Sacred Space

For all the nursing assistants who show up uninvited to care for the dying.


You enter sacred space uninvited.
These are my last days and
I don't need your help.
You will push and pry,
and strip me of my dignity.
You will uncover and undress,
stealing my modesty.
My journey is almost over.
Just let me be.
You're not welcome. Not now.

You enter sacred space uninvited.
You ask to raise my blinds,
seeking the sun to cheer me.
I hear you hum a familiar hymn as
you bathe my worn-out body.
Your gentle hands caress me,
and I feel your warmth—your love.
As you brush my thinning hair,
you remind me of happier days
when my mom did the same.
Tenderly massaging my aching limbs,
you ask about my life.
You're genuinely interested in my story.
Reminiscing brings a needed release.

You entered sacred space uninvited, but now?
Now I welcome you to walk with me.
I ask you to care for me—to love me.
My journey is over and I seek rest.
Your presence gives reassurance.
I know it's okay to cross over.
I can let go.

You entered sacred space uninvited, but now?
In this moment, I trust you—I love you.
You are welcomed in my sacred space
as I say my last good-bye.