It's All About the Number, And I'm Okay With That

   

 I don’t like to focus on numbers, but this time of year it’s inevitable. This may surprise you, but even hospices obsess over numbers. Is the census growing? Can we remain a viable hospice? Most of the time, I do a pretty good job keeping first things first. After all, this number isn’t a dollar amount or quantity sold—It’s a human life. Every time our number goes up, another family is facing a heartbreaking new reality. Still, I have a year-end goal to achieve.

     As I lay in bed this morning, pondering my number—the corporate-set mark, discouragement seeps in and I become disgusted with myself. I don’t want to be this ambitious person fixated on a target. The old saying comes to mind. “You can’t see the forest for the trees.” I understand the proverbial quote is encouraging us not to lose sight of the whole by fixating on the details. But maybe, at least in this situation, it’s backward.  I should focus on the individual, not overall number. I can’t see the trees for the forest! But the tree is what’s important!  Especially when this tree has a name. It’s a person—a person with a story. 

     I smile as my church’s philosophy comes to mind. NewSpring often faces criticism for being a mega church focused on numbers. Addressing the accusation, Pastor P unashamedly says, “Yes, we focus on growth and numbers, because every number has a name. Every name has a story, and every story matters to God.” Oh, how I love these words!

     I close my eyes as I release the pressure and let the words apply to hospice and my goal. I realize it’s not about being successful through achieving a magic number. It’s about being part of someone’s story. 

     So today, I’m okay with being all about the numbers. Because every number has a name. Every name has a story, and every story matters to God. What a privilege for our hospice team to walk alongside people as they write their final chapter. 

     As the year comes to a close, what are you focused on? I pray you find a way to let go of the stress and find rest. The Author of our life story longs to fill us with peace. I pray you experience His love during Christmas--the season where the number One is all that matters. One babe in a manger, One Savior of the world. One who came to earth so our story can be neverending, because just when the world types "The End", He whispers, "This is only the beginning."

Sacred Space

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

Uninvited

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.

Silence Please

When grief is suffocating someone you love, what do you do?  That moment when you witness someone's life come to a screeching halt, forever changing them, what do you say?

Sometimes it's easier to cower away because of fear of screwing up and saying the wrong thing, but you can't just walk away. So what do you do?

Confession time. Back when I was green, I mean a clueless hospice newbie who thought she had a clue, I made a lot of mistakes. Words meant to comfort came across all wrong. I never intentionally minimized someone's pain, but I'm afraid my attempts to reassure did just that.

The sad reality is we can't rescue the grieving. Trying to say or do the right thing to make the person feel better is wasted effort. Those who mourn need time to work through the pain, but being a bystander to the process is uncomfortable. As Americans we shun pain. We avoid it at all costs. So it's no wonder we fail when it comes to supporting those who are in the throes of grief.

From my experience, here's the top three things people say at the time of death  but shouldn't. There's always an exception, but for the most part, these are not helpful.

1. Don't bring God into it or quote Scripture. Gasp. There may come a time, once grief has settled, when there can be a conversation about God's peace, comfort and sovereignty, but when one is in shock or deeply anguished, the words come across as trite. So keep religion out of it when the pain is raw.
2. Don't try to frame things in a positive way. I'm the queen of positive reframing, so this one is tough for me. Yes, he may be in a better place. Yes, the suffering is over... But it may not be time for these reassuring words. There will be days and weeks following when these affirmations may bring peace but perhaps not now.
3. Don't say, “Let me know if you need anything.”  Haven't we all done it? And sincerely meant it. But how often does that person call? It's hard for the grief-stricken to breathe, let alone anticipate their needs. Picking up the phone and asking for something? How is that possible when they are under the sheets weeping?

So what can we do?

1. Be fully present without words. Simply hold their hand or wrap them in your arms. No advice. No words of wisdom. Just be present.
2. If you just can't stand it and must say something, keep it simple. "I'm so sorry this happened" or "I'm here" is all that's needed.
3. Offer concrete ways to help. Anticipate their needs. Don't expect them to know. “I'm going to pick your children up from school tomorrow.” “I will bring dinner tonight.” Ease their stress by doing the practical things that must be done without being asked.
   
   Above all, be honest. Be real. Be transparent. It's okay to say you don't know what to say or do. After twenty years of hospice care, do you want to know the words I say most often?

“I'm so sorry. I wish I knew what to say, but there are no words.”

That's it. No magic formula. No struggle to find wise words to comfort. No perfect verse to bring healing. Not now. Not in the midst of raw emotion. The best gift to offer the grief-stricken is to simply bear witness. Sit in silence as they weep. Hold their hand. Offer your shoulder. But do so without meaningless words. Never be afraid to simply offer your presence.

Unshakable Faith

Squeezing my hand, the frail voice whispered, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”  The nurse rolled him further on his side, he groaned, “For you are with me."  His grip tightened around my hand as he gasped, "Your rod and your staff, they comfort me."

I glanced over at the nurse who was packing his wound with gauze. Tears were streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry, almost done.” She looked at me, her eyes filled with despair.

It was the worst decubitus ulcer I had ever seen- a gaping, five inches wide, to the bone, bed sore.  Nursing home neglect had taken its toll and now Tom had been moved to our hospice house to die.

As the nurse kept working, Tom’s jaw tightened, his voice strained. "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life." His voice weakened to a labored whispered, “And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

I don’t know if the morphine finally took effect or if he passed out from the pain, but he fell unconscious. I loosened his hand from mine and looked at the frazzled nurse.  I asked, “Have you ever seen such faith?”

She wiped her wet cheeks. “No, it seems impossible. How does he do it?”  

I didn't have the answer then, and I still don’t. His family had abandoned him in a nursing home. He must have felt unwanted. Unloved. Tom never regained consciousness and died a few days later. In spite of his physical pain, emotional suffering and unanswered questions, the last words on his breath,"I shall dwell in the house of my Lord forever."

I wish I knew his life story, how his unshakable faith was forged. How he still felt the love of his Father in spite of pain. Thankfully, I look forward to asking him one day when I see him whole and in perfect health.

As I reflect on the end of his journey, I’m reminded of others who chose praise in their darkest hour. Jonah, Daniel, David, Paul... the list goes on. In fact, I think it's harder to find a Bible hero who didn't praise through his hardship than ones who did. How reassuring to know Tom is now in a circle of these great men of faith.

Makes me think twice next time I grumble about insignificant nuisances and temporal inconveniences. I pray for an unshakable faith so that in spite of circumstances, even during tragedies and crises, I will be able to praise in spite of pain.

Setting Sail

I've had the honor to be with several people this week who were in labor. Not the joyous occasion of welcoming a new baby, but rather, the final labor. The struggle of birthing one’s spirit into heaven. I've witnessed families and hospice nurses provide the warmth and compassion of seasoned mid-wives as they coach and encourage.

If only we could see what those who are laboring see. The soldier, ending his war with cancer, speaks to his departed mother as if she were right there in the room. A lady whose voice was stolen by Alzheimer’s years ago, looks up from her hospital bed, smiles and reaches for something in the air.

It’s as though they have one foot here, in what we call reality, and another in their future home, their eternal home. If only we could understand that both are equally real.

If only we could see. We wouldn't grieve in desperation and beg them to stay. We would have tears of joy, like those bidding farewell, waving as a ship sets sail for a new adventure and an indescribable, glorious destination.

Yes, good-byes are still sad. Being separated from those we love is painful, often gut-wrenching, but if only we could see with their eyes. If only we could feel what they feel, experience their miraculous new birth. We would truly grieve as those who have hope.

I pray that if you are grieving a loss today, you will feel God's tender embrace as He gives comfort to your broken heart.

Gone From My Sight

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,  
spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts
for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck
of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other. 

Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone." 

Gone where? 

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast,
hull and spar as she was when she left my side.
And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone,"
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!" 

And that is dying...

~~Henry Van Dyke

True Peace

     As I walked up the rotten steps to the pitiful shack, I was making a list of all the referrals I needed to make to ensure the house was not just livable, but appropriate for a hospice patient to die in. Thankfully, I had several dedicated volunteers with carpentry skills. My mind was busy assigning tasks when the door opened. Mrs. Smith’s arms spread wide, inviting a warm embrace.

     My only meeting with Mrs. Smith had been in the hospital. She was adamant to honor her husband’s wish to die at home. Seeing the dilapidated house, I doubted if that was the best decision.We sat on a well-worn couch supported by cement block on one end and covered in a thread-bare quilt.

    Mrs. Smith beamed as she took my hands, “I’m just so thankful to have Hank home. He’s so much happier.” She glanced over at her husband who lay unresponsive in a hospital bed. “And look how comfortable he is in his new bed.”

     I squeezed her hand and we sat in silence for a few minutes.  She gathered her courage and continued, “I know it don’t seem like he knows, but he knows.”

     I nodded in confirmation. “He’s blessed to have a wife that loves him so much.”

    Tears filled her eyes. Breathing in deeply, she refused to let them spill over. “My Hank is a good man. Never had much, but always had each other. We gots two healthy children’bout grown.” She sighed. “God’s been good.” She smiled sadly as the tears were released and she cried freely while I held her.

     As I stood to leave an hour later, I knew Mrs. Smith would be okay. In the midst of her heartbreak, she had that deep, inexplicable peace.  The love in her little home was so thick it was almost palpable.

     I stopped on the dusty, gravel road to type the address of my next patient into my GPS.  Looking at the directions, I realized it was in the most affluent area of the city. What a dichotomy.  Cancer does not discriminate between rich and poor.

     Turning on the stately, circular drive, I stopped at the wrought iron gate. It opened automatically and the home came into view.  Majestic white columns stood like soldiers supporting the mansion of dark red brick.

     A housekeeper greeted me at the door and ushered me into the parlor. I could hear voices arguing in the next room. Suddenly, a young woman stormed out the front door. A few minutes later, Mrs. Wilson entered the room and introduced herself. She was cold and aloof while stating she had no need for a social worker.  Her husband was well-cared for by a twenty-four hour nurse on the third floor. In a business tone, she informed me I could visit with him if I liked, but she didn’t feel the need to see him anymore since he no longer knew who she was.

     Another employee led me upstairs. Mr. Wilson looked like a king sleeping in an elaborate, antique, canopy bed. A nurse sat in the corner reading a magazine. He didn’t respond when I took his hand. But did he know I was there? More importantly, did he know his wife wasn’t?

     Driving home that afternoon, I pondered the two extremes.  Obviously, the old saying holds true, “You can’t buy happiness.”  I thought of the secret to peace that Paul shared over 2000 years ago in a letter penned to the church at Philippi.

     “And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus . . . I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength.” Philippians 4:7 and 12-13

     No matter what we’re facing today, let’s be reminded that genuine joy and deep, unshakable peace is only found in one place. Whether we live in a homeless shelter, a trailer, a penthouse or mansion, our material home is irrelevant as long as we know our real home, our eternal home is in the unchanging, loving arms of our Father. 

The Voice

      I recently shed the worst kind of tears--tears of regret. That familiar inner-voice told me to do something, to visit someone, but I muted it. A list of other important to-dos took its place.

     The truth is I didn't want to visit this person. Her husband was a hospice patient and had died months before. While I had visited several times, providing a quiet presence and trying to comfort, I was weary of the depression, her inconsolable tears.

     “You need to visit her,” the Voice whispered.

     “I know, I know and I will. Not today, I have tons of paperwork and a new patient to assess.”

     The next day, the Voice urged again, “You need to visit her."

     “Yes, but my kids want to go to the pool. I need to get home early. I’ll go on Friday.”

     The Voice was silent.

     I called her on Friday morning but she didn’t answer. Relief, I’m off the hook.  

     A few hours later I received the call telling me she had died the night before, in her home, alone. Tears of regret, self-loathing and remorse erupted. Guilt rose from the pit of my stomach. The Voice was silent. Guilt tightened its grip, I cried out to the Voice to assuage my pain, to ease my conscience. The Voice was silent. Guilt smothered me.

    Co-workers offered reassurance, “If you were supposed to have visited, you would have, God was in control.”  The words fell on deaf ears as hot tears continued to fall.  I was inconsolable. I could have seen her one last time. More importantly, I could have the confidence of knowing I listened to the Voice. I knew I had failed. I hushed a Voice that I should have heeded.

     Now, a week later, I am released from my guilt. The Voice has finally spoken. He gave me the image of my patient and his wife dancing in each other’s arms. She looked over her shoulder at me and grinned. I knew what she was thinking. She couldn’t care less if she saw me one last time. She knows it wouldn't have changed her fate. It has, however, changed mine. Next time, I will refuse to mute the Voice. I will listen. I will obey.

Chronicles of the Agape House: Crabbit Old Woman

         Just like teachers, healthcare workers are told that it’s dangerous to have favorites, but I think it’s inevitable. Surprisingly, my pets seem to be the spunky, “non-compliant” ones. I knew as soon as I met Betty that she fit the bill . . . a defiant and rude priss-pot.

       It was of utmost importance for Betty to maintain her regal appearance at all times.  Her bushy wig was always in place. The staff couldn’t figure out how she kept it in place even when she slept. Her bright red lipstick and painted eyebrows were artistically applied as soon as she woke in the morning, and her ear-rings, matching pennant and necklace were all in place before breakfast.  

     To the naive observer, she appeared relatively well, but she had an aggressive cancer that she labored to keep hidden.  She had a strong opinion about everything and although she was demanding, she was never cruel. That is until she graduated to the dreaded stage of grief-- anger.

     Loudly barking orders from her chair, she didn't mind throwing a hairbrush or cup in your direction to make a point. Nothing we did even came close to pleasing her. In fact, the more we tried to caudle and reassure, the more hostile she became. 

     The staff quickly grew tired of dodging, and then, sweeping up broken glass, so I gave each a copy of the following poem.

Crabbit Old Woman

What do you see nurses, what do you see,                                                     

What are you thinking when you look at me?

A crabbit old woman, not very wise,

Uncertain of habit, with far-away eyes,

Who dribbles her food and makes not reply

When you say in a loud voice, ‘I do wish you'd try',

Who seems not to notice the things that you do,

And forever is losing a stocking or shoe,

Who, unresisting or not, let's you do as you will,

With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill.

Is that what you're thinking, is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,

As I move at your bidding, as I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of ten with a father and mother,

Brothers and sisters who love one another.

A young girl at sixteen with wings on her feet,                             

Dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet.

A bride soon at twenty - my heart gives a leap

Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.

At twenty-five now I have young of my own,                        

Who need me to build a secure happy home.

A woman of thirty my young grow fast,

Bound to each other with ties that should last.

At forty my young now soon will be gone,

But my man stays beside me to see I don't mourn.

At fifty once more babies play round my knee,

Again we know children, my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead.

I look at the future, I shudder with dread,

For my young are all busy rearing young of their own,

And I think of the years and the love I have known.

I'm an old woman now and nature is cruel,

'Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.

The body it crumbles, grace and vigour depart

And now there's a stone where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,

And now and again my battered heart swells,

I remember the joys, I remember the pain,

And I'm loving and living life over again.

I think of the years all too few - gone so fast,

And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

So open your eyes, Nurses, open and see,

Not a crabbit old woman, look closer - see me.  

     I had read the poem in a geriatric magazine years before. It was written that the poem was found among the possessions of an elderly Irish lady who had died in a nursing home. She was unable to speak but was often seen writing. The poem so impressed her nurse that she sent it to the local newspaper. It has since become famous among health care workers.

     As we continued to treat Betty with respect, we gradually, ever so slowly, witnessed a softer Betty emerge. When she became bed-bound, we hung bird feeders and brightly colored hanging baskets in full bloom by her window. Her last command was to make sure we watered the flowers and kept the bird feeders full.

     Thanks for the life lesson, Betty. Sometimes we have to look deep to find the essence of a person. It may be hidden under layers of hurt or buried in years of stubbornness. But it’s there. All we have to do is be persistent and open our eyes and see.

Chronicles of the Agape House: The Longest Night

    Shortly after opening the Agape House, my nursing assistant called out sick so I had to work the night shift. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was inexcusably short-tempered and rude to our first patient, Jim.  

     Jim was 6’3”, 280 lbs and bed-bound, no small task to change his depends, pajamas and sheets while he remained in the bed. In fact, it was similar to a Houdini trick. This dreaded night was even more difficult as he had diarrhea and the trick had to be mastered many times.

     Blame it on fatigue, about 4:30 in the morning, as I heard the bell, again, I staggered to Jim’s bedside. I tried to keep my voice steady, “No, really it’s okay. It’s not your fault. Roll over to your side please. Your bottom’s really getting red. Let me get you some cream. . . Okay, now for some fresh sheets. . . ” 

     It was a long process, a repetitive routine. Jim must have noticed my annoyance because he began apologizing. I tried to assure him that I didn’t mind. But the truth was, I did mind. And worse, it showed. I thought I would vomit if I had to change one more diaper. Jim sensed this in my touch and in my tone. 

     After tucking him in, as I walked back to the office, hot tears  surfaced. I had never experienced such fatigue. Every muscle ached. My body seemed to scream, “Enough !”  

     My prayer for strength quickly turned to whining, which deteriorated into bellyaching and collapsed into an absolute pity party. Fortunately, I was the only one invited. I have a graduate degree. I’m a professional! Why am I cleaning dirty butts? I’ve been awake for over 24 hours and nobody cares!  Woe is me. . . woe is me. . .  I’m the only one on earth who cares. . . 

   In the middle of my pathetic droning, I remembered a poem I had read years earlier. I was so touched by the poem that I created a pattern and cross-stitched it with the hope of one day hanging it in my office.

I Wonder

You know, Lord, how I serve you

With great emotional fervor

In the limelight.

You know how eagerly I speak for You

At a woman’s club.

You know how I effervesce when I promote

A fellowship group.

You know my genuine enthusiasm

At a Bible study.

But how would I react, I wonder

If you pointed to a basin of water

And asked me to wash the calloused feet

Of a bent and wrinkled woman

Day after Day

Month after month

In a room where nobody saw

And nobody knew.

          Ruth Harms Cakins  

     Sitting at my desk after my disgraceful breakdown, I recalled the poem in detail. A poem about an anonymous servant . . . how ironic that I cross-stitched it with the intention of spotlighting it on the wall of my office. Self-defeating and hypocritical. God must grow weary of my stupidity. As I prayed for forgiveness and sincerely asked God to give me a compassionate attitude, Jim’s bell rang . . .  again.

     This time my voice was lighter and my touch softer as I changed and repositioned him. I made a joke about his derriere favoring a bright red candied apple. He retorted, “Well then kiss my aa. . . ple.”   We both laughed and as I tucked the quilt around him, he touched my hand and whispered, “Thank you.” 

     I kissed his forehead. “No problem, if I am ever as old as dirt like you, I hope someone will be there to clean my aa. . . ple.”  

     He smiled.

     As I checked on other patients, a quiet inner-voice reminded me that it’s not about me. Jim had been a successful engineer. He built bridges and traveled the world. Now, he was helpless, completely dependent. As hard as this was for me, it was clearly far more difficult for him. How challenging it must be for a patient to be courteous when he is slowly losing his pride and dignity. It’s obviously more difficult than being a caregiver.

    I would like to say that through that long night with Jim, I learned my lesson once and for all. But sadly, I’m a slow learner, and so I’m constantly being mashed and put back on the Potter’s wheel. At least I’m a little more pliable for the Master’s hands now.

     Just so you know, Jim remained kind and warm until his passing. He modeled how a strong, respected man should face his last days . . . with grace and dignity, and even a little humor. I still can’t see a candied apple without smiling and remembering sweet Jim.

Praying for Me?

     I didn’t choose hospice, it chose me. Okay, not really, God chose it for me. As a person who cries during sentimental commercials, I knew I could never work around dying people. But, two months into my job as a home health social worker, my manager asked me to see a few hospice patients. Death, pain, grief . . . . What crazy person would choose that?  No, don't think so.

    My manager was persistent because she was short a hospice social worker. Trying to flatter me, she went on about all the reasons I would be great at hospice. All I heard was “yadda, yadda, yadda.”

     Saying no was not an option and I found myself sitting at the table of Joshua, an elderly gentleman. I was crying more than he as he recounted the details of his wife’s seven year battle with Alzheimer’s. Francis lay in a hospital bed, immobile, unable to communicate. Her nails were polished, hair curled and she smelled of floral perfume. Lipstick was smeared on her drawn lips.

     As Joshua glanced at her from the table, he asked, “Isn’t my bride beautiful? I try to keep up her morning ritual.” He chuckled, “Can’t do it as well as her, of course.” His face softened as he continued to stare at her. “Sixty-eight years, it has all gone so fast . . .”

      I listened as Joshua reminisced about the joys and sorrows of a lifetime spent together. He spoke of God’s comfort and grace. He whispered, “Susan, there really is a peace that transcends understanding.” My trembling lip showed my skepticism. He patted my hand in a paternal way as if to reassure me, “God has indeed been faithful.”   

     He rose and went to the stove to stir the soup. Even with his stooped posture, he still towered over me. His movement was slow and deliberate. Curled arthritic hands gripped the pot as he spooned out a small portion for Francis. He asked me to join them for supper, and though I wanted to escape the intense sadness welling in my throat, I couldn’t say no.

     Joshua asked me to help myself, and I did as I watched him place a bib around his bride. He prayed a simple blessing and then patiently coaxed in a small bite. “Come on Francis, open a little for me, please sweetheart, just a few bites . . .”    

     I wondered how many times this routine had been repeated. She made no effort to turn her head or open her mouth. He sat the spoon down. “Well maybe we’ll try later. You just rest.”  He ran the back of his hand down her cheek and kissed her forehead.

     I wiped my tears as he returned to the table. “I pray my sweet Francis will be in heaven soon. Oh, but I will miss her smile . . .” Joshua continued recounting their love story as I tried to eat my soup. The lump in my throat made it impossible to swallow. And as the nausea grew, I tried to discreetly push the soup aside.

     “Are you okay dear?  I’ve rambled on for hours. You must be bored to tears.”

     “No, you’ve just had such a beautiful life together and now . . .” my voice cracked. I tried to exhale but the air escaped as a tearful whimper. 

     Joshua laid his hand over mine. “God never promised it would be easy. He did promise that he would carry us. He does you know, even through this valley of death, I can feel him.” He looked up at the ceiling as if he could see straight through to heaven. “Don’t ever forget, my dear, God carries us through the trial.”  

     I bit my bottom lip and didn’t answer. Joshua patted my hand and we sat in silence for what seemed like hours. Much later, as I stood to leave, he gave me a warm, tight hug. He pulled back, keeping both hands on my shoulders. He looked in my eyes and said emphatically, "Susan, I will be praying for you." His withered lips curved into a half smile, “Often, I might add.”

     Ironic, I thought. I was in my mid-twenties, the prime of my life, going home to a well husband and two healthy children. Why would he feel the need to pray for me?

     He patted my back as he escorted me to the door. “You’re going to make it my dear. You just wait and see.” 

     Then I realized his insight. He saw the fear, the dissipating faith, and as a man who had witnessed incredible tragedy through two wars and suffering the death a child, he knew I was at a crossroad. He had the wisdom to know I needed the prayer more than he.

     I’ve thought of Joshua often over the past twenty years. I don’t think it’s any accident that my first hospice family was one of a profound faith. I know he kept his promise to pray, and while I don’t know what he said to his Father, I know his prayers were answered.

     Has there been a time when you knew God placed the right person in your life to lift you to the Father?  Better yet, have you been that person?  I would love to hear your story. You can share it here or feel free to e-mail me.

     My prayer today is that each reader will be covered in God’s grace and wrapped in His love with the realization that He does, indeed, carry us through the trial.

Wide Open Door

     “When God closes a door, he opens a window.”  I hate that saying. So I searched the web, seeking the origin of such a half-baked remark. Did it really come from the Sound of Music?  

     Yes, I know the intent is to encourage us to see the silver lining. But, really? A door is tall.  It’s easy to walk through. You remain upright as you saunter on through. But a window, it’s small. You probably have to climb, crawl and wiggle to get through it. Doesn’t sound like a logical trade to me.

      Seriously, closing a door and opening a window isn't representative of a loving God. In my opinion the saying should be “When God closes the wrong door He opens the right door” or better yet, “When God closes a window, He opens a door.”  Yes, I definitely like that better.

     A big part of my job as a hospice social worker is reminiscent therapy and facilitating a therapeutic life review (Gotta love the way everything has to sound so clinical). Basically, it’s encouraging my patient to tell his life story from the earliest childhood memory to the present. The goal is to give value to a patient’s life. No one wants to die thinking that it was all pointless and that he didn’t make a difference. So I affirm, validate, and praise. This is the best part of my job, especially when it’s a war veteran. I love thanking him for his sacrifice.

     Usually I can reframe any bad experience or crisis in a positive way, because simply surviving a tragedy takes courage and resilience. Patients often confirm the old saying, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” It’s been my experience that most can look back at their lives and acknowledge that there was meaning and purpose in spite of life’s heartbreaks.

     But what happens when this isn’t the case? Mark was my most challenging patient,  challenging in that I couldn’t find any “good” in his life. Yes, I know that sounds harsh, but it’s true. He was in and out of detention centers from an early age. He grew into a drug addict, wife beater, and well, a not so pleasant man. His children described him as mean and bitter. How do you reframe that in a positive way?

     When I first met him, I have to admit, I was intimidated. Big, burley, unkempt and foul- mouthed, I think intimidation was his goal. But over the weeks, as I slowly built his trust, he began telling his story. His journey was one of many closed doors. He didn’t like windows much either. He smirked one day as he told of throwing a chair through a window in a moment of rage.

     Staring into his cold eyes, I realized his life had been a series of closed doors. Crashing a window seemed almost poetic, in a morose kind of way. I gathered my courage and asked if he ever felt trapped. He looked down and mumbled, “Still trapped.” Such an incredibly sad tragedy.

     I was able to share that no one is ever truly trapped. Yes, we can feel imprisoned, like we’re incapable of change. Mistakes and regrets may hold us captive, but by accepting our Creator's unconditional love, we can be freed.

     I would love to say that Mark accepted this agape love, but I’m not sure. He didn’t respond that day and died shortly after. What I do know is that there was an open door and he had the choice to walk through it.

     That’s the awesome thing about God. He opens the door to all, regardless of our past. The ugliness, the hurt, the pain, He washes it all away. You get a fresh, clean start through a wide open door.  Oh, and by the way, on the other side of the door is sustaining Grace and a Joy that’s indescribable. 

Too Much To Bear?

     For as long as I can remember, I've heard, "God won't give you more than you can bear." I think this may be the greatest misconception, the most misquoted scripture in the Bible. It's taken from 1 Corinthians 10:13, but it says ". . . he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear."  It says nothing about daily struggles and crises. Facing sin and overcoming temptation is different than coping with life's heartbreaks.

     There have been many times that God has given me more than I can bear. And working with hospice, I am continually aware of patients and families who have more than they can bear. They face a raging storm that they can't withstand alone.

What about the lady who is caring for her mother with end-stage Alzheimer's and finds out her husband has a glioblastoma, an aggressive, malignant brain tumor? Or the man whose son is dying of leukemia just months after his wife was killed in a car wreck? Do you think they feel they have been given more than they can bear? Single moms, bankrupted businessmen, broken marriages . . . more than they can bear? I think so.

     Thankfully, I've got some good news. God never intended us to bear our stress, our problems, our heartbreaks. David understood this as he wrote, "Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens." Psalm 68:10. Jesus, himself, implores us to give him our worries. "Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." Matthew 11:29-30.  

     My prayer isn't for strength to make it through the trial but

strength to give it to God and trust him to handle things for me. Isn't that what a loving father does? 

 Whatever you are facing today, I encourage you to trust God. Don't waste your energy trying to muster enough strength to face your crisis alone. Give it to your Father. Let him carry your burden . . . let him carry you.

    

 Before long, you will discover that He has carried you through the storm. He will give you rest. He will give you peace. He will give you joy. Soon you will find that you are free . . . free of your burden, free from the pain. Free to dance and enjoy His presence.

He Made It!

Just a quick follow-up to "Through His Eyes". My friend has been released from his broken body and is now perfect and whole with a strong voice and smooth skin.  He fought the good fight (and what a battle it was), kept his faith (that inspired us all) and finished his race (in first place, I might add). I'm celebrating with his family. . . Oh, happy day!

Waiting on Pearls

Ever had a moment in life when you felt like your world was flipped upside down?  My biggest was when I had to close my hospice house ministry. I won’t go into the details here but it took years of prayers, planning, and fundraising. We were only open a brief two years before we had to close for financial reasons. I couldn’t understand why God provided so many miracles to enable us to open the non-profit ministry only to let it fail. 

The weeks that led up to the closing were bar none the most difficult in my life. The rock lodged in my throat kept me from swallowing. I couldn’t breathe. Brokenhearted, I met with the staff. Eighteen faithful employees were losing their jobs. We had become a family. I had failed them.

But it only got worse. I had to tell patients and their families. Twelve had to leave our beautiful home to go to the hospital, nursing home or out-of-town hospice house to spend their last days. They entrusted me with their care. I had failed them.

The final morning as I was getting dressed, I felt as though I was preparing for a funeral. Fumbling through my jewelry drawer, I glanced at a pair of pearl earrings. Tears flowed freely as I remembered an analogy about pearls that I had read many years before. I went to my bookshelf where I found the well-worn book, Seasons of Life by Chuck Swindoll. There were notes in the margin and highlighted quotes. It favored a used college text book.

 Reminiscing, I determined that I had read it my senior year of high school, 1985. I laughed as I remembered basking in the sun at Myrtle Beach while reading the book. A strapping young man sauntered over and sat down next to me. Not an original pick-up line, "Whatcha reading?"  
     
When I shared that it was a book about the different seasons we experience during our walk with Christ, he looked confused. I attempted to explain, "Well, right now I'm reading about winter, a season of quiet. 'We will not become men of God without the presence of solitude', I quoted.  

"Well enjoy your solitude," he snickered as he walked away.   

 Moving forward over twenty years, I flipped through and found the quote about the pearl.

One of His preferred methods of training us is through adjustment to irritation.  A perfect illustration?  The oyster and its pearl.  Pearls are the product of pain. For some unknown reason, the shell of the oyster gets pierced and an alien substance-a grain of sand-slips inside. On the entry of the foreign irritant, all the resources within the tiny, sensitive oyster rush to the spot and begin to release healing fluids that otherwise would have remained dormant. By and by the irritant is covered and the wound is healed--by a pearl. No other gem has so fascinating a history.  It is the symbol of stress--a healed wound. . .a precious, tiny jewel conceived through irritation, born of adversity, nursed by adjustments.  Had there been no wounding, no irritating interruption, there could have been no pearl.  Some oysters are never wounded. . . and those who seek for gems toss them aside, fit only for stew.  

Closing the book and placing it back on the shelf, the words ruminated in my mind, "Fit only for stew."  I mumbled a simple prayer throughout the day, "Create a pearl out of the mess, please make a pearl."  I desperately wanted to know that something good, something of eternal worth, was being created through all of the sorrow.   
   
That was several years ago, and while I still don’t know the reason the ministry closed, I do know God is faithful and is moving in my life. Maybe I’ll write about it in future blogs. For now, I think I may still be in the oyster. . . patiently waiting . . . anxiously waiting . . .waffling between the two. Being humbled. Living simply. Trying to remain faithful. Trusting that God will create a pearl . . . in His perfect timing.