we were in sixth grade.  Now, she and I have the joy of watching our daughters navigate not only corn mazes, but also the journey of life together)

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Spirits of Love

I took this photo while visiting my husband’s family in Mexico. It was an ordinary day–kids running around the yard, my sweet and well-meaning daughter trying to engage the dog in a tea party, sounds of cars and music on the road, and a breeze blowing across my skin. In the midst of it all, I looked up and saw the light of the sun breaking through the trees and casting an array of colors. Heaven was breaking through and I realized that in the seemingly ordinary moments of the day, I was experiencing the holiness of life.

How often do we think of Heaven as something, “out there” or holy moments as something confined to the walls of religious space? I believe that heaven is actually all around us and that holy moments exist every day if only we would open the eyes of our heart. Recently, I had the joy of visiting with an amazing person. As she nears her time of death, the space between heaven and earth has blurred and holy moments have broken through. As I sat with her one day her face would break in to an enormous smile and she would point to a corner of her room. “What do you see?” I asked. “My Mother!”. I could not see her, but by the smile on this woman’s face, I knew her mother–long since gone–was with us. She continued on in that manner for several minutes, pointing out to me the many family and friends–all dead–to me. Her face was pure joy as she experienced the beginnings of her heavenly reunion. Though my eyes could not see them, I knew they were there with us. I could feel, quite literally, their energy in the room. I asked her, “who are these people to you? She answered me, “they are spirits of love”

Spirits of love… This woman is among many in my time in hospice to describe the ‘beings’ that come in the days or weeks before death as “spirits of love”. I cannot help but believe that this more than a coincidence and I can’t help but wonder–are we not always surrounded by spirits of love?

I will let one more eloquent than I close this little post. In the mean time, may you all experience a bit of heaven on earth, may the eyes of your heart see and know the little holy moments in the ordinary days, and may you know that even on the most difficult days we are surrounded by spirits of love.

Fra Giovanni’s
“Letter to a Friend”

I salute you. I am your friend and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not got. But there is much, very much, that while I cannot give it, you can take. No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven! No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instance. Take peace! The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. Take joy! Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty . . . that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven. Courage then to claim it, that is all! . . . And so I greet you, with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks and the shadows flee away.

“Letter to a Friend” by Fra Giovanni, 1513

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Rain in the midst of a drought: many blessings…

We pray for blessings, we pray for peace
Comfort for family, protection while we sleep
We pray for healing, for prosperity
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering

All the while, You hear each spoken need
Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things

Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops?
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near?

–Laura Story, “blessings”

I had ideas for my next blog post–they were brewing inside of my head over the last few days.  But then the rain came.   Not just a few drops, but by the bucket full.  The sound was so loud against our playroom/sun room roof that it made me first jump with fright and then laugh with delight.  Here, in the midst of the drought was the sound my ears had longed to hear and the smell that makes me want to breathe deeply.   In the midst of the drought–through the days so dry that the earth underneath my very feet seemed to crumble and in the midst of a land burned by fire–the rain had come at last.

Over the last couple of weeks, I have seen so many that I work with–both the patients and their families–in the midst of their own drought.   Spouses speaking of how lonely they feel at night when the lights turn out and their loved one is not next to them.    Daughters and sons watching their mother–the one who used to kiss their booboos–become increasingly dependent on others for even the most basic of needs.  Grand-children wondering why grand-pa can no longer hold them or tell them a story.   People facing the realization that one more round of chemo or dialysis will no longer offer respite or cure.  For these people, the very earth underneath their feet is crumbling and happiness sometimes seems to burn away.

And then,  the rain comes.  A spouse finds that her husband is having a good day and can hold her in a dance.  The daughter and sons find their mother can still speak and receive words of love and hold their hands.  A grand-father who can no longer speak still lights up when his grand-daughter climbs in to his lap and wraps her arms around his neck–their love needs no words.   Families–facing death–find they are ready to live and to savor each moment no matter how ordinary.  Courage is discovered and forgiveness–long sought after–is offered and received.

No doubt the drought will linger and sadness and fear will creep in.   So what do we do?  We find a way to dance, we hold each others hands, we wrap our arms around each other, we save each ordinary moment , we find courage,  we share forgiveness.  We love.  We love.  We love.

The rain will come again.

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Roots and Wings…saying good-bye

Today, I was called to be present with the family of a woman I have been blessed to visit over the last several months. This is a woman I will remember for the rest of my life–I had grown quite close to her and her family and feel so blessed that they let me in to this part of their lives. To walk with someone–sometimes literally and sometimes metaphorically–as they move towards their death is remarkable. This woman, so full of grace, would speak to me about how knowing her death was approaching had taken away all the B.S.. There wasn’t time anymore for bitterness or grudges. No time to waste saying the thank yous and I love yous that needed to be said. No time to worry about one’s appearance and what to wear. Indeed, knowing her death was approaching she taught us all that there was only time for living and loving. Frequently she would say to me, “At the end of the day it’s not the material possessions that matter. At the end of the day, at the end of it all, it is only love that matters. ”

It is this same deep love she had for life and those around her that paradoxically made it difficult for her to go. I wrote the other day that she had shared with me that at once, she wanted to go to God whose hands she could already feel holding her and at the same time, to remain with those she loved so that she could hold their hands. As she shared the struggle between the two longings with me, I pulled out a poem a good friend from seminary (dear Karla) had shared with me many years ago.

Roots and wings

I yearn for most of all

my longing to stay, my longing to go

come wrapped in the same package.

I struggle.

it is very much the same

when we fall into each other’s lives.

our roots say:

Stay! Set up your tent!

Be at home here!

Our wings say:

Continue your journey!

Don’t get root bound!

Keep dreaming of something beyond!

When you love someone, you have to let them go.

It’s the only way to keep them.

Weaving in and out of lives

I’ve come to know the letting go

as the surrender in that war

between my roots and wings.

It is blessing! It is grace!

It is victory! It is pain!

I live now

not I

but you

all of you

live on in me.

-macrina wiederkeh

At the end of it all, she was right–it is only love that really matters. It was love that gave her the strength to spread her wings to fly to God, and it is her love that remains deeply rooted here in her family and friends. I am certain that she has changed me in some way–though how remains to be seen. What I do know is that her love–her story of her journey at the end of life is firmly rooted in me. She taught me to understand that God’s love is rooted deeply in all of us and that it is God’s love which also gives us the strength to soar. In the end, it is love that matters most of all.

I will miss you my beautiful friend. I will miss holding your hand. I will miss our prayers and laughter and conversations about family, faith, and where to get the best ice cream. I will keep your love deeply rooted in me. I will celebrate you. I will give thanks that you found your wings. God be with you on this new journey. God be with us all.

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Holding Hands

This has been a week of holding hands…
I held the hands of a woman who is nearing her death–she describes the desire to go be with God who “I can feel holding me in His hands” and yet her desire to still “hold the hands of my family”. I held her hands until she fell asleep…

Then there was the man living with dementia–just one year ago he was healthy and working out every day and still dancing with his wife. Now, he can no longer speak and has trouble getting around. I held his hand as we walked in circles singing, “Amazing Grace”. Every time we reached the words, “I once was lost, but now am found” he would join in loudly. As I held his hands on this walk, my heart swelled with a new found love for this song. What does it mean for someone whose memories are slipping away–someone who can’t even speak–to sing “Amazing Grace…I once was lost, but now am found”.

Tonight I went to the home of a couple married for nearly 60 years. The wife had just passed away. Before the funeral home took her body away, her husband went and took her hands in his one more time–“thank you for our life together” he said. Then, letting go of her hands, he caressed her face with such tenderness. “Thank you for loving me and letting me love you”

And tonight, when I returned home exhausted from a long day, there was my beautiful husband waiting to hold my hands. Waiting to hear about my day and to share his. And tomorrow, we will take our precious daughter out for the day and will hold her hands–still so small but growing bigger every day–in ours.

So often, we think that caring for one another has to be something big. And yet, look at our ordinary hands. They have the potential to provide comfort to the dying, a steady presence to those whose world is sometimes shaky, to offer a reminder of our presence, and to say I love you.

Your hands are sacred

They make clean

They refresh the soul

 

Your hands are sacred

They touch the body and in that act

they touch the soul

 

Your hands are sacred

They can be a messenger of shame and guilt

or they can be a messenger of hope and healing.

 

Your hands are sacred

Some hands have the strength of youth

Other hands have the scars and wrinkles of experience

 

Your hands are sacred

Filled with a power that is beyond what we can see, touch, taste and prove;

embracing that which is beyond by touching that which is most near.

 

Your hands are sacred.

They communicate your heart to the anxious your love to the fearful

your presence to the lonely

I give thanks for your hands.

 

Your hands are sacred.

They care for the spirit as they care for the body

–Donald R. Koepke  (This is a blessing of the hands I sometimes use with the folks I visit)

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