This is a prayer I use a lot with my patients. They seem to find comfort from it.
Prayer for times of Physical Suffering
( I think i got out of Episcopal or Methodist Prayer book)
Lord Jesus Christ, we come to you sharing
the suffering that you endured.
Grant us patience during this time,
that as we live with pain,
disappointment and frustration,
we may realize that suffering is a part of life,
a part of life that you know intimately.
Touch me in my time of trial,
hold me tenderly in your loving arms,
and let me know you care.
Renew us into our spirits,
even when our bodies are not
being renewed,
that we might be ever prepared to dwell
in your eternal home,
through our faith in you, Lord Jesus,
who died and are alive for evermore. Amen.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Good grief... i'm surrounded
Just recently my grandma doyle passed away after months on hospice. I could tell that my family didn't understand my expression of grief... at least not until I presided at the funeral. But they haven't sat with dozens of people as they go through almost identical experiences of dying, of grieving. The boundary marked"Grandma" in my grief is way more fuzzy than theirs. My job and calling prevent me from having too much of a respite from grief. It's both a blessing and a burden. It's a blessing because my sadness over the loss of grandma's physical presence didn't hit me like a Mac truck. I am constantly learning more and more about the process of loss and grief. And that helps me not just cope, but thrive. It's a burden because I can never get away from it. Grief surrounds me everywhere I go. I am aware of my own mortality 24/7 as well as the mortality of everyone I care for all the time.
Don't misunderstand me. I am not a walking fountain of despair or a case for the hypochondriac specialist. Sure, I have my moments of sadness and anxiety... but mortality awareness opens my life up more than any mystical retreat ever did. The beauty and joy of life is more real, more tangible. But it also pushes me to pursue my goals and desires even when it's not time yet.
The patience I've learned through my training and discipline is balanced by the urge to get to another place, for this moment to be past, not present... for the future to rewind to be here and now. The serenity in realizing I have lived my life to the fullest and that each moment is precious gets interrupted by the static of impatient desires.
I want to smell my future baby's head and see the gray in Aaron's beard migrate to his hair. I want to hear the laughter at future family gatherings and be able to hold my parents' hands as they pass on. There is so much in the future to ancitpate and look forward to. But when I'm perpetually surrounded by grief, I am reminded again and again that the future is only in my imagination. We do not always get to celebrate and experience all the things we wish for or even expect to happen. In fact, it is guaranteed that our mortal road will one day be blocked and the road we imagined to travel will not be there. It is rare and perhaps even an illusion that we will one day sit in a rocking chair, creaking in our old bones, looking back on the road behind us and know we are done and just pass away. I'm not sure about everyone else, but that is how I want to die. But that is also a rare treat for the mortal life.
For many of us, dying will be a long and drawn out process. One that isn't without meaning or joy, but one that anyone I've ever met would prefer to avoid. For instance, my grandma has not been able to be present for many of the important events of my adult life. The absence of her presence while she suffered from Alzheimers and cancer was hard on her and hard on me too. She was here in flesh and blood yet could not attend my graduation, my wedding or my ordination because of her illness. And looking back, I mourn the missed opportunities of being with her while she was alive. I do not mourn her death or her absence now, because like the silly fool I am, I believe that she is no longer suffering. For me, death is not the end of everything, just the end of what is now.
So, my awareness of grief has me going about, oscillating between a strange sense of contentment and clarity and a strong urge to push forward as fast as I can before the mortal road ends for me or Aaron. What a strange and wonderful ride this life is.
Don't misunderstand me. I am not a walking fountain of despair or a case for the hypochondriac specialist. Sure, I have my moments of sadness and anxiety... but mortality awareness opens my life up more than any mystical retreat ever did. The beauty and joy of life is more real, more tangible. But it also pushes me to pursue my goals and desires even when it's not time yet.
The patience I've learned through my training and discipline is balanced by the urge to get to another place, for this moment to be past, not present... for the future to rewind to be here and now. The serenity in realizing I have lived my life to the fullest and that each moment is precious gets interrupted by the static of impatient desires.
I want to smell my future baby's head and see the gray in Aaron's beard migrate to his hair. I want to hear the laughter at future family gatherings and be able to hold my parents' hands as they pass on. There is so much in the future to ancitpate and look forward to. But when I'm perpetually surrounded by grief, I am reminded again and again that the future is only in my imagination. We do not always get to celebrate and experience all the things we wish for or even expect to happen. In fact, it is guaranteed that our mortal road will one day be blocked and the road we imagined to travel will not be there. It is rare and perhaps even an illusion that we will one day sit in a rocking chair, creaking in our old bones, looking back on the road behind us and know we are done and just pass away. I'm not sure about everyone else, but that is how I want to die. But that is also a rare treat for the mortal life.
For many of us, dying will be a long and drawn out process. One that isn't without meaning or joy, but one that anyone I've ever met would prefer to avoid. For instance, my grandma has not been able to be present for many of the important events of my adult life. The absence of her presence while she suffered from Alzheimers and cancer was hard on her and hard on me too. She was here in flesh and blood yet could not attend my graduation, my wedding or my ordination because of her illness. And looking back, I mourn the missed opportunities of being with her while she was alive. I do not mourn her death or her absence now, because like the silly fool I am, I believe that she is no longer suffering. For me, death is not the end of everything, just the end of what is now.
So, my awareness of grief has me going about, oscillating between a strange sense of contentment and clarity and a strong urge to push forward as fast as I can before the mortal road ends for me or Aaron. What a strange and wonderful ride this life is.