A Poignant Weekend
I shared in two deaths this weekend. One was an infant, the other a young boy under the age of ten. Both from families far from home. Sometimes there is so little to say, you don't know what to say, the pain and confusion is overwhelming, but silence and a calm kindness can somehow be enough and more. That was the first. Sometimes you may say so little, feel so inadaquate, but the love and grief already present is so beautifully dignified that it fills in the blanks and there is no need to say more. That was the second.
The Holy Spirit is the real consoler, this I know; but I cannot escape that very human desire to want to be able to personally ease the pain of the other. I guess that one would not embrace the role of "chaplain" if this were not so. But this art is not a skill like writing or even athletics. It should never be practiced glibly, presumptively, out of one's own need rather than the other's. Being an instrument truly means being used; one must learn the when and how of getting out of the way. The pain of a parent whose child is dying is truly like no other pain, and I would dishonor it if I pretended to know otherwise. Humility is a truly appropriate attitude.
Being fully awake to another's pain and grief, though, is thoroughly exhausting in the short run. I returned to my Father's Day dinner, gratefully enjoyed how my children have lately become good and wise all without my help, reveled in my 1-yr-old granddaughter's energy, and was nearly asleep when I hit the pillow.
. . . Make me a channel of your peace. Where there's despair in life, let me bring hope. Where there is darkness, only light. And where there's sadness, ever joy. . .
posted by Deacon Denny @ 12:46 AM
5 comments
5 Comments:
I can only imagine, and just barely, how it must be to try to console someone who's child is dying. It seems like it would ask a lot of the consoler, even if they're mostly being a conduit for the holy spirit.
It does make you wish you were actually able to read minds and hearts, especially so you could know what NOT to say. So you try to be as attentive as you possibly can -- to body language, to small interactions, to pictures or small little things in the room, or anything else. All those things are "clues," you might say, for the present moment.
Most people don't know what to expect from a chaplain, which gives you a little latitude for some gentle exploration of how you might be of some help. And mostly people are very gracious, and even if they are beside themselves with grief, or struggling with anger at God, the hospital, or fate, they do allow you to enter with them into a very personal, almost intimate experience.
In both of these situations, the family members had come to the realization that the child was not going to recover. With the second situation, the family surrounded the child, mom got into the hospital bed, we shared a prayer together in which we just lifted that life up to God, and then the family had the medical staff remove the support equipment. They spoke, caressed, cried, and lived those last moments together.
It IS exhausting, because it is so many intense things all at once.
Denny,
I can't imagine what this must be like. That is, I don't want to imagine it. God bless those children and those families. I can't speak for you of course, but I imagine that when you went into ministry, that these kinds of moments were not the ones that were uppermost in your imagination and expectations. This must have been very difficult.
The pain of parents who've lost a child is so personal and so closely held, it's hard to imagine what any of us could say to break through, but you know what? Thank God that you were there for them. I'm sure they appreciated it more than you may realize.
Thanks, Jeff.
You're right too that those times are very personal and closely held. Parents soon find that it's almost impossible to talk about that experience with other people. It's not because anyone is ill-willed; it's just that other people don't understand, and don't really know what to say. Often the only people who understand are other parents who've been through it.
We have a group here at the parish that meets monthly -- a Bereaved Parents Support Group. Something like that really can help; hurting parents can realize that they're not alone, that they're really not crazy after all.
It really is an honor and a privilege, to be invited to spend that time with parents. It's really sacred time. I have so many deep memories from the hospital experience. It's also a little scary to realize that some people will remember you forever, because our lives touched at such a difficult time.
Hi Denny.
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