A Terrible Blessing
I got called to my supervisor's office today. At the hospice where I serve. I thought I'd hidden my distress, but someone who loves me ratted me out.
"I need to know," she said after she'd closed her office door. "I heard last night was rough. Are you okay? Because if you're not, I want to know. I want to take care of you. Whatever it takes. "
Tears. I hate them, hate them, hate them. They betray me. "I'm okay," I said with swimmy eyes. "Don't worry about me. I'm just fine."
But I'm not.
Tell me. Who could be fine? Last night was one of those nights.
A man younger than me died in front of my eyes. I held his mother in my arms while she watched him breath heavy, agonal breaths. His death, unlike most hospice passings, was not gentle or easy. He struggled and fought until the very end. I did everything I knew to relieve his suffering. God I tried! But despite my best efforts, I could bring no loveliness and no peace to his room.
I comforted a dying woman's only son. He was six four. Beautiful, shiny black skin. Huge, red rimmed eyes and a trembling chin. He did not want his mama to die. He was not ready and he looked to me to tell him what to do.
To me.
A stranger.
And so I held his huge hands in my small ones and I prayed with him. He already knew, but I reminded him that God was enough, and that not even a sparrow falls outside of His sight.
A woman was restless and in need of company. So I turned the covers back, dimmed the light over her bed, warmed oil in my palms, and massaged her feet. I stroked her heals, her soles, each swollen toe. While I poured my energy into her skin, she poured out her heart, putting voice to her grief, her anger. She was pissed off! And so very sad. There was so much she wanted to do, so many places she wanted to see. It wasn't fair because soon, really soon, she would be gone.
All of this, and the question I'm asked is am I okay?
Tonight I feel like a scapegoat. Not of sin, but of grief. Tonight this job is too hard. I'm not strong enough or stable enough or faithful enough to do this work. I am called upon to care and to bless and I am not up to the task. I am a blessing, yes, but a terrible one at best.
But I'm here. I lived through the night and I came back tonight to do it again. I'll be back next week and the week after that.
I am the best I've got, giving the best I have, to the best God made.
Okay or not, this is what I do.
posted by Annette Smith @ 10:21 PM
2 Comments:
Dear Annette,
Several years ago, I was close to dying from an undiagnosed illness. I'd been in and out of the hospital so many times, and there I was again, in the emergency room. During the two hours I waited to be seen, I had a lot of time to observe the others waiting in that room.
What I saw is something I won't forget. People raging, people silent with misery, people afraid.
It struck me then, that this peace we know in our life, this peace that comes from faith, is something we take for granted. I was there, miserable, but my back was braced by a Divine pillar.
I watched people who were crumbling around me, and I though how very valuable, more than I'd realized, that pillar of peace really is.
With that said, I have two things to say to you:
1.) If I were ever sick or dying, having someone like you in the room would be the greatest comfort to me. Knowing you cared just because I was one of God's creations. That is mind boggling. Priceless. Amazing.
When someone has no peace, sometimes they're not able to be still long enough to fully acknowledge peace when it visits them-- through a friend, or a neighbor, or a hospice nurse. But I guarantee they would notice the absence of that peace, if you walked out of the room.
Sometimes people's hearts are big black holes of turmoil, and for holes that size, you are not enough. Your peace is not enough. But it is something, and it is more than if you weren't there. And that counts.
2.) You are not a terrible blessing at best. You are a priceless hand of mercy in a dark alleyway. A gentle voice along a path that is terrifying. A comforting touch for those staring at an eternity they did not prepare for. You are God's grace visiting those He created one last time in this life.
I thank God for you. For your bravery. For your compassion, for every day you choose to feel raw rather than numb.
I thank God for the people who didn't have to face death alone because you were there.
And I pray He gives you comfort now, and courage, and that you will feel that Divine pillar bracing your back in the days ahead.
With love and appreciation,
Kelli
Thank you Kelli. You are wise and kind and have ears that hear the language of the heart.
Your words helped. And they will continue to help as I tuck them away to read again and again.
Braced against the pillar,
Annette
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