Below are two reflections written by me during my time working at Duke Hospital during my Clinical Pastoral Education unit:
Dying in the Midst of Prayer
She died as I was praying for her. Three days earlier, she cried as I prayed for her. But today she died.
The patient was a 65-year-old woman — one year older than my mother and father. She had been sick for quite a while, but no one expected her to die, at least not now, not here, not in the hospital. She had been on the general medicine floor for little less than a week. She came in confused, and never did shake the sense that she wasn't supposed to be there. She told me repeatedly in my visits with her that all she wanted was “to go home,” that her daughter “means well, but by forcing me to be here she is hurting me. I want to go home.” Sometimes when I would pop by to say hello she would be on the phone, tears flying down in agony, “I want to go home.”
Three days before she died I met her. I held her hand and I listened to her story. She told me about her family, how she loved them but that she was puzzled as to why they were forcing her to be in the hospital. This was her opinion. She by her own admission was out of sorts and apologized frequently. She repeated herself often, her mind simply befuddled. I would just nod, smile, and listen ever closely. She told me she loved to sing. I told her that I would come back later and sing a hymn with her. She told me she loved to read scripture. I told her I would come back later and read the Bible with her. And then I held her hand, and we prayed.
I don’t remember exactly what we prayed for. God’s presence. God’s peace. To go home. At one point, I invited the patient to pray however she would like and she got lost in her words. I simply repeated everything she said back to her, so as to pray her prayer. I don’t think she noticed. She was gone. She was caught up in the Spirit. She was afraid. But she cast her fear on God. And it was beautiful. Then I said “amen,” she thanked me, and I said I would return. And I did return.
On early Friday morning this patient had a code blue due to internal bleeding that wouldn't stop. Her family, the family who she had begged to come release her from the hospital, had arrived by that afternoon. I was on call that day, and received a page from decedent care letting me know that she was expected to die. I hustled to ICU, and met a tortured family gathered at the bedside. I introduced myself. We stood in silence. I mentioned that the patient had told me that she loved to sing. The daughter’s eyes lit up — she had a recent recording of her mother singing. She played it on her phone, holding the sound next to her mother’s ear. The song was called “Coming Home.” The song finished. I offered to pray. I began to pray. And then she died.
I wrote this brief reflection as part of my intensive Clinical Pastoral Education experience that all aspiring PC(USA) pastors are required to fulfill. One thing that CPE illustrated for me was the necessity of Christians to be truly present with those who surround them in all instances. But what happens when the completely unexpected occurs? What do we do as pastors, as theologians, as Christians? How do we continue to pray? This particular visit is one that has stuck with me. The coincidence of the woman dying as I prayed deeply spooked me, the family and the nurses as we stood around the bedside. After she died, the family cried, but the nurses and I stood in stunned silence. We knew she was dying, but her heartbeat had been steady. It truly appeared to all present that she was waiting for a prayer to set her free to cross over to Jordan. The family and the health professionals looked to me for something, anything, but honestly, I got nothing. So we all stood in silence. And marveled at how she died in the midst of a prayer. Originally published at Die Evangelischen Theologen
Will I see Jesus When I Die? A Story in Search of a Sermon
Conversations about life and death tend to sound different when they take place between folks who are well than when they do between people who are sick. I’ve talked theology for countless hours with people who are healthy, but much less with those who are sick or are slowly dying. In those moments in which I have, I’ve noted that conversations about life, God, eternity, salvation tend to take on a different tone and immediacy when they happen with the terminally ill. They take on more weight. Our words seem to mean more. At the threshold between life and death, it appears to me that what we say matters to an extent unacknowledged when we are healthy.
 |
| By Канопус Киля (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons |
I tried to strategically avoid giving her a direct answer, but the patient was incessant. I tried to get her to put into words why she so desperately wanted to know, but she saw right through that. She wanted to know what I believe. She wanted some sort of blessed assurance that death will not be some sort of entrance into an empty void, but rather will transition her into new life with God. As she approached her death she wanted to know that she will see with her eyes Jesus, welcoming her forward. She wanted Jesus and yearned to know that Jesus wants her.
Needless to say, I felt uncomfortable being put on the spot like this, because I’m not always sure what I believe and admitting this to the patient would put me in a place of vulnerability that I did not want to go towards. Yet I felt that in the face of her fearless honesty and questioning that I had to arise to the occasion and speak truthfully. She was looking to me for insight. My words mattered. I had to tell her the truth.
Will I see Jesus when I die? In my heart of hearts, I told her, in the deepest place of my belief, I have faith that the answer is "Yes." I may doubt, and I may question, but I hold as the central conviction of my identity, the crux of my hope, that there is nothing, not even death, which will separate me from the love of God in Jesus Christ for me. Sight perhaps will have a different meaning in the life to come after death, but in the resurrection I do believe that we will be with Jesus and see God face to face. She looked at me with eyes serene, and said, "Ok. Thank you." And I shivered.
I’ve had many conversations concerning eternity with the healthy. But it was only in talking with a woman who stares into the coming abyss that I was able to put into words what I actually believe.
Originally published at Die Evangelischen Theologen
No comments:
Post a Comment