Emotional & Spiritual Issues | Hank Dunn

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Archive for the ‘Emotional & Spiritual Issues’ Category

Is the Advanced Alzheimer’s Patient No Longer a Person?

Posted November 4, 2015 by kbrachle

Good question.

As people lose their memories, can no longer say who they are, can no longer recognize those closest to them … what’s left?

Blame it on the René Descartes

Blame it on the French. Well…actually, one Frenchman, René Descartes (1596-1650). He wanted to know, “What can I really know for sure?” His conclusion was, “I am thinking.” He then gave us, “I think, therefore I am.”

Fast forward to our effort to understand what is going on in the minds of dementia patients. These people are losing the ability to think. Eventually, they cannot recall the stories that made them who they became as adults. They cannot recall what they had for breakfast. They cannot tell you who they are.

So if Descartes is right, who are we when we can no longer think? Could we say, “If I don’t think, therefore, I am not”?

“Consider the phrases used [in the vast medical literature] to describe Alzheimer’s impact: ‘a steady erosion of selfhood,’ ‘unbecoming’ a self, ‘drifting towards the threshold of unbeing,’ and even ‘the complete loss of self.’” I got that sentence from a new book by Anil Ananthaswamy, The Man Who Wasn’t There: Investigations into the Strange New Science of the Self.

I just got back from speaking at an Alzheimer’s conference in Washington state. They wanted my standard talk based on my book Hard Choices for Loving People about making end-of-life decisions. I also had 90 minutes to talk about the emotional and spiritual issues at the end of life. Part of my lecture looked at the loss of the self.

But thinking is not all of who we are

Ananthaswamy’s book has a whole chapter dedicated to Alzheimer’s disease and the self. The chapter is 35 pages so I am looking at just one aspect of all this. It is true that much of what we consider “the self” is lost as dementia progresses. But thinking is not all of who we are. There is an embodied self, that literally is located in our physical body.

We learn to ride a bicycle as a child and do not ride again for 30 years. We don’t have to “think” about it. Our body knows how to ride again as an adult. Quick. Which finger do you use to type the letter “C” on the keyboard? Perhaps you could not tell me which it is but could immediately type it “without thinking.” That’s the point. There is a self unrelated to thinking, an embodied self.

The author related a story from one of the physicians conducting research on advanced Alzheimer’s patients and the self. I personally have experienced the same type of example of the embodied self.

The man said the prayer word for word in Hebrew

While I was a nursing home chaplain a local rabbi invited us to bring our Jewish residents to his synagogue. They had recently received a Torah restored from stolen scrolls hidden by the Nazis during World War II. One of our residents was a man with advanced Alzheimer’s. He could still walk and talk but did not know who he was nor who his wife of 60 years was. The man sat on the front row in the worship room with a yarmulke on his head and a prayer shawl over his shoulders as he had done in his younger non brain-damaged days. This man had not said an intelligible sentence in months if not years.

The rabbi brought the covered Torah to the man and asked him to recite the prayer said before the uncovering of the scroll. The man said the prayer, without hesitation, word for word in Hebrew. His wife next to him wept. I was in tears. A moment of clarity. Had we asked the man to repeat the prayer back at the memory care unit he would not have been able to do it. The synagogue, the rabbi, the yarmulke, the Torah, all connected with the self beyond thinking located in his body.

We all have this self. Only our thinking is so dominant that we do not recognize it. When the thinking recedes we are still there — in our bodies.

Photo by Artem Maltsev on Unsplash

The Country of Sickness

Posted June 30, 2015 by kbrachle

“I have never been anywhere but sick. In a sense, sickness is a place, more instructive than a long trip to Europe, and it’s always a place where there’s no company; where nobody can follow. Sickness before death is a very appropriate thing and I think those who don’t have it miss one of God’s mercies.” —Flannery O’Connor, 1956.

The southern and Catholic author was diagnosed with lupus in 1951, the same disease that killed her father when she was a teenager. She died in 1964 having lived and suffered and wrote and thrived with lupus for 13 years.

Books ONLY from My Brother

Posted February 11, 2015 by kbrachle

I do not like people giving me books

I do not like people giving me books to read that I have not requested. I have like 100 books on my wish list and when family members ask me what they can give me for a gift I go to the list and send several suggestions. I think of myself as a slow reader with a somewhat narrow range of interests and don’t want people cluttering up my reading pile with books I previously had no interest in.

So I drove from Virginia to Florida for Christmas with a stop at my brother’s rural home near Tallahassee. He handed me a gift. You guessed it. A book. A book I had not requested. But he was generous and I do not give my do-not-give-me-a-book speech right after the kindness of a gift.

I just finished reading all 241 pages. That comes out to about 4 pages a day since I accepted the book. See…slow.

Turns out it has become one of my all time favorite books. Of course it is in the death and dying genre. Right in my narrow range of interest.

NOTE to family and friends: Only my brother Dennis can give me books I have not asked for.

A memoir of a young mortician

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes and Other Lessons from the Crematory is a memoir of a young mortician, Caitlin Doughty. Oh goodness, where do I start.

A full disclosure WARNING about the book. It contains very graphic detail about the condition of bodies of the deceased, their preparation, and what cremation actually looks like. This book is not for everyone. That said, I still would recommend it for everyone. Push through it and you find a wonderful story of a young woman finding a calling to help us all in the end.

Do yourself a favor and visit Doughty’s Web site “The Order of the Good Death” at http://www.orderofthegooddeath.com/. She has some great videos called, “Ask A Mortician.” She has a Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/OrderoftheGoodDeath. A Twitter feed @TheGoodDeath (https://twitter.com/TheGoodDeath) with 16,000 followers. And lots of photos on Instagram, thegooddeath (http://instagram.com/thegooddeath).

This is not your old chaplain’s verses about “letting be.” She recently posted a photo of a greeting card, “If I had a choice to have sex with any celebrity, living or dead, I would probably choose living.”

She is irreverent but dead serious. Get it?

There is a small but growing army of folks like Caitlin Doughty out there who want to bring death into our everyday lives. She advocates for families preparing bodies for burial or cremation. She is a leader in the “Death Salon” movement holding public forums to talk about death and dying. She is not religious but encourages rituals to help families and friends of the newly dead grieve and cope in healthy ways.

Yesterday, I sent her copies of my books (unsolicited of course). I started the cover letter, “I am sorry I arrived so late to your party. Only now have I found out about all the fun you are having.”

Can I “Like” a Death Announcement on Facebook?

Posted April 2, 2014 by kbrachle

Great article recently in the New York Times about “Millennials” (those in their teens and twenties) and grief. Grief in the age of Facebook, texting, Instagram, and selfies. “An Online Generation Redefines Mourning,” by Hannah Seligson appeared in the March 20^th edition of the Times.

Is there anything creepier

“My God, is there anything creepier than a post announcing someone lost a loved one and seeing ‘136 people like this’ underneath?” Ms. [Rebecca] Soffer said [in the article].

“The social norms for loss and the Internet are clearly still evolving. But Gen Y-ers and millennials have begun projecting their own sensibilities onto rituals and discussions surrounding death. As befits the first generation of digital natives, they are starting blogs, YouTube series and Instagram feeds about grief, loss and even the macabre, bringing the conversation about bereavement and the deceased into a very public forum, sometimes with jarring results.”

Here are some links I found through the article.

Modern Loss is a repository of essays, resources and advice that the founders try to edit so that it doesn’t sound glib, overly religious or trite. For instance, you’ll never hear, “At least they are in a better place.” (“Our least favorite line ever,” Ms. Soffer said.)

The Order of the Good Death is a group of funeral industry professionals, academics, and artists exploring ways to prepare a death phobic culture for their inevitable mortality. It was founded in January 2011 by Caitlin Doughty, a mortician and writer in Los Angeles, CA.

OMG . . . “Selfies at Funerals”

Hank

Straight to the Heart of Danger

Posted March 13, 2014 by kbrachle

[NOTE: I wrote this in 1999]

“Go straight to the heart of danger, for there you will find safety.” Chinese Proverb

It was meant to be a nice three-day hike in the Green Mountains of Vermont the first week of October.

When I was asked to come and speak at a conference on the eastern shore of Lake Champlain on the first Saturday in October I jumped at the chance. And I automatically thought of a way to squeeze in a couple days backpacking at the same time.

Everything seemed to be going fine. I got the speaking completed and then stayed with friends in Burlington on Saturday night. We dropped off my rental car at the north end of my hike and they dropped me off nineteen trail miles to the south at Appalachian Gap. Though it was eleven o’clock in the morning, it was still cold and the wind roaring through the gap added to the chill. Pleasantly, once I got into the woods and away from the gap, it was quite warm . . . T-shirt weather.

This is the most rugged trail I have ever hiked. Yep. More rugged than any 14er in Colorado. The high altitude in the Rockies makes the hiking harder but the trail itself in Vermont was just more difficult. Like straight up the side of a mountain, no switchbacks and over rocks and boulders and back down again. At one spot an aluminum ladder was chained in place to help the hiker past an impossible rock face.

Little did I know I would be depending…

Sunday afternoon was quite enjoyable. Occasionally I got a glimpse of the ridge stretched out in front of me all the way to my final challenge, The Camel’s Hump, ten miles away. I finally arrived at a lean-to shelter 5.5 miles from the highway. It featured an “open-air privy” which literally was a toilet seat in the woods on a wooden box over a shallow hole . . . no outhouse, no privacy. Two cousins from Maine, men perhaps in their late fifties or early sixties, had already occupied the small shelter. I found them quite enjoyable. They were out for two weeks and were planning on finishing in Canada four or five days later. Each night they played the totally incomprehensible game of cribbage. Ken, his wife and dog hiked the entire Appalachian Trail (over 2,000 miles) a couple of years ago. Little did I know I would be depending on these two men as my margin of safety.

I heard Ken and Bob rustling around about 3, 4 or 5 in the morning saying something about snow. At first light I found out what the commotion was all about. There was an inch of snow on the ground and it was still coming down. I made my coffee and ate my pop tarts. I stayed warm in my sleeping bag as long as possible and turned over in my mind my options.

I could turn back over the mountains I hiked the day before and try to hitch a ride to my car. I could stay put for a few hours and hope for a break in the weather. But if it didn’t break then I would have a late start on the day and I for sure wanted to have Ken and Bob hiking behind me. Or I could push on and hope to make it over the Camel’s Hump and on to the cabin on the other side. It was going to be an ambitious day in the best of circumstances. I packed up and pushed out ahead of my bedfellows.

At the end of hardest backpack day EVER

The trail continued to be as equally difficult as the day before . . . only more so with a layer of snow and ice. The sky did not let up and snow turned to sleet. As I crossed Burnt Rock Mountain, even finding the trail became difficult. It was marked with a painted blaze of white paint. On the treeless summit the trail marks were on the rocks beneath my feet. Rocks, snow, white trail marks, sleet, rocks . . . where the hell am I going? Later when Ken and Bob caught up with me they thanked me for finding the trail over the mountaintop.

To prepare for the event of losing my footing, I developed a technique of going down the rocky trail. In what appeared to be the slipperiest places I tried to position myself above a tree or bush that could provide a handhold. I once was holding on to such a tree and my footing gave way. I found myself leaning above perhaps a fifteen-foot drop over rocks to the snow below. I figured I had two choices. Let go of the tree and tumble down with my pack. Or I could unhook my pack and let it take the tumble without me. Duh????

As I put my pack back on while standing on terra firma, I actually felt quite satisfied that I can do this safely even if my pack takes a beating. Eventually Ken and Bob caught up with me. They had decided to stay in the cabin short of the Camel’s Hump. They suggested I do the same. The problem with that was it would leave me with an 8-mile hike the next day, through the snow, over the mountain and I had a 2:00 PM plane to catch. They correctly guessed that there was probably a short cut down to the road where I could hitch a ride.

My mother gave me a hard time

After my last letter describing my climbing the 14ers in Colorado, my mother gave me a hard time and lectured me on how I need to be more careful. I explained to her the precautions I felt I had made for my safety. So, Mother, again I made sure people knew where to find me and I always kept hikers behind me to offer aid if I were injured alone. I was prepared for the cold weather, after all it was October and Vermont. Even so, after three weeks, the big toe on my right foot has not fully recovered from a touch of frostbite . . . but it’s getting better Mom.

But you know, in the midst of the cold, snow, sleet, sweat and some anxiety, the walk was stunningly beautiful. The Fall leaves and the snow made quite a contrast. When the walking was easy I could hear the crunch of the winter ground beneath my feet. As I did walk out the last day, besides the leaves dotting the snow, there were animal tracks everywhere. Much of the walking was alone. The last day was especially serene as I walked toward the road. The trail was a gentle slope downward and I could drink in the wonder of the world.

We were discussing death anxiety among our patients

I am sure some of the enjoyment of such adventures is in overcoming discomforts and hazards. The gentle walk out was such a contrast to eight to ten hours of hard work the previous day. The warmth of dry clothes were such a luxury. My new hiking “partners” added more than just safety to my trip. Had I hurried back home after speaking I would have missed all that.

Fall leaves in Vermont snow

I flew home on Tuesday afternoon and had a hospice counseling staff meeting at 9:00 AM on Wednesday. We were discussing death anxiety among our patients, their families and in ourselves as we accompanied them on their journey. We knew we were among the privileged few who had the opportunity be close to this final journey yet are spared it leading to our own death or the death of one we love . . . at least at this time. One of my colleagues shared with us a quote she had learned in school and has never forgotten, “Go straight to the heart of danger, for there you will find safety.” We observe our patients going straight into the heart of danger and often they have a sense of safety. Being around this danger I feel safer. Not unlike the safety I felt walking in a New England wood blanketed with snow.

Hank

Expect Delays . . . and Suffering

Posted December 4, 2013 by kbrachle

We have all seen them — those well-lit signs on the side of the highway announcing construction and that we should “Expect Delays.” The highway department is trying to manage expectations. If we are expecting delays and there are none we feel relieved, thankful. If there are, well, we expected them.

Should we expect suffering?

I have just finished a swing through the South visiting friends, family, and my old haunts. I confronted “Expect Delays” on the road and “expect suffering” in my visits.

Vineville Baptist high school youth retreat 1975

I spent my first five years in the ministry as a youth minister in Macon, Georgia. Over those years we maybe had 200 teenagers and college students active at one time or another. I have kept in touch with many . . . thank you Facebook.

I am guessing my “kids,” as I still refer to them, are little different than any other group of their same demographic as far as life experience since high school and college graduation. They are now in their 50s and have experienced much suffering.

I spent one recent night with Tom in his mountain cabin in north Georgia. Four years ago he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. Part of his stomach and a portion of his esophagus were removed leaving a smaller stomach … but his life intact. The five-year survival for this type of cancer is 15%. Looks like Tom might make it past that magical date.

Talking with Tom, we got to reflecting on all the tragedies that have befallen this small sample of late baby boomers we called our youth group. At least two have been widowed. Many divorces. A few have lost children. Some have died. The older brother of one “kid” was just killed in a bicycling accident a few weeks ago. At one of the last outings of my time in Macon, Dan Allison drowned while swimming with the youth group. A tragedy I still relive often.

I first thought, “We have had more than our share of heartaches.”… Maybe not.

The Buddhists tell us that “life is suffering.”

The Buddhists tell us that “life is suffering.” They are managing expectations. I don’t know if I could have stood in front of this group of teenagers in 1978 and told them, “In the next 35 years a couple of you will be dead, some of you will have buried children, many will have gone through a divorce, some of you will have to deal with cancer … expect suffering.”

I would have been telling them the truth.

The human species is an amazingly resilient lot. In general, we take what life gives us and go on. I have heard little complaining from my “kids” or from the hundreds of patients I have listened to over the years. To be sure, none are glad tragedy has struck them. Yet, I have heard very little “Why me?” or even “Poor me.”

What I HAVE heard is, “What next?” “How do I go on from here?” “Life/God has been so good to me.”

Reynolds Price, in A Whole New Life, describes his emotional and spiritual recovery after having been paralyzed below the waist from a brain tumor. He said it is senseless to ask, “Why? Why me? I never asked it; the only answer is of course Why not?”

The death of a spouse, death of a child, cancer, or any other of life’s tragedies does not negate the wonderful miracle of life itself.

Just Plain “Thank You” Period

Posted September 3, 2013 by kbrachle

Can one be thankful and not really thank anyone or anything?

Can we be overwhelmed with gratitude but have no need to direct our thanks in any one direction?

These questions came to me as I finished the last pages of Wild: From lost to found on the Pacific Crest Trail by Cheryl Strayed. This memoir came out last year and has been ably reviewed in the New York Times by Dani Shapiro. My interest here is from just one line on the next to last page of the book.

She took her grief on a 1,100-mile backpacking trip

Full disclosure here—the book is about grief and backpacking, two abiding interests in my life. I probably would write favorably of anyone who takes her grief over the losses of her mother, her family, and her marriage on a months-long, 1,100-mile backpacking trip. Cheryl Strayed did and wrote about it.

Over the months she encounters the elements (heat, waterless stretches on the trail, snow, etc.) and animals (bears, snakes, cattle, more etc.) and human characters. She also encounters the demons and angels who have been with her over the years. Her 45-year-old much-loved mother died a few years before the hike. She, her siblings, and mom were abandoned by her father. Her step-father drifted away in recent years. Strayed’s own marriage fell apart primarily through her own shortcomings.

I have never attempted long-distance backpacking. The most I have ever lasted was four nights. So I only have a hint of what she went through on her arduous journey. I know and have met many through-hikers on the Appalachian Trail within a half-hour of my home. Here in Virginia the people I meet on the AT have completed one thousand miles on their way to Maine, another thousand miles to the north. Strayed’s stories of the people she ends up hiking with for a few days at a time ring true.

In the end, gratitude was her feeling at her core

At bottom, she writes of her journey to emotional wholeness she has found in what was once the wreck of her life. There are many moving passages in the book but I was caught by her sense of gratitude in the end. She never portrayed herself as a religious person in any sense of the word. But, in the end, gratitude was her feeling at her core.

She had touched the bridge on the Columbia River, the site of the end of her journey. She walked back to an ice cream stand to give herself a treat with the last two dollars she had to her name. She enjoyed the treat and chatted with a lawyer from Portland who pulled up in his BMW also to have an ice cream cone. She said goodbye to him and . . .

“I leaned my head back and closed my eyes against the sun as the tears I’d expected earlier at the bridge began to seep from my eyes. Thank you, I thought over and over again. Thank you. Not just for the long walk, but for everything I could feel finally gathered up inside of me; for everything the trail had taught me and everything I couldn’t yet know, though I felt it somehow already contained within me.”

Religious types say “thank you” to God. Others thank a “higher power” or thank “the universe.” Strayed evidently felt no need to tell us if there was a “you” to “thank you.” In my life-long quest to understand the spiritual journey I don’t think I have ever encountered a more simple and yet profound expression.

Thank you.

Just “thank you” period.

One is the recipient of the graciousness of life. Most of the dying people I have met in my thirty years at their bedsides have that same humility and gratitude.

Cheryl Strayed ends acknowledging the truth I tried to capture in my poem “Giving Up, Letting Go, and Letting Be.” Her last words of her book . . .

“How wild it was, to let it be.”

Thank you,

Hank

Preparing for Death as a Game . . . really

Posted July 30, 2013 by kbrachle

As I have wandered around the internet looking at things death and dying, I ran across a very intriguing project. The company, “Common Practice,” has developed a game called “Hello” to help people have discussions about death and dying.

The concept of the game is quite simple. Gather people together to talk about what is most important in life as you think about dying. Their website offers videos and testimonials that give you an idea of how it works.

This looks like it has real possibilities for staring conversations in families and among friends. In my view, the family discussion about end-of-life care is the most important part of preparing for healthcare decisions in the face of a life-threatening illness. The family conversation ranks right up there with assigning a healthcare proxy.

This game could be part of the process.

Thanks guys!

Hank

Alzheimer’s and Hope

Posted April 5, 2013 by kbrachle

I never thought I would see those two words together. Alzheimer’s and hope. Well, maybe, “I hope I never get Alzheimer’s.” Okay…I’ve heard that a lot.

I have been reading some really hopeful stuff from someone with Alzheimer’s Disease. David Hilfiker, a physician, is on a mission to make this eventually fatal disease less scary. Last September he was diagnosed with mild progressive dementia, probably Alzheimer’s. The Washington Post ran a story about David’s life now and his new vocation as one who is losing his mind.

Dr. Hilfiker has spent his life excelling. High School valedictorian. Standout at Yale. Med school grad and rural physician. Inner city physician for the poor. Founder of Joseph’s House, a hospice for homeless people with fatal diseases. Author of three books. Husband of 44 years, father and grandfather.

Our paths have actually crossed. We were members of the same faith community and in a mission group together for a while in the early 80s. I sent him a draft of my first book, Hard Choices for Loving People, and he was so kind to offer significant suggestions for improvement. That’s a whole other story. I had lost touch with him and then saw the piece about him in the Post.

Watching the lights go out

David is writing a blog about his experience, “Watching the Lights Go Out.” It begins last September with the diagnosis which confirmed his suspicions that he was losing his cognitive capabilities. He chronicles the mental mistakes he has made, the forgetfulness, preparing for a future in a nursing home, telling his family, friends, and church.

In February he gave a sermon to the congregation where he is a member, the Eighth Day Faith Community (part of Church of the Saviour). Titled “A Theology Out of My Life with Alzheimer Disease,” he tells of the lessons he has learned. He has learned to let go of shame and guilt for mistakes (whether caused by his disease or not). In other words, to be more forgiving of himself. He has become more emotionally available to his wife, family, and friends.

Live in the present

For me, the greatest lesson is one for all of us. Live in the present. He told the Post reporter the same thing, “’If I live in the future, it’s a very painful disease,’ Hilfiker said one recent afternoon as he sat at his kitchen table in Northwest Washington. ‘If I live in the present, it’s not.’”

Do yourself a favor. Go to his blog and sermon. I’ll stop with just a few quotes from his blog. Thank you David!

Perhaps this Alzheimer’s is allowing me to enjoy my life for the first time, not because things are any better, but because I’m more emotionally in touch with the goodness. I feel rooted, grounded. I’m where I’m supposed to be. I’m not looking for something else, something better. And this gift comes through my disease.

So when I discovered I had Alzheimer’s, I could look back at my life without regret that I didn’t choose to do this or dare to do that. Marja and I have had a good life. And far from preventing me from doing things, so far this disease and its process have given me a richer life. I now have a well-defined call and a fulfilling vocation (writing and speaking about this illness). Sure, I’m younger than I hoped I would be when I contracted my last disease. Certainly I would like to live longer, see my grandchildren grow up. But we all have to die, and I’ve been given much more than most people.

And now I’ve been given this adventure!

[2016 UPDATE: Turned out he did NOT have Alzheimer’s and he wrote a final blog post to update his readers.]

Photo credit Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post

Emergency Preparedness

Posted March 4, 2013 by kbrachle

“Could you come to ‘labor and delivery’? We’ve had a fetal demise and the family would like a chaplain,” the nurse said. She had paged me at 5:30 AM last Monday. I told her I could be there in a half-hour.

We have a volunteer on-call chaplain program at Loudoun Hospital near Leesburg, Virginia, for just such an event. It was my turn.

The small ritual of prayer to the bedside

I entered the room and found the young mother in her bed with the father of the child sitting next to her. Her mother was in the chair next to the bed. She went into labor at 20 weeks and, of course, the baby did not survive. All in the room were very quiet. I said, “I heard you lost your baby. I am so sorry.” The mother nodded her head as she just looked down. They did not seem in the mood to talk much. I asked if they would like to have a prayer and they said, “Yes.”

It was a short visit. I offered my pastoral presence and brought the small ritual of prayer to the bedside.

I am glad to do what I can but I often am sorry that those I am called to meet did not have their own faith community to call on in such an emergency. Losing a pregnancy needs more than just a prayer. What about grief counseling? How could a faith community support this family in their loss?

This family needed more than a quick prayer

Contrast this visit to one I made a while back to the emergency room. The rescue squad was heading toward the hospital with a man who had suffered what turned out to be a fatal heart attack. The ER staff wanted a chaplain there to comfort the family. The man was in his 50s and there were two children and his wife. He had no history of heart problems and just collapsed and died.

One of the first questions I asked the family was if they had a faith community. They immediately said yes and gave me the church name and pastor’s name. I called him. He was shocked and distraught over this death of a friend and parishioner. Of course he would be right over. I stayed until he arrived.

Again, this family needed more than a quick prayer next to the dead husband and father. They had funeral plans to make then the long road of grief to follow.

America is still a very religious and spiritual nation. But more and more of our population are not connected to any faith community. Those who answer “None” on surveys asking religious preference are at an all-time high. These “nones” might consider themselves spiritual but not religious.

Spiritual needs are great yet many people have no place to turn

As a healthcare chaplain I run into these folks all the time. That is why medical facilities have staff chaplains. The spiritual needs in the midst of a health crisis are great yet many people have no place to turn. I like to think the future employment opportunities for chaplains are good given the need.

Of course, I wish more people had their own faith community to turn to. I remember in my days as a nursing home chaplain I could judge how important spiritual things were to a new patient just by reading their admission papers. The response to “religious preference” and “congregation” ran from “none” to “Christian” or “Jewish” to something like “First Methodist Church” to even including the pastor’s name and phone number. The more details I got on the form showed me someone who took their faith more seriously.

I don’t want to come across here as judging people for not going to worship somewhere. But I wish people stopped to think, “Who would I call if there were a sudden death in my family?” If the faith element is important then find a community now. Most faith communities handle crises very well. They are there when you need them. Sure, we can scurry around and find a volunteer to show up for a few minutes. But faith communities have so much more to offer.

Photo by Jonnica Hill on Unsplash