talking to myself

In their image and likeness

He was a man, who tried to be kind,
Respecting others and their views,
Quiet as he went about his work,
Liked by most,
Found to be weak by others.
This caused them to discount all that he was,
Showing contempt towards one they did not know,
Understand,
Nor cared to even try,
Scapegoat-ing is so much easier,
Even if the reasons not understood,
Neither self questioning, nor introspection,
Occurred to them,
Justice never entered into it,
Just the cruel joy of causing pain,
Conscience free,
Freedom comes in many forms,
Each with its fruit at times, though slow in coming

For we all plant seeds in the souls of others.

The scapegoat did not understand,
Their cruelty was beyond him,
He tried to reason to no avail,
As time past he gave up,
Closed up within himself,
No protection found,
Things got worse,
Fear grew in his heart,
Dread took deep root digging deep in his wounded soul,
Causing new life to be born,
Something new that he feared, but helpless in its grip,
Like a force of nature it grew,
Hot, red, wild, soon all consuming,
His inner world became darker still,
A work of art, a mockery of God’s grace
Made in his tormentors image and likeness.
Yet quiet knowing not how to express it,
Until,
One day,
It happened in a flash,

They came for their cruel sport,
Others followed wanting to see the flaying,
Enjoying the pain of another they did not know.
A word said, a laugh with contempt,
And their creation came to full bloom,
Transformed before their eyes
Like lava from a powerful volcano he came into new being,
A berserker he became,
Kicking, cutting, killing, without remorse, those who tormented him,
None remained untouched,
Some killed,
Others crippled for life,
Such was the power of rage when consuming another,
Hungry for the life force of its enemies.
Those who survived had their lives ruined,
Bitter fruit for taking one as weak,
Who in fact was merely kind,
For a time reborn into their repressed image and likeness.

Be careful the seeds planted in another.

Joseph

He was a runner when younger,
Races won up to his fifties,
A runner’s body long and lean,
Lost as the years slipped by,
Loosing little by little his youth,
Strength and agility,
As we all do, if we hold on as the years pile up.

His life in his last years limited by his infirmities,

Some physical and others from other sources,
Quiet too a fault,
His deafness contributing to his apparent isolation,
Either unable or unwilling to wear a hearing aid.
Though when he smiled it was like a beautiful sunrise,
Always getting a smile in return.

Eating in silence bent over in his chair,

As the years flowed by he ate less with each passing year.
He was also a scholar,
Many hours spent in study,
Tomes stacked on his desk,
Writing copious notes,
Mostly read only by himself,
Though he did teach for awhile,
Though not something he liked all that much.
In his last month he pretty much stopped eating,
Mostly drinking milk, and sipping soups.
Then one day he plummeted,
The plateau left for a steep decline.
In the early evening he became agitated,
Struggling, gasping, so we put him on oxygen,
Also gave medicines to help with his suffering,
Which in time, calmed him down and he slept.
The nurse ever kind, deeply concerned,
Over Joseph not wanting him to go just yet,
We just had a death a week earlier.
So I decided to stay,
He was anointed for his final journey, if his time had come,
Or if not, it would be a sacrament of healing,
His pilgrimage not yet ended.
I sat with him,
Prayed as is my custom,
Read the psalms,
Said my beads,
Or just breathed with him, reciting the holy name in rhythm with.
As the hours sped by,
Slowly his breathing changed,
Slowed down,
Then as I have seen so many times before,
Stopped.

In his last moments I prayed for him and with him.
Then another custom,
I prepared the body,

Cleaned it,
Put clean sheets on the bed,
Put a large draw sheet under him for easy removal,
Covered him up to his chin with another clean sheet,
Called the superior who came and sat with him,

Funeral home contacted,

Another wait until they came.

I walked the front drive, long, nice, perfect for such things,

Thinking of Joseph,

Thankful that I was honored, graced, with spending his last hours with him,

A man I did not know too well, so quiet was he,
Yet now feeling bonded in some way, as if I helped give him birth.
The caravan came and we worked together with the body,
Folding the clean sheets as a covering
Moving it onto the trolley.
That was it,
His room empty,
Cold, dead,
Like his soulless body
Riding in the back of the caravan.
Most likely for the next few days,
As is another of my customs,
Not alone in this,
I will simply open the door to his  room,
Look inside,
And his death will hit me again,
So it goes,
Life,
One by one we leave through the dark door,
Into the light that faith says is there, though not yet seen

When a loved one dies the world changes,
The death of a spouse,
Siblings,
Friends,
It does not matter,
The texture of the world wobbles,
Holes appear showing haunting memories,
Of laughter in days gone by,
Wrongs done not dealt with,
The loving moments as well,
In vivid color presenting themselves in moments unexpected,
Always surprised at their intensity
No matter the number of years passed.
Grief by some dealt with in small doses,
Others in large mouthfuls, filled with salty tears,
Loud cries and lamentations.
Each to each,
No right way to mourn,
Time tables do not exist,
Some never get over some deaths,
Others seem to forget over time,
Yet for the soul time does not exist.
We carry our sorrows deep,
Often hidden from ourselves,
Perhaps the bleeding never stops,
We each die in stages,
Wearing out at last longing for rest,
In the end many are ready to enter the dark doorway.
Some leave hardened,
Others formed in love,
To each commended to a merciful and loving God,
Who understands our journey and pain,
Also our joys and love, sprinkled with sorrows,
Yes all our understood by the infinite
Even if we understand neither ourselves, or others,
Hence do not judge,

We see the surface only.

So quiet its coming

Sitting,
Reading the psalms from the beginning,
Slowly,
Seeing his life and his prayers, in its rendering,
The passions depicted,
Reverence, joy, anger, despair;
All prayed by him in his life,
Deeply felt.
Such depth, beauty, the psalms show of life,
The portrayal both stark and beautiful.
From time to time saying a mystery,
Again the knotted prayer rope a tool,
Keeping me centered on the true center,
Bringing Bob into the mystery prayed,
His joy, sorrow, and victory in Christ,
Faith for him central,
Quietly lived out,
No fanfare,
Just being, with struggle, what he professed.
The ending and the beginning of equal importance,
A coin needs two sides,
So life,
An upper and an underside,
Without both, lives would be grey,
Our passions, loves, pains, losses, joys,
Give depth and color to our lives,
Bob was a splash of indigo for many.
Elias came to sit,
A few minutes later Bob was gone,
“I gave him permission to go”,
He quietly told us,
Perhaps something said at the right time,
The perfect moment to communicate.
When the end came it was so peaceful,
Could have gone unnoticed for awhile
So gentle its coming.
Where does the time go?

Waiting

He lies calmly on his bed,

A silent presence amidst the noise and chaos,

Looking at nothing;
Perhaps thinking about the end,

Soon coming,
His death,

Thought not today or tomorrow,

It is just coming,

No longer an abstraction but something real.
Doctors come and go,

Nurses arrive, gentle yet precise in their work,

A parade of sorts,

Without the fanfare or music,

Now this, and now that,

Blood taken,

Other samples needed,
Blood sugar, high from infection,
Also kidneys still working but for how long?
The hours pass,
Watched the news for a while,
Read,
Prayed my beads,
A knotted rope, slipping smoothly,
In slow cadence through my fingers,
Feeling one with all those others there,
Neighbors for while,
Our worlds coming together united in the suffering of loved ones,
Or perhaps the one suffering on those beds that become torture,
After hours of waiting,
But it cannot be helped,
Busy, busy, so much sickness,
Babies crying,
A women very old crying out for help,
So much,
I continue to pass my beads,
A focus point to keep my heart centered,
Drawing all into my prayer before the Presence,
Compassionate, loving, unfelt, but there,
Traveling with each, the deep mystery of their lives.

The human heart seeks that, which it desires most,
Sometimes desperate in its search,
Often self destructive in the solace it seeks,
Attracted to that which often brings death,
Heartbreak,
It fruit rage, anger, the seeking after revenge,
Leading only to further pain and isolation.

The human heart is deep, bottomless it its thirst,
Seeking in the finite, what only the infinite can fulfill.
Desiring to captured what cannot be contained,
To own that which is free without constraint,
Already giving what is desired;
Yet the gift unfound.

Our songs, stories, longings point to this,
Basic,
It name often misused,
Often abused.
Love is what is hidden in plain sight
Free in its offering, deep its demands,

Undemanding yet passionate in its pursuit,

Jealous for the heart filled with loneliness and pain.

Paradox reigns,

Even in human love this is true,

Death leads to life,

Sacrifice to fulfillment,
The greater the gift the more received,

An unending dance if it is true that love is stronger than death.

The love of God,

Marriage,

Friendship,

For all it holds true,

To cling is to lose,

Grasping leads to the death of love.

Enveloped

I was late last night in going in to see William.  Just before I left, I went in to see how things were going on the floor, and discovered that Bob was having trouble breathing.  He was not quite gasping, but was having difficulty.   Got the pulse ox and took a reading, his oxygen level was only 82, and had to be dealt with right away.  We always have extra Concentrators for just such and eventuality.  So we hooked it up, and soon Bob readings were much better; up to 95.  So I put him on three liters and left, asking the PCT to please check in about 20 minutes and perhaps put the flow down to two liters, if the readings were high.  As soon as he got comfortable he fell asleep.  Last week he fell out of bed and broke his wrist, this is keeping him in bed, which is going to make him weaker, and also could lead to  respiratory problems, well in fact already had.  The nurse is going to order a Geriatric chair for him today.  That way we can sit him up and when he gets tired, or his blood pressure drops, all we have to do is change the position of the chair.

So got a late start, but since it is a Sunday night, the traffic was not very heavy and I made good time.  I arrived, and some of the same people were still there, so I said hi to the few that I knew, and William and I went into his room to talk, and I could read some scripture to him and give him the Eucharist.  We talked about little things, his day, how the food was, his sleep the night before etc.  Then about his family and when that ended I asked if he wanted me to read some scripture.  I have a New Testament with Psalms and Proverbs, which I take on my visits with him.  He loves to be read to, especially from the Bible.  So I read from 1^st Peter, and then from Romans 8, a chapter he seems to love, especially the very last of it.  Then we prayed the Our Father, and I prayed for William and for those who were in the hospital with him.  All the while his head was bowed.

I gave William the Eucharist and sat back allowing him to make his thanksgiving.  As I was watching him, he seemed to be enveloped in a deep penetrating silence, he was motionless, a still point, and the silence reached out and enveloped me.  It seemed to encase the whole area, for suddenly, all noise from the hallway ceased and total silence seemed to reach every nook corner of the ward.  It was a healing silence, quiet, personal, loving, all encompassing, as if William were the channel from which it flowed.  After a few minutes he stirred and again the noise started up from the hallway. 

I don’t know why God is allowing me to be touched in such a deep way with William, but I am thankful for the experience.  He is truly a special man, something perhaps lost by those who live with him day after day.  Our limitations seem to be the focal point of people’s attention, instead of that which is deeper.  Understandable of course, I often do the same thing. 

It seems that the caregiver and the care receiver, both minister to each other in ways often unforeseen.  I often think that I care for others because it makes me alive, I feel that we are made to care for one another, to reach out and touch those in need.  While those in need, by allowing themselves to be cared for, are also bestowing a gift, perhaps the greater one on those actively ministering to them. 

The beauty and depth I see in Williamis perhaps a small glimpse of how God sees us all.  Perhaps it is a grace I need because of my weakness, to once in awhile to be able to see the profound beauty in the other, and by that to understand that we are all that way.  We each have profound depths, it is just that it is often locked away, needing perhaps to be coached out by others, and if not, it does not matter, it is still there.

I went for my visit with William yesterday afternoon, at the psyche hospital he is at for a few days.  I noticed that they put him in a different wing this time.  Larger, nicer, with more room to walk around in, more windows to look out of etc.  I was surprised at this and asked the nurse about it.  She told me the doctor wanted to see how he did in a larger environment, but it was not working out too well, he wanders about too much and they have a hard time keeping an eye on him.  So he will be put into one of the smaller wards later that afternoon.  When I got there, he was in someone else’s room, trying on their clothes.  It is a continual minor problem for them.   The patients get confused and try on each others clothes.  Funny actually, every time I bring someone home from that hospital it is usually with a different set of clothes.  Not a real problem, he always goes in with those sweat clothes outfits that you get at Target or Wal-mart. 

He wanted to talk, so we went to his room, which luckily he was the only patient in it.  Each room as two beds with a curtain for separation.  So I sat on one bed and he on the other and we talked.  We talked about a lot of things, the usual things, but again for him it was for the first time.  His home, family, his life playing jazz in a band for many years,
just little things, important to him, achingly important.   

I have known William for twenty years, long before he needed me to take care of him.  One thing I always noticed is his love of prayer, something he would spend a great deal of time at, a special gift, or grace, if you want to use religious language about it.  He seemed drawn to it, and I feel that it showed up in his life in unique ways, for he was a very unusual person in my own eyes, I have never known anyone quite like him.   He was a man prone to extremes in just about everything.  In his compliments to people he was effusive, overflowing with telling others how special they were; one of his favorites is “you are a breath of fresh air”.  He would say it a very expansive and often loving way.   When he got angry it was explosive, in your face kind of thing, but he got it, out and it was over.  He was not what I would call a repressed personality, what you see is what you get.  In other words he was very child like and open.  These extremes often hid from others his intelligence, which was deeper than many expected.   He used to love to read the New York Times, often spending hours doing so, deeply immersed it its pages and sometimes discussing some of the articles he read and of his concerns over them.   

As we talked, I brought up his love of prayer, and how much I admired that about him over the years.  With that his eyes light up and he began to speak about his prayer life.

So we had this little discussion:

Me:  So William, just how do you pray?  How is it that you can spend so much time just sitting and communing with God?

William:  Well how do you pray?  He countered.

Me:   Well I said, I pray a lot on the run, that is why I often use my prayer rope, or my beads, to keep myself focused and my heart opened to God.  Is that how you pray?

William:  I don’t use beads much, I just go in and sit down, and then I open my mind  (at this point he brought up his hands on either side of his head and his eyes light up)  and then at a certain point, whoooosh I am there; after that the hours just fly by, or melt, well they seem not to matter to me (  while saying that, he spread out his arms in a very expansive gesture to try to signify the event. )

Me:  Do you think about anything when this happens?

William:  No, I am just there in the Presence of God.

I was moved by what he said, for he had shown me that this outwardly simple man, was in actuality a man of deep prayer, high in the ways of contemplation.   Yet he just looked upon it as something common, that he did everyday.  He went on telling me how lately, for some reason, he can’t do that like he did in the old days, that he often forgets.  So we talked some more, and I said that I thought that he prayed deeply for so many years that it was God’s turn to carry him in prayer, that his soul is always open, so it just might be the same thing, the path deeper and more hidden than before, but that his disease did not lessen his love of God, or his prayer in any way. He bowed his head, then looked up and smiled at me. 

I gave him the Eucharist, and he prayed his thanksgiving, and I got up to leave.  As he hugged me goodbye I felt a deep reverence and thankfulness that I could be graced to be close to such a man of God, whose greatness and holiness is hidden from so many, but real none the less.