We've done all that we can...

I think I will remember her eyes until the day I die.  I'm not sure why the doctor allowed me to stay in the room, but he examined her, asked a few questions, the motioned to me to shut the door completely.  I did. I stood there. I wished I had taken a seat.
He looked at her and said, "We've done all that we can. You are too weak for any more chemo. It's time to think about what needs to happen next."
Her eyes got wide, and she asked, "What are you trying to tell me?" And he spoke again, in a gentle soothing voice. "There is nothing mre that we can do." and he went into details about all that had already been done. "You are just too weak. Your body cannot handle more."
Again, wide-eyed, she asked, "What are you trying to tell me?"
Again he answered. A long answer. A gentle answer.
And a third time, she asked, "What are you trying to tell me?"
And what I thought he said, but now I am not so sure, was "You are going to die. You need to think about hospice care."
He stayed awhile longer. He talked about what a wonderful woman she was and how enjoyed caring for her. Then he left.

I took a deep breath. I had no idea what I would do.  This is in God's hands and dear Lord, get me out of the way.

If we live long enough, someone is going to have that talk with us, surely as we had 'the talk' about "where do babies come from."  Life and death issues are perhaps the hardest issues to discuss. What defines us, what makes us human, different from all other creatures on this earth...that topic is one we never want to talk about. But it's what we think about, all day long.  I promise you, it's true.

I can wear down some of the toughest nuts.  Sometimes, like a hound dog, I'll dig into your heart until we both find out what you really want to say out loud...and then I pray like hell I'll respond the way Christ wants me to respond, and then, as quickly as it has been exposed, I pray I'll forget it...or put it somewhere so it won't hurt anyone.  I have been successful most of the time. I have failed twice. Twice someone has told me a truth that was too much for me to bear. And I pray for those persons and for me. I am not always suited to the task.  I suspect other times I will fail, but I am convinced God's work will be done, even if I have to walk away.

This day was tough, but not impossible.  I could have approached it somewhat separated from the reality of it, but God has not called me to be shy anymore. I will make mistakes along the way, I'm sure; but a mistake is better than inaction.  It is better than running away. 

The work has been so hard this fall. I should have anticipated it, given the work I did on the retreat. God was just beginning to season me for the next level of my ministry.  Teaching me to trust, and to pray harder than I ever have before...and to deepen my humility to levels I had no idea even existed. 

Redemption arrives in strange ways and from strange places. But, once the baby of humility and innocence is is born, we really don't care how it got there...but we celebrate new life and cuddle and kiss this new and beautiful thing, that is a part of us. That was always a part of us, but so deeply hidden in the mess of living.

This woman's eyes. I hold them in my heart. She knew what he was saying. Intelligence was there, but belief was still far away...and she was just beginning to realize that time was now her enemy. Pain and suffering really didn't factor in.  I could see it all over her face, "but I'm not finished with this life, yet." 

I found a spot to sit on a chair, I only say a little bit on it. I did not want to get comfortable. 

She looked at me.

"What is hospice?"

Oh hell...I thought...I swallowed. I said a lot of words, I thought. Perhaps only a few. But then I got to the important ones: "They help you to have a good death." 

Her sister, on the sofa, looked at me.

I'm thinking, "Well, somebody's got to say it. Let me be the bad guy."  And then I began to second guess myself all over the place. But she kept talking with me. She didn't shut me out.  I explained what I knew. And inside my head, were the faces of all the people I've known this year alone, who I had been with, who were preparing to die. For a fleeting second, I thought of my mother...and dismissed it quickly. All the people entered my heart at once..the ones who died, the people they left behind...the tears and the laughter and the music and all the confusion and mess...and the truth that death is part of the gift of living.

We all get to be born...and we all get to die.   It's all a gift. Beginning to end.

Last night, we had a Mass for All Souls. I read Ecclesiates 3...twice that day. Once for a funeral, in which, for some reason, I looked deep into the daughter's eyes and tried to tell her, "you're gonna make it." and "I know it hurts." I didn't want to read it again that night for the Mass in which perhaps 700 people attended. I'd already read it once that day. It was boring. I didn't want to think about it. And besides, if you exegete it, you will find it is a statement of futility. We can't change anything. We just have to accept it and we really never get to know why. 

So I read it. I looked out into the congregation, and I was suddenly overwhelmed with compassion.  My heart, that I had had to make hard because of all the deaths I'd faced in this month, was softening as the words came out of my mouth...I found myself taking the passage and working my way through it slowly and deliberately, as if I was leading a meditation...that I wanted them to really appreciate the gift of life. It was kind of creepy. I immediately felt selfish and humiliated for thinking my thoughts.

I sat down and the Mass continued. Alan read. Romans. He did a great job. I whispered to him that it was good because I had wanted to read that passage and I needed to honor him. He whispered back to me that he thought I had done the best job reading that he had ever heard (he's been listening to me for at least 2 years)...I blinked...okay. Whatever.

But then I realized how God put it all together for me. How he is working on me, bending me, remolding me into the person He wants...and quite honestly, the person I truly want to be.  I only get a certain amount of time on the planet. And perhaps only a certain amount of time living well enough to serve Him.  So it's important I don't say no. That I pay attention and keep learning. Keep allowing these little mortifications make me into a good and faithful servant. Fear is always going to be there, but fear will not be in charge. 

This beautiful woman worked to listen to a message she did not want to hear. Her bravery to fight, and to try...brought me hope and strength. She was my teacher, teaching me how to hear something hard. I pray that I brought her a gift also...somewhere in my clumsiness.

The next day I peeked into her room. I asked from the doorway, "How are you doing today?"  She smiled at me with a beautiful smile.  She looked genuinely happy, genuinely at peace.
"I'm just fine." 

Love, Cindy