flower perfection

My new neighborhood in Broomfield can’t be beat if one is a walker.  All the streets have beautiful, well-maintained sidewalks tucked in from the road with groomed lawns and luscious deciduous trees lining the edge. But still more walkways and trails can be found intersecting the land behind the houses, winding their way beyond traffic into worlds all their own. I’ve especially enjoyed these paths this week while Mac visits from Washington. Though his stay is just a week, we’ve made the most of our time to walk, talk, and inevitably get lost, grateful for the GPS in our phones.

Along these walks I’ve come across a lovely assortment of flowers blooming over people’s white picket fences and brushing us on our way by.  I don’t having ever encountered these particular plants so they are all that more sweet to me. They have become a symbol of true perfection.

Yes, this might sound cliché, but it only occurred to me as I passed by several times what wisdom I can find in a flower. Lately I’ve been pondering the idea of perfection and right and wrong. I don’t believe these necessarily fit in tandem with each other, but such are the terms and realities society and my personal reflections have landed on. If the choice isn’t good it must be wrong. Right decisions are to be sought and wrong ones avoided.  But when I look at flowers I don’t see right or wrong blooms.  Some might be bigger or fuller or brighter, but these qualifiers do not make them right or wrong. They simply illustrate difference in beauty for so bud is anything but lovely. What generosity in judgment! Flowers inherently have beauty as a quality and cannot be called right or wrong.

My ah-ha moment tells me to do the same with myself and others. People are inherently beautiful, loveable, and a thing to be admired. My decisions and actions might be off the mark, but my being, ME, is not right or wrong. It’s different variations of lovely.  With this perspective of who I am and then the rest of humanity, I might be able to look with more generous eyes.  First I can put away judgment. Then I can take closer peeks into the created perfection of each individual.    

Quickest Friend

Last week I approached a room with some legal information to share with the patient and gingerly knocked on the door, not really wanting to bother the family members during their visit. Yes, this is an area I want to work on this summer- the idea that disrupting might actually be a delightful distraction or calming presence. Anyway, my light knock not only made my presence known, but is also made a little girl turn in her chair and with new energy and play and smile at me.  J happened to be the great granddaughter of the patient, but to me as I walked in, she was my angel, unaware.

My cohorts and I are studying some literature that discusses the term “intimate stranger.”[1] This phrase captures the closeness chaplains gain with patients and family and yet the perfect anonymity in order to release words and emotions with some amount of comfort.  In the Bible, the Hebrew word ger or gerim usually translates into the English word “stranger” and is used alongside the command of caring for the orphan, widow, and poor. In my context, “intimate stranger” helps protect people and also allows them the support they didn’t know they needed or couldn't ask for.  The hospitality I provide the patient/stranger is space and listening.

Yet, when I entered the room to J, her sick grandpa, mom, and siblings, that 8 year-old girl was anything but a stranger.

“Hey, you’re not in school anymore! What do you like to do in the summer?”

“Swim!”

“Oh yeah. Where do you swim?”

“At my grandpa’s house.”

“It sounds like he’s a good one to keep.”

We became the quickest of friends. Honestly, I felt at ease to talk to her all afternoon, but the booklet in my hand and the other eyes gazing at us turned my attention away. The next day I saw J in the hall looking for our comfort cart with its hot chocolate.

“How’s your grandpa?”

“Not very good.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Sad. And my mom is sad which makes me sad, too.”

“Here’s a mandala to color. You can pray for your grandpa as you color.”

“And I can give this to him?”

“Absolutely. That would put a smile on his face.”

Maybe in another place and time, J and I would never connect and forever be strangers.  But today I can imagine getting an invitation to her birthday party in the mail to come swim at her grandpa’s pool once he’s better.  I know I’m partly seeing this serious situation the way that softens my heart rather than leaves it heavy with grief. But walking through the door, offering a welcome and connection to what matters to those present, and remembering a face, a friend can be the balm necessary to endure.  I pray for the health of J’s grandpa for his sake and the continued connection he has with his family.  I also pray that one of my quickest friends ever will be no stranger to wholeness and comfort in her life despite the suffering she might encounter along the way.

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[1] Dykstra, Robert C., “Intimate Strangers: The Role of the Hospital Chaplain in Situations of Sudden Traumatic Loss,” in The Journal of Pastor Care, Summer 1900, Vo. XLIV, No.2.

a sweet beginning

With some trepidation but also bolstered courage and rest from the long weekend, I began my first day of patient visits. In ICU I met "D" who shared her dreams of heaven and hell.  “I’ve never know that kind of love,” she whispered with tears in her eyes.  This encounter with the Mystery and God of Love had been bathed in warm cream-colored light, and I imagined the sweetness as if it were a gourmet cupcake and smooth frosting.  On the 3^rd floor I talked with many people who had a great deal of hope despite the incredible hills they had already overcome in their lives and the challenges still facing them. They spoke softly of their losses, tenderly petting a lap as if a beloved dog still rested there or wishing for another chance to make better choices as an example to grandchildren. The rich faith oozed out of all these patients, a sustenance thick as honey that could no longer remain the cookie-cutter picture once learned in Sunday school.

As I reflect on my day, I realize that had looked forward to my “Death by Chocolate” ice cream throughout it all. No, I wasn’t drooling on patients, but the knowledge that a sweet treat would accompany me after dinner popped in my head once or twice.  This first intentional encounter with patients fulfilled long awaited expectations I thought about, prayed for, and dreamt about since January. Finally, this day came without disappointment, just as sweetly as a bowl of ice cream this evening.  I experienced a few moments of hesitancy and uncertainty.  How would I answer questions about forgiveness? How might I show care to one who is in the last days of life? Will we move beyond the inconveniences of surgery? I let those questions linger with me and somehow they found resolution or just the sweet space for mystery.  I look forward to tomorrow, not just for the sweet, pleasing ice-cream experience of it, but for all as I know now that I won’t be disappointed.

knees first...

The first time I ever saw more water in one place bigger than my bathtub occurred when I was six at the Pacific Ocean. Then the water never ended. My father gave me one rule- I couldn’t go into water deeper than my knees. For a girl from the desert mountains of Wyoming, that seemed like a great freedom and daring act. And at age six the enormity and rush of the waves terrified me enough to follow directions gladly.  Since then I’ve ventured deep under the waves and salty surface of oceans.  The act doesn’t seem quite so heroic, but the process into the water has stayed the same.  Knees first.

I can see myself on multiple occasions walking into the ocean or lake, tenderly placing my feet into the chilly water. It’s not that bad. A bit deeper to my calves and my knees and Oh my! Am I sure I need to get wet today? Really? If I reach my belly, I’m shrieking, shivering, and totally committed. Count to three. 1, 2…*dunk*…Gasp! Such a calculated journey to total immersion. 

This week’s orientation to be a hospital chaplain has allowed me to settle my toes in long awaited and still surprising information and then venture in to my knees, a little deeper with those hard topics of death and meaning of life and crisis conversation. I’m up to my belly with a full schedule, pager, and computer access.  Now it’s time to go and do the serving. 

As much as I am excited from the moment I approach the beach, I know getting to the all wet stage takes time, serious consideration, and positive self-talk. (I’m not a run until I splash-fall into the waves.) Such is my sense with this situation, too. I want and need to meet people, converse with families, feel tension and paradox, empathize and feel suffering, and share and see hope.  That is what the ocean is for- it has great expanse to enfold me in the power and mystery of it all. Monday that immersion fully begins.

Knees first, and all of me now.

handbooks, handshakes, humans

Two of three days of orientation can be crossed off the calendar.  Such time has been like a fire hose with incredible amounts of information, procedures, and a good deal of internal reactions and surprises. Tuesday turned out to be a little tough due to sleep deprivation. All day we went through the handbook.  Infectious diseases can be cool, but even that half hour lecture had me nearly nodding off.  But still I had a special opportunity to meet and connect with my cohort of other interns- Tracy and Brother Donald- and hear wisdom from seasoned and passionate chaplains. I hope I retain such words, but by grace of one chaplain, we are to give ourselves, “Patience, patience, patience.”

Such advice I had to remember yet again today as we dove deeper into the training of chaplaincy. First was the hospital tour. Hospitals can be like malls- confusing layouts with elevators and stairs in random, hard to find spots, and only one food court.  Thankfully we shook some hands of security officers and charge nurses as be oriented ourselves to the units.  We got lost and found a couple times and followed the color tiles in the floor. It’s a bit like the yellow brick road but with a variety of colors designating the path to different units. We shared our faith maps with each other: the interns, residents, and our supervisor together, and then figured out our schedule for the next 3 months. I’m sure I’ll say more about it when the time comes, but one requirement is on-call duty from Friday, 5pm- Monday, 8am. And how will I get called? A pager! The technology still works AND is used!

The afternoon session comprised of a lesson and conversation about organ and tissue donation.  What a gift donation can be to people! What a scary decision that might seem to be for someone who just lost an unregistered loved one! In our training we walked through the careful donor plan, the benefits of donation, and the ways to have this conversation with families.  All of a sudden, life and my service at the hospital were real. Oh yeah- we are connecting with humans. I tried to role play and found my tongue tied and default words such as "humane" and "procedure" replacing more appropriate words of "care" and "offering." 

I realize even this story doesn’t exist in a vacuum. We are all dealing with hardships and suffering- some minor and other major. So to ramble on about recovering organ and tissue donations without affirming the human life that this might require or gift would miss the point.  At 4:23pm I felt that trembling heart of fear that what I say mattered and who I spoke to deserved more than a book answer.  Yes, the role-play lacked the reality of death. However, it did not fall short of being a keen reminder than handbooks are a tool to move into shaking a hand and speaking humbly of our humanity. 

Gate to Gate

“We will arrive in two hours, ten minutes, gate to gate,” chimed the flight attendant. In such time I would reach my destination in Denver, my new job, my new home. I realized with her words that the only other time I’ve flown one-way to my new home occurred back in July 2007 when I joined African Children’s Choir.  I have driven to every other new home I’ve ever had. Whether it was to college in Spokane, Zion National Park for a summer job, or just down the street to a new apartment, my journey has been a gradual move from one place to another. With these trips I often spent hours jamming to music and cruising through the nation’s diverse landscape. Those hours also gave me the luxury of great thinking time and a gradual shift into what would be a very different life.  This gate-to-gate transition, however, felt anything but gradual.

Life in general is very much like a gate-to-gate move. Out one slimy gate only to reach the pearly one somewhere on the time continuum.  Along the way we embrace, sometimes with boredom, the routines such as brushing our teeth, waking up for work, or smiling for pictures just as a flight attendant services on-flight beverages.  We meet a variety of people along the way, those who inspire us in conversation, simply want to yak our ear off, or glide on by in their parallel universe, ear buds in.  At moments (some longer than others) we endure turbulence or joyfully embrace the highlights along the way. With this new perspective, the trip I took this afternoon was a blip on the timeline, and yet the tears wanting to pop through their gates tell me otherwise. The expanse of my current gate-to-gate just doesn’t seem to be the right timing.

Throughout my life I’ve wanted weeks to speed toward Friday or days to slow down to a crawl. When I think about my vocation or God given purpose, I’m filled with urgency.  Tomorrow I will begin an internship that forces people to respond to an unexpected shift in their gate-to-gate journey. As a chaplain in a community hospital, I suspect to encounter people dealing with some very similar emotions and questions that I face during my two-hour flight.  At times the quick change of bodily and emotional wellness will be completely debilitating. In other circumstances, patients will have had time to get use to the idea of their illness and the consequences.

When I began this post, I didn’t quite get the significance of the gate-to-gate journey. I thought I was simply taking advantage of time-efficient machines and choosing to courageously leap from one life to another. Now I realize that this quick trip forced me to think differently about transitions, life experiences, and perspectives of our time on earth. I had tapped the reflective resources of the 13-hour drive routine to the next home.  Likewise, my emotional and experiential capacity to engage in my new destination will benefit from my quick airplane transition.

Over the next several days and weeks, I hope to share more reflections about life’s gate-to-gate experiences.  Not only does this allow me to engage with my present moments, but also I find it a special and helpful way to stay to connected to those far from my new home.  My days may become routine in my eyes, but hopefully I can continue to tap into reflective resources along the way.

Back from Camp(a) into Ciudad

July 22, 2013

A juxtaposition day names today well.  We culminated our trip in la campa this afternoon and returned to San Salvador in an air conditioned bus. Whoa! As one member said upon arriving at the guest house, "It's like the Taj Mahal." Fans in our room, flushing toilets, fixed walls and lights, and edible food no matter its temperature (outside the guesthouse, fresh veggies are out.) So the final hours in El Paisnal were bittersweet for some of us.  This connection with the Sister Church is the reason many of us came down, but the heat and the conditions are pressing us too.  I enjoyed my time there, but I was ready for the next leg of the adventure. I'm grateful my Spanish stuck with me especially in places where the English knowledge was very low. 

This evening with city sounds, quieter in some ways than those of the country were a nice change as we put our thoughts together and gathered for our first reflection time.  By the end of the week, reflection time might become our favorite part.