The following will appear in my church newsletter in October.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about “transitions,” and how we’re all perpetually in one. It seems like every time I turn around someone is transitioning from one job to another, from summer break to a school year schedule, from one apartment to another, or even from one mindset to another. The fall seems to be particularly rife with change as even the leaves on the trees begin their next phase—multicolored compost.
This fall the stakes are even higher as this country is about to transition from one President to another, and both major candidates have tried to bill themselves as change-makers. John McCain’s website places the quote “Country First: Reform, Prosperity, Peace” front and center, and Barack Obama embraces the slogan “Change You Can Believe In.”
As a church, I know that this congregation has faced quite a few transitions, from the loss of beloved congregants to changes in polity and church structure, as well as the new experience of having an intern minister. While some of these transitions have been exciting and positive, others have been heart wrenching and overwhelming. Regardless of the effect, change always comes with some grief for what was.
I must admit that part of my preoccupation with transition is that I recently went through several pretty big ones, leaving my friends, colleagues, and church community on the west coast to begin a new life and new ministry here. Usually a pretty easy-going person, I found myself anxious and preoccupied straddling two different cities, two sets of roommates, and two jobs. Even my cats were anxious, finding a way to hyperventilate through 6 states on the move from San Francisco to Kansas City.
While transitions seem pretty constant and inevitable, they also expose a pretty powerful asset in our human toolbox—each other. Even before I arrived in Kansas City, I was receiving dinner invitations and a “Welcome to Kansas” package from my internship committee. The effect was striking. While I was leaving one home, I knew that I was going to another. Imagine what the world could be like if we all felt so welcomed, so connected, so appreciated. Imagine the worldwide community that could be built. Imagine the hope and trust that could come from hospitality, from feeling connected even when we’re thousands of miles apart.
We’re all transitioning, all the time. We transition personally, as a church, as a country—the list in endless. It can be hard, liberating, ridiculous, exhilarating, and overwhelming. What seems to make the difference, what makes transition that much easier, is when we find a way to support each other through it. No matter what happens in the next month, the next year, the next 20 years, may we find ever-deepening ways to connect, to support, to ease our way through transitions. Change is constant, may connection and community be as well.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
Resiliency
I met “Jeffrey,” an African American Baptist man in his mid 60s, on the Skilled Nursing Facility floor one grey, San Francisco afternoon in January. Jeffrey had come to the hospital because of complications from diabetes. His blood sugar level had been rising and falling too quickly, the wound from his leg amputation below the knee was not healing well, and he had just gone completely blind in one eye.
At first, Jeffrey was very formal with me. He smiled and told me he was “doing just fine.” Feeling there was a discrepancy between “doing fine” and “being in the hospital with a degenerative illness that was causing blindness, reduced mobility and independence, and dietary restrictions,” I decided to joke around with him a little in the hopes that he would be able to relax and share his story.
I found my chance when Jeffrey balled up a kleenex and tossed it easily into a trash can across the room. I replied, “For not having sight in one eye, your depth perception is pretty darn good.” Jeffrey paused for a moment, the statement surprising him. Then, he began to laugh. It was one of those deep belly laughs, and he laughed so hard tears began sliding down his face, stating, “Yes, yes, I can still make a basket!”
We began to talk about his long battle with Type II Diabetes, and how it had really caused him to make a lot of changes in his life. When I asked him what he looked forward to, what his future entailed, he began to speak of his neighborhood.
Jeffrey lives in a predominantly African-American neighborhood in San Francisco. Having lived there his whole life, he remembers looking to the male elders in the neighborhood for help and guidance, saying: “I remember when I was a boy, and I looked up to all the old folks. Now, all the old folks are gone. It’s just me, now I’m the old folks!” Looking around himself now, he realized that he was one of the elders. He realized that diabetes was becoming rampant in his medically underserved neighborhood, and that it was his turn to step up as one of the wise leaders in his community. Jeffrey spoke of his neighbors, men in their 30s and 40s with young children at home, who were already dealing with diabetes and its effects. Jeffrey realized it was time to intervene.
Jeffrey was grieving for his lost eyesight, for his independence, for times when he did not have to check his blood sugar several times a day. However, by connecting his loss with the losses faced by his larger community, Jeffrey was finding a purpose and a calling. He was finding that he had wisdom to share, and that it was his turn to be a prophet. Jeffrey took the strength he found from his community, and turned it into a quest to help his community. This calling, this feeling that his work was not done in this world, made all the difference in the world.
At first, Jeffrey was very formal with me. He smiled and told me he was “doing just fine.” Feeling there was a discrepancy between “doing fine” and “being in the hospital with a degenerative illness that was causing blindness, reduced mobility and independence, and dietary restrictions,” I decided to joke around with him a little in the hopes that he would be able to relax and share his story.
I found my chance when Jeffrey balled up a kleenex and tossed it easily into a trash can across the room. I replied, “For not having sight in one eye, your depth perception is pretty darn good.” Jeffrey paused for a moment, the statement surprising him. Then, he began to laugh. It was one of those deep belly laughs, and he laughed so hard tears began sliding down his face, stating, “Yes, yes, I can still make a basket!”
We began to talk about his long battle with Type II Diabetes, and how it had really caused him to make a lot of changes in his life. When I asked him what he looked forward to, what his future entailed, he began to speak of his neighborhood.
Jeffrey lives in a predominantly African-American neighborhood in San Francisco. Having lived there his whole life, he remembers looking to the male elders in the neighborhood for help and guidance, saying: “I remember when I was a boy, and I looked up to all the old folks. Now, all the old folks are gone. It’s just me, now I’m the old folks!” Looking around himself now, he realized that he was one of the elders. He realized that diabetes was becoming rampant in his medically underserved neighborhood, and that it was his turn to step up as one of the wise leaders in his community. Jeffrey spoke of his neighbors, men in their 30s and 40s with young children at home, who were already dealing with diabetes and its effects. Jeffrey realized it was time to intervene.
Jeffrey was grieving for his lost eyesight, for his independence, for times when he did not have to check his blood sugar several times a day. However, by connecting his loss with the losses faced by his larger community, Jeffrey was finding a purpose and a calling. He was finding that he had wisdom to share, and that it was his turn to be a prophet. Jeffrey took the strength he found from his community, and turned it into a quest to help his community. This calling, this feeling that his work was not done in this world, made all the difference in the world.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Thankfulness, In Perspective
A man decided to die today. He is not, by many standards, a remarkable man. In his 60s, he looks to be in his 80s. He is rough and grizzled from being HIV positive and homeless in San Francisco. He is too weak to speak very clearly, or loudly, or for very long.
He is one of those high-maintenance patients. He is restless, anxious, unable to keep still. Even after the nurses gave him anti-anxiety medication, he kept trying to stand and walk, teetering with his low blood pressure. He was restless not just being in the hospital, but being in his own body as well.
We breathed deeply together. He rejected guided meditation, unable to let his guard down enough to close his eyes or relax. He was a spring, tightly wound and ready to snap if he let go of his vigilance.
Afraid to be alone, he asked me to sit with him for a while. We sat, and I would lean forward to catch his ragged voice wheeze out a few more words. A few times, we prayed. He hoped for courage, that he might overcome the obstacles he needed to overcome. We were vague on the shape of the obstacles, as he could be trying to overcome impediments to his health…or impediments to his death.
He asked me to help him write a letter to his family. It began, “I sit here, unsure of what the eternity of morning will bring.”
It hit me then, a chilly breeze down my spine, how much this man and I have in common. While we are from different places in the world, practice different religions, are different ages, know none of the same people, and will likely never see each other again, I also sat there, unsure of what the eternity of morning would bring. We are all, on some level, unsure. We are all just making guesses, believing our own end so distant that we needn’t think about it too early, or too clearly.
When the man decided to refuse the surgery, the medical staff was unsure of what to do next. Their job is to help others heal. While watching others deteriorate into death is also part of the job, it is not as popular amongst the medical staff.
He talked of chances he wished he’d taken. The opportunities seemed like nothing at the time. It is only with hindsight, when ongoing illness makes the possible becomes impossible, and the unthinkable the daily reality, that such thoughts have a tendency to linger.
I heard a speaker recently talk about forgiveness. He said something to the effect of, “When we can’t forgive, it is not that we have seen too much suffering, it is that we haven’t seen enough." While our hurts and vulnerabilities can feel endlessly distressing, they are often quite minor compared to the hurts and the vulnerabilities of the world. The speaker gave the example of driving in rush hour traffic—it becomes much less stressful and overwhelming when we realize that we’re lucky enough to have a car when millions of people don’t even have food. It is when we put our problems into context that a mountainous obstacle becomes nothing more than a small hill, and a small hill is much easier to climb.
In the moment the man decided to die, it occurred to me how most of my problems are, in comparison, minor inconveniences. So I need to pack up my house and move cross country—I’m horrible at organization and pre-planning in stressful situations, but by the end of September it will be over. So I have student debt from seminary—I’ll get a job and pay it off over time. So I have errands to run, or bills to pay, or phone calls to make. All of the little things on my mind, all the decisions I’ve had to make today, pale in comparison to this man’s decision to die.
“I sit here, unsure of what the eternity of morning will bring.” Life? Death? Sunshine or fog? A phone call from an old friend? A piece of friendly gossip, whispered behind a hand? In what will I be disappointed? In what will I find grace, and thankfulness? What will the morning bring?
He is one of those high-maintenance patients. He is restless, anxious, unable to keep still. Even after the nurses gave him anti-anxiety medication, he kept trying to stand and walk, teetering with his low blood pressure. He was restless not just being in the hospital, but being in his own body as well.
We breathed deeply together. He rejected guided meditation, unable to let his guard down enough to close his eyes or relax. He was a spring, tightly wound and ready to snap if he let go of his vigilance.
Afraid to be alone, he asked me to sit with him for a while. We sat, and I would lean forward to catch his ragged voice wheeze out a few more words. A few times, we prayed. He hoped for courage, that he might overcome the obstacles he needed to overcome. We were vague on the shape of the obstacles, as he could be trying to overcome impediments to his health…or impediments to his death.
He asked me to help him write a letter to his family. It began, “I sit here, unsure of what the eternity of morning will bring.”
It hit me then, a chilly breeze down my spine, how much this man and I have in common. While we are from different places in the world, practice different religions, are different ages, know none of the same people, and will likely never see each other again, I also sat there, unsure of what the eternity of morning would bring. We are all, on some level, unsure. We are all just making guesses, believing our own end so distant that we needn’t think about it too early, or too clearly.
When the man decided to refuse the surgery, the medical staff was unsure of what to do next. Their job is to help others heal. While watching others deteriorate into death is also part of the job, it is not as popular amongst the medical staff.
He talked of chances he wished he’d taken. The opportunities seemed like nothing at the time. It is only with hindsight, when ongoing illness makes the possible becomes impossible, and the unthinkable the daily reality, that such thoughts have a tendency to linger.
I heard a speaker recently talk about forgiveness. He said something to the effect of, “When we can’t forgive, it is not that we have seen too much suffering, it is that we haven’t seen enough." While our hurts and vulnerabilities can feel endlessly distressing, they are often quite minor compared to the hurts and the vulnerabilities of the world. The speaker gave the example of driving in rush hour traffic—it becomes much less stressful and overwhelming when we realize that we’re lucky enough to have a car when millions of people don’t even have food. It is when we put our problems into context that a mountainous obstacle becomes nothing more than a small hill, and a small hill is much easier to climb.
In the moment the man decided to die, it occurred to me how most of my problems are, in comparison, minor inconveniences. So I need to pack up my house and move cross country—I’m horrible at organization and pre-planning in stressful situations, but by the end of September it will be over. So I have student debt from seminary—I’ll get a job and pay it off over time. So I have errands to run, or bills to pay, or phone calls to make. All of the little things on my mind, all the decisions I’ve had to make today, pale in comparison to this man’s decision to die.
“I sit here, unsure of what the eternity of morning will bring.” Life? Death? Sunshine or fog? A phone call from an old friend? A piece of friendly gossip, whispered behind a hand? In what will I be disappointed? In what will I find grace, and thankfulness? What will the morning bring?
Friday, May 16, 2008
Granddaughters
This evening at my hospital, a grandmother died. She had lived a full life, 89 years of careers, marriage, family, friends...her death was sad but not tragic. Her young granddaughter was there, perhaps 8 or 9 years old. She used to go see 3-D tween movies with her grandmother, like The Adventures of Shark Boy and Lava Girl. Her grandmother loved every minute of it.
There are times when I am at a loss for words in a room where there's been a death. I put on a face that is hopefully comforting, expressing my empathy, and not too bright or too dim. I am used to sadness. However, the presence of this little girl changed the tone of the room. While there was sadness, her presence was also a reminder of life continuing through the generations. This beloved woman had died, but a reflection of her grace, her humor, her very essence sat cross-legged in a reclining chair, ready for whatever was next.
Half expecting to be without words again, I was surprised to find that I knew exactly what to do for this little girl. A few Cheetah Girl and Hannah Montana references later, an offer of markers to draw on the white board in the room, and a quick Google search yielded word-finds and mazes for a girl who was a little bored waiting for the adults to get their act together.
Strange how easy it is to slip back into something I know, something I did every day working at the Children's Museum and with the all the different kids in my life. It feels like pulling on a worn-out, comfortable t-shirt. Every experience we have becomes a puzzle piece of a much larger image. As be begin to see how the pieces fit together, we have a greater appreciation for the whole.
Moreover, it is not always the "logical" or most financially responsible decisions that make the most sense. There's no way I could have known that doing art projects with kids could help me be a minister to a grieving family. Sometimes we just have to go with our gut, and let the rest fall into place. Our hopes and dreams, our striving and passions, they are our moral compass.
There are times when I am at a loss for words in a room where there's been a death. I put on a face that is hopefully comforting, expressing my empathy, and not too bright or too dim. I am used to sadness. However, the presence of this little girl changed the tone of the room. While there was sadness, her presence was also a reminder of life continuing through the generations. This beloved woman had died, but a reflection of her grace, her humor, her very essence sat cross-legged in a reclining chair, ready for whatever was next.
Half expecting to be without words again, I was surprised to find that I knew exactly what to do for this little girl. A few Cheetah Girl and Hannah Montana references later, an offer of markers to draw on the white board in the room, and a quick Google search yielded word-finds and mazes for a girl who was a little bored waiting for the adults to get their act together.
Strange how easy it is to slip back into something I know, something I did every day working at the Children's Museum and with the all the different kids in my life. It feels like pulling on a worn-out, comfortable t-shirt. Every experience we have becomes a puzzle piece of a much larger image. As be begin to see how the pieces fit together, we have a greater appreciation for the whole.
Moreover, it is not always the "logical" or most financially responsible decisions that make the most sense. There's no way I could have known that doing art projects with kids could help me be a minister to a grieving family. Sometimes we just have to go with our gut, and let the rest fall into place. Our hopes and dreams, our striving and passions, they are our moral compass.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
The Long Slog
Here I am at the hospital again. I pulled myself out of bed this morning and donned my professional gear—a black suit, name badge, and beeper. The best part of my day was when my cat Jessie jumped up onto my lap, settled in, and began to purr while I was eating my morning cereal. Even though I had to use the lint roller three times to get the cat fur off, it was worth it. Jessie is warm, and soft, and healthy.
I’m the only chaplain in the hospital today. I’m the one who gets paged for all the deaths, all the Code Blues, all the anxious people about to go into surgery tomorrow. There’s also 21 new people who need to be visited, which is far fewer than the chaplain on call Saturday had to deal with. I should feel lucky.
I was at a church potluck yesterday celebrating the end of the canvass (fundraising pledge drive) for next year. I made my salad, and showed up to see several hundred people that I care about. We talked, we laughed, we listened to a 17 year-old church member’s jazz band. My twelve year-old friend Margaret and I started a dance party in the back. It was…well…it was lovely.
I talked to my adult friend Craig at church and told him some of my stories. Craig has a huge heart. I still remember him crying when his family’s cat died. Craig said he couldn’t do what I do. He said he couldn’t be in so many sick people’s rooms.
I love my job. I really do. And yet, today, I’m not sure how much I can do. I’m not sure how present I can be to people. I’m sure I’ll get into the rooms, and somebody will need something important, and I’ll reach way down to the bottom of my soul to pull up the patience and the energy I need. I know I’ll find a way. But quite frankly, I’m exhausted today. It’s not that I didn’t get enough sleep, it’s that I’m full of the stories. Their stories. I'm brimming with their pain, their shattered hopes and dreams, their fear that they will never go home again. I’m emotionally spent.
As of tomorrow, I will officially have worked at the hospital for 8 months. Being at the hospital 70 hours a week for 8 months…I guess today, I’m feeling it.
I’m the only chaplain in the hospital today. I’m the one who gets paged for all the deaths, all the Code Blues, all the anxious people about to go into surgery tomorrow. There’s also 21 new people who need to be visited, which is far fewer than the chaplain on call Saturday had to deal with. I should feel lucky.
I was at a church potluck yesterday celebrating the end of the canvass (fundraising pledge drive) for next year. I made my salad, and showed up to see several hundred people that I care about. We talked, we laughed, we listened to a 17 year-old church member’s jazz band. My twelve year-old friend Margaret and I started a dance party in the back. It was…well…it was lovely.
I talked to my adult friend Craig at church and told him some of my stories. Craig has a huge heart. I still remember him crying when his family’s cat died. Craig said he couldn’t do what I do. He said he couldn’t be in so many sick people’s rooms.
I love my job. I really do. And yet, today, I’m not sure how much I can do. I’m not sure how present I can be to people. I’m sure I’ll get into the rooms, and somebody will need something important, and I’ll reach way down to the bottom of my soul to pull up the patience and the energy I need. I know I’ll find a way. But quite frankly, I’m exhausted today. It’s not that I didn’t get enough sleep, it’s that I’m full of the stories. Their stories. I'm brimming with their pain, their shattered hopes and dreams, their fear that they will never go home again. I’m emotionally spent.
As of tomorrow, I will officially have worked at the hospital for 8 months. Being at the hospital 70 hours a week for 8 months…I guess today, I’m feeling it.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Friday, April 4, 2008
For Jay Ray
I feel like I helped someone today. I know that I helped someone today. His name is Justine, and he’s a good 17 year-old kid. Manically and frantically moving from one thought to the other, he threw rhymes at me for over an hour about justice, about not being heard, and about being disrespected. He’s really very angry.
He told me about his passion for swimming. He told me about jumping into the water, being cut off from the world underneath the blanket of liquid, and the peace he found there. It is a gentle solitude away from the domestic violence in his home. Away from the labels of “crazy” and “nut job” his teachers and classmates give him. His mind moves so quickly from one subject to another. He wrote in journal after journal. His mind raced. He raced. We breathed deeply and slowly together.
He talked about being a non-conformist. He talked about being like his hero, Martin Luther King, Jr. He framed his non-conformism in terms of not taking the pills they offered, not following the dress code of the hospital, and of getting out of there. He kept paging through the “Patient Rights” pamphlet and pointing out sections. “See, it says here, it says it right here, that I don’t have to take this, I’m going to go call my lawyer right now!”
We ultimately talked about choices. When he refused to give up a rosary that could be used to hang himself or others, I asked, “Is this really the battle you want to be fighting?” We talked about laws and rules, and about the spirit of those laws and rules. We talked about the differing spirit of a law he did follow—stopping at stoplights so that there weren’t car accidents, and a law he didn’t follow—like upholding segregation laws. We talked about choices and how they are ours to make, but that there are consequences for every one.
I told him he was special. I told him he was unique. That no matter where he was, no matter what he was doing, no matter which medications he was or was not on, he would never lose that. We prayed.
In the end, he walked calmly up to the staff, told them he’d made his decision, and handed them his rosary. The staff woman looked shocked, thanked him for the decision he made, and carefully tucked his rosary away for him in a plastic bag with his name on it. He thanked me for listening to him, for helping him reason through his decision, for really hearing what he had so say. He asked me if it was okay to give me a hug, and I said it was.
I saw the staff person over his shoulder as he hugged me. She smiled a big, deep, true smile. For a moment, just a moment, she got a glimpse of the sweet boy beneath the layers of anxiety, fear, and anger that cause him to rock as he talks endlessly.
I think there might be a place for me someday in this world. I’ve worked with so many youth and children, and I honestly respect them and their view of the world. At any age, what children say matters. They are beautiful gifts to the world, and their vision and purpose is so powerful, so needed in this world. They are the prophets of the coming age.
I spent two hours with Justine, and they were wonderful. It was not two hours languishing in front of the T.V., or entering endless data into a computer, or stuck in some board meeting debating whether the parking lot should have gravel or be paved. They were two hours of connecting with someone. Of caring for them. Of making a difference, however small, in someone’s life. How lucky am I that I get to do this?
He told me about his passion for swimming. He told me about jumping into the water, being cut off from the world underneath the blanket of liquid, and the peace he found there. It is a gentle solitude away from the domestic violence in his home. Away from the labels of “crazy” and “nut job” his teachers and classmates give him. His mind moves so quickly from one subject to another. He wrote in journal after journal. His mind raced. He raced. We breathed deeply and slowly together.
He talked about being a non-conformist. He talked about being like his hero, Martin Luther King, Jr. He framed his non-conformism in terms of not taking the pills they offered, not following the dress code of the hospital, and of getting out of there. He kept paging through the “Patient Rights” pamphlet and pointing out sections. “See, it says here, it says it right here, that I don’t have to take this, I’m going to go call my lawyer right now!”
We ultimately talked about choices. When he refused to give up a rosary that could be used to hang himself or others, I asked, “Is this really the battle you want to be fighting?” We talked about laws and rules, and about the spirit of those laws and rules. We talked about the differing spirit of a law he did follow—stopping at stoplights so that there weren’t car accidents, and a law he didn’t follow—like upholding segregation laws. We talked about choices and how they are ours to make, but that there are consequences for every one.
I told him he was special. I told him he was unique. That no matter where he was, no matter what he was doing, no matter which medications he was or was not on, he would never lose that. We prayed.
In the end, he walked calmly up to the staff, told them he’d made his decision, and handed them his rosary. The staff woman looked shocked, thanked him for the decision he made, and carefully tucked his rosary away for him in a plastic bag with his name on it. He thanked me for listening to him, for helping him reason through his decision, for really hearing what he had so say. He asked me if it was okay to give me a hug, and I said it was.
I saw the staff person over his shoulder as he hugged me. She smiled a big, deep, true smile. For a moment, just a moment, she got a glimpse of the sweet boy beneath the layers of anxiety, fear, and anger that cause him to rock as he talks endlessly.
I think there might be a place for me someday in this world. I’ve worked with so many youth and children, and I honestly respect them and their view of the world. At any age, what children say matters. They are beautiful gifts to the world, and their vision and purpose is so powerful, so needed in this world. They are the prophets of the coming age.
I spent two hours with Justine, and they were wonderful. It was not two hours languishing in front of the T.V., or entering endless data into a computer, or stuck in some board meeting debating whether the parking lot should have gravel or be paved. They were two hours of connecting with someone. Of caring for them. Of making a difference, however small, in someone’s life. How lucky am I that I get to do this?
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