hot sandwiches

I knocked on a big, red front door.  At a house I'd never been to before.  The knock was answered by a little, stooped, bald 90 year-old man.  His wife had been admitted to hospice three days before and he was overwhelmed by the stream of new people visiting -nurse, doctor, nurse assistant, social worker and now me.  He brought me into the living room where his wife was sitting.  I introduced myself to her, sat beside her and turned to include him.  But he was headed out of the room, calling over his shoulder "I'm not going to stay.  I don't believe in women chaplains."

I don't believe....  As in the Loch Ness Monster? Unicorns? The Easter Bunny?  Because I drove all the way out here and I'm standing in your living room.  So believe it buddy.  I'm here.

Rejection is something chaplains deal with regularly.  People have lots of preconceived opinions.  Evangelist here to convert you to their beliefs.  Preacher here to lock down your eternity.  Meddlesome woman trying to do a man's job.  Actually I don't know what they are thinking.  These are just my guesses.  Because all I'm told is "we don't want a chaplain."

When I started working as a hospital chaplain being rejected crushed me.  I would leave the room wondering what I had done wrong.  How could they decide they didn't like me after only 30 seconds.  I'd worry that I was letting the department down.  That I'd blown it.  

But we had lots of training on this.  We were told that rejection was about the patient and family, not about us.  We were taught to be curious about the reasons that would prompt a family to react negatively to chaplains.  We were reminded what a gift we were giving people -empowering them to decide who visited them.  Giving them a choice.  And after a year of practice, and watching my awesome co-chaplains get rejected occasionally too, it stopped stinging.

My wise counselor added to the conversation.  Something along the lines of "Pay attention when you are feeling rejected. What is really going on?  Not everyone has to like you.  The more you like yourself, the less it will matter if a random person doesn't choose to like you."  So these are all things I pull out and review when a door gets slammed.  Or when a 90 year-old man leaves the room.

And under all this maturity, a thought sprouts like a stubborn, green shoot.  "I am going to win you over little man.  You are no match for my friendliness and cheerfulness.  So watch out!"

He answered the door again on my second visit.  He left the room again, but I could see him standing in the hall listening.

On the third visit he stopped me as I was leaving.  "I made something for your trip home."  He pressed a tinfoiled circle in my hand.  Inside was a warm sesame bun with a burger and cheese.

Today I visited again.  When I finished praying with his wife, he was standing in the room.  "I made you something for your trip home." He said again.  This time the tinfoil held an Italian burger with mozzarella and marinara sauce.  He smiled shyly as I exclaimed over his cooking skills and thoughtfulness.

I'm going back in two weeks.  Can't wait.  I will never tell him that I'm a gluten free vegetarian.  Or that my husband is the one who thinks his sandwiches are delicious.  Because his warm, tinfoil packages represent progress.  A thawing.  A shift of opinion. And believe it or not, I think we might become friends....

easter snow

When I was in sixth grade I checked out a book from the library that is still a favorite today. Betsy and the Great World.  This book is set in 1914 and tells of Minnesota-born Betsy Ray's adventures while spending a year traveling through Europe in place of attending college.  We are talking steamer trunks, cobblestone city streets and overnight train travel through Germany, Switzerland, Italy, France and England.  The travel bug bit my twelve-year-old heart hard. 

One adventure really caught my attention.  Betsy spends a few days in Oberammergau, Germany, meets the main actors of the Passion Play and learns their story.  

In the 1600's a vow was made by the inhabitants of the village that if God spared them from the effects of the bubonic plague then sweeping the region they would perform a passion play every ten years.  The Oberammergau Passion Play was first performed in 1634 and continues today.   Every ten years over 2,000 villagers bring the story of Jesus and Easter weekend to life for the audiences that pour in from all around the world.  Someday I would love to be there.

Yesterday I met a real life Betsy.  Her name is Jean and she too wanted to travel the world.
In 1950, socially minded and full of patriotism, Jean left the mid-west for a boat ride to Europe to teach elementary school and give Germans a different perspective on Americans.  In her free time, she learned the language, toured castles and ate kuchen and strudel.

I had to ask her.  "Did you ever go to Oberammergau?"  
"Yes!"  She replied triumphantly.  "I was there for the last day of the Passion Play."

Then she told me about arriving at the Bavarian village on a cold, April day.  She checked into her pension, bundled up and made her way past the colorful building walls to the open air stage.  There, she watched transfixed as the last few days of Jesus' life were enacted before her eyes.

What she remembers the most is that it started snowing as Jesus was hanging on the cross. Big snowy flakes coming down on Jesus' head and arms.  They covered Jean too.

"I'd always pictured Jesus on a cross, in the Israeli desert, far away." She said.  "But watching Jesus in Germany being covered with the same snow that was falling on me...well, it suddenly became incredibly real that He died for me."

Eugene Peterson writes this.  “It is not easy to convey a sense of wonder, let alone resurrection wonder, to another.  It’s the very nature of wonder to catch us off guard, to circumvent expectations and assumptions. Wonder can’t be packaged, and it can’t be worked up. It requires some sense of being there and some sense of engagement.” 

In Jean's room, I realized my hope for this Easter.  That it, again, becomes more than someone else's story.  More than a far-away legend.  That I am caught off guard, overwhelmed with the wonder of it all.  That I keep having my own Easter story to tell.

it will come

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, it seems to me most strange that men should fear:  seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come. Shakespeare

It felt a little like a party.  Twelve people sitting in a circle in a cozy living room.  The host and his girlfriend laughing about their cooking competitions.  She makes a to-die-for cornbread, as several in the room could attest to.  He said his Hawaiian pie was irresistible, and heads nodded for this too.

This was one of the light moments of the afternoon.  The host, George is 89.  He had just returned home from yet another hospital stay.  But this time his doctor had shared that there was nothing more that could be done.  "You have weeks to months" was the prognosis.  George signed onto hospice and had invited our team over to meet with his family -two children and five grandchildren, and get everyone on the same page.

"I've had a wonderful life." George told his family.  "60 years with grandma.  You all know how much I've missed her.  And then Anna here came into my life to keep me company.  And now I'm winding down.  I feel fine today, but it's coming.  And we are going to talk about it."

George turned it over to our nurse.  She spoke about his illness in laymen's terms and laid out the different scenarios for the last days.  Our social worker talked about options for full time care and I talked about the funeral plans that had been made.

The family asked questions.  They were wonderful - affirming George, teasing George, supporting him.  They were one of those families you immediately fall in love with and want to hang out with and protect at the same time.

Anna, however.  Anna sat with her eyes down and her lips pursed together.  "Anna, are you doing ok with this?" our nurse asked.  "No",  snapped Anna.  "This is not appropriate to talk about."

George picked up her hand.  "Honey, this is happening.  Like it or not.  And I don't want secrets in this room.  I want us to be able to talk about everything."  Tears ran down Anna's cheeks as she squeezed his hand, but she still couldn't talk about it.

I felt for Anna.  It is rare that a family wants that much openness and candor.  On the way home I wondered how I would do if it was my loved one.  Would I hide in denial?  Or would I find strength in laying it all out?

Henri Nouwen wrote "First, I must discover what it means to befriend my own death.  Second, I must discover how I can help others befriend theirs."  I've been thinking about that all week.  How do I befriend my own death?  Especially when I really don't want to die.

It's spring in the mountains.  There is a beach vacation in my near future.  I have a handsome husband who is so fun to hang out with.  And two darling boys that keep surprising us with their thoughts and personalities.  The list goes on. I don't want to die.

This morning our hospice team talked about the idea of befriending our death.  And we came up with two things.
     1.  Being present.  Being aware of deep breaths and unfettered steps, of beauty around us and companionship. Living in the moment, instead of worrying about the end.
     2.  Being grateful.  Appreciating all that we enjoy in the present. Counting our blessings. Recognizing our joys.  Knowing how full our cups are instead of measuring what we don't have.
We realized that the best way to befriend our death is to fully live our lives.

George understands that.  Without discussing it or being taught it or reading quotes about it.  He just lives it.  And inspires us all.