Celtic Advent - Day XXX - Day 15

 

 Celtic Advent - Day XXX - December 15

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"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." The psalm does not pretend that evil and death do not exist. Terrible things happen, and they happen to good people as well as to bad people. Even the paths of righteousness lead through the valley of the shadow. Death lies ahead for all of us, saints and sinners alike, and for all the ones we love.  The psalmist doesn't try to explain evil. He doesn't try to minimize evil. He simply says he will not fear evil. For all the power that evil has, it doesn't have the power to make him afraid.

-       Frederick Buechner (from Secrets in the Dark)

 

One of the theological statements I have discovered to be true I learned while working with People with AIDS. That has been reinforced over the years by my work in Hospice.

 

That theological truth is this: The greatest statement of faith is to laugh in the face of Evil. This is true because one would never have the confidence or courage to laugh in the face of an Evil like AIDS or Cancer or ALS or now, COVID, or any other disease that debilitates and humiliates before it kills - unless one believes in God.

 

I have told this story privately to some friends. I’ve never said it aloud publicly, much less put it in print. The time feels right to tell this story as a way of explaining the psalmist’s assertion about not fearing evil and the strength of the women in the genealogy of Jesus which allowed him to live into his destiny.

 

It’s not an easy story. Indeed, there is an element that some might consider vulgar. If you are easily distressed, I encourage you not to read any further.

 

It was late in the afternoon and I had started to head home to do my charting when I got the call to make an emergency visit to a woman who was being admitted to Hospice but was “actively dying” of cancer.

 

I’ll call her Paula. She had been diagnosed two years earlier with Stage IV breast cancer with metastasis to the bones and had undergone radiation and chemotherapy but the disease had already spread so massively that none of the available medical artillery had been able to stop the invasion of cancer cells to the rest of her body.

 

She had done fairly well, all things considered, and those things were, in fact, quite considerable. When she learned her diagnosis, she had come home to tell her husband who was, she reported, quite sad. The next morning, at the breakfast table, he said to her, “Look, I’m really sorry about this but I’ve thought and prayed all night and I’ve come to a decision. I can’t go through this. I’m going to leave you with the house and I’ll make sure you have some money. I’ll keep you on my insurance plan but I’m going to have to file for divorce. I just can’t do this.”

 

Well, he wasn’t exactly generous with the amount of “some money” so she took a part time job at Wal-Mart where her co-workers fell in love with her wicked sense of humor, and her seemingly indomitable spirit, as well as her strong work ethic.

 

Her doctor had prepared her that she would probably benefit from Hospice, but she insisted that she could keep working and manage on her own. That was, until she had a dizzy spell while in the bathroom getting ready to go to work. She fell and, because the cancer had metastasized to her bones, she easily fractured her left arm, two ribs and her left leg.

 

Thankfully, she was riding in with a coworker who came into the house shortly after the accident and was able to get her to the hospital via ambulance. The doctors were unable to do anything for her except to immobilize her arm and leg in a soft cast and start her on a morphine drip to manage her pain.

 

She was adamant. If she was going to die, she wanted to die at home. Her motives, however, were not, shall we say, pristine. “I want to haunt this place,” she said, “so my ex-husband won’t even think about living here after I die.”

 

When I walked into her house at around 4 PM there was a whirlwind of activity. Her oncologist had contacted the American Cancer Society and had arranged for a grant to provide her with 24 hour around the clock nursing assistants who were certified as med techs so they were able to administer the morphine.

 

So, in addition to the Hospice nurse and CNA, there were two CAN/Med techs there all coordinating the care plan in the kitchen. The social worker was also there, gathering up the necessary information, asking the patient questions in between her moans and drifting off into a morphine-induced haze.

 

Paula’s hospital bed was right in the middle of the living room, facing the bay window and full-length glass storm door in the hope that, when she was able, she could see the trees and activity beyond the confines of her hospital bed.

 

I hung back a bit, just taking in the sense in the room and my sense of what Paula might be able to tolerate. It seemed to me that she didn’t have too much time left on this earth and I made a mental adjustment in terms of what I would do with the short time I expected to have with her.

 

The social worker nodded to me that she was finished and heading into the kitchen to join the nursing team. I took that as my cue to approach Paula in her bed.

 

“Paula,” I said softly into her ear, “My name is Elizabeth and I’m the Chaplain.” She opened her eyes briefly and nodded in a hazy acknowledgement.

 

“Listen,” I said, “We don’t have much time, so I’m just going to eliminate all the pleasantries and get right to the point. Is that okay?”

 

Paula opened her eyes and looked at me. She smiled a crooked little smile and said, “Well, you look and sound nice but you do put a fine point on it, don’t you? Sure. I got a ticket for the next train out of here. You’re right. Let’s get to it. “

 

“So,” I said, “first, is there a local pastor I should call for you?”

 

“Nope,” she said, “not local or far away. Which is how I like my pastors, mostly. And, how I keep them. Far away.” She opened her eyes and looked at me and said, “Except you. You can stay. For a while, anyway.”

 

“Is there anyone you need me to call for you and let them know your condition?”

 

“Nope,” she said, “no one I can think of. Everyone who needs to know, knows.”

 

“Okay,” I said, “we’re going in a little deeper. Ready?”

 

“Sure. You’re in the driver’s seat. Don’t let go of the wheel now.”

 

I decided right then and there that not only did I really like this woman but I was going to miss her after she was gone.”

 

“Is there anyone you need me to call so that you can say, ‘I love you’. Or, maybe you need to hear them say, ‘I love you.’?”

 

“Nope. I’m good,” she said, “and so are you. I can’t wait for what’s next.”

 

“Okay, here goes,” I said, thinking of her ex-husband. “Is there anyone you need me to call and say, ‘I forgive you,’ or to hear them say to you, ‘You are forgiven’?”

 

“Hmmm .  . . nope, I’m good on that, too,” she sighed.

 

“Are you getting tired,” I asked. “Need a break?”

 

“No,” she said, “it’s oddly comforting to have you here. I’m sorry I’m not at my best for receiving guests right now. If you want some tea, get one of the girls in the kitchen to make some for you. I guess that’s what you do when the clergy come to visit? Make tea?”

 

“Thank,” I chuckled,  “but I’m good. One last question and then I’ll hush.”

 

“Is there anything you want me to pray for. A special prayer petition you want to make sure gets prayed. It can be anything, so don’t feel like it’s goo much to ask, or you’d be too embarrassed to ask. Just tell me and I’ll pray it for you.”

 

I was not ready for her petition of prayer.

 

“Yes,” she said, her voice clear and strong. “I want you to pray for my ex-husband.”

 

“Okay,” I said, “What would you like me to pray?”

 

“I want you to pray,” she said, “that the man never has another hard-on ever again in his life.”

 

I tried not to move my face, but once the full meaning of her words finally hit me, I desperately wanted to laugh right out loud.

 

“Can you do that,” she asked, opening one eye to see the reaction on my face.

 

I cleared my throat. “Actually, no, I can’t, Paula,” I said. I mean, I know I said ‘anything’ but I really can’t pray for any harm to happen to someone. But,” I added, “I totally get where you’re coming from.”

 

She snickered. “It’s such a shame. The guy so richly deserves it.”

 

“Tell you what,” I said, “I will pray that God hears your prayer. All your prayers. Does that work for you?”

 

“Deal,” she said. “Hey, chaplain, you’re alright, you know? You’re A-Okay in my book. And, if I’m around tomorrow, you could come back, maybe?”

 

“Deal,” I said.

 

“Did you know – did I already tell you – that he was my first love? No, I probably didn’t. Well he was. The first time we had sex was on this hill not far from my house. It was called ‘Blueberry Hill’. So, on our wedding, we danced our first dance to ‘I found my thrill, on Blueberry Hill’. My mother was not pleased, but that was only because we couldn’t afford a band so we got a DJ and she was not happy that a NEE-grow was singing and we were dancing. She had no idea about the meaning.”

 

“Ah, good times,” she said, “Hey, Chaplain, when you come tomorrow, maybe we could talk about my funeral service. I want Blueberry Hill as one of the songs. My ex-husband will probably show up for my funeral and I want him to die a little inside when he hears that song.”

 

She started to laugh – a weak chuckle, really, was all she could muster – and then fell asleep with the biggest, broadest smile on her face.

 

Paula died very peacefully and in no pain the next afternoon. And yes, at her funeral, over which I presided and her ex-husband attended, I had the funeral home director play ‘Amazing Grace’ and ‘How Great Thou Art’ and, as I explained to the gathered mourners, by Paula’s special request, ‘Blueberry Hill’.

 

Her mother frowned. Her ex-husband hung his head in embarrassment and then sulked out the door. But I could hear Paula all the way from the heavens, having the last laugh.

 

I suspect that, the night Jesus was born, there was uproarious laughter in heaven. All the angels and archangels, the cherubim and seraphim were delighted to know that the Fallen Angel was in for the biggest surprise when Jesus would one day open the gates of heaven to all who had been languishing under the hell of Lucifer’s rule.

 

In my imagination, their laughter was so great that it caused the stars to shine more brightly that night than ever before. That’s what drew the shepherds to the place where the newborn and his parents were staying. The light of that laughter guided the Wise Men to visit the Holy Family and to pay homage and bring gifts.

 

Here’s another passage for your meditation:

 

“I have come to believe that by and large the human family all has the same secrets, which are both very telling and very important to tell. They are telling in the sense that they tell what is perhaps the central paradox of our condition—that what we hunger for perhaps more than anything else is to be known in our full humanness, and yet that is often just what we also fear more than anything else. It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are—even if we tell it only to ourselves—because otherwise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are and little by little come to accept instead the highly edited version which we put forth in hope that the world will find it more acceptable than the real thing. It is important to tell our secrets too because it makes it easier that way to see where we have been in our lives and where we are going. It also makes it easier for other people to tell us a secret or two of their own, and exchanges like that have a lot to do with what being a family is all about and what being human is all about.”

― Frederick Buechner, Telling Secrets

“I not only have my secrets, I am my secrets. And you are yours. Our secrets are human secrets, and our trusting each other enough to share them with each other has much to do with the secret of what it means to be human.”

― Frederick Buechner