The Unexpected Blessings of an Accidental Home
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Minneapolis, Minnesota
This day of rest has nearly drawn to its close.
A large violet cloud stretches across the western sky. Beneath it various shades of Raw Sienna, a color known as “liquid light” bring a glow to the horizon. Another day. Another Sabbath. Another communion. Another hope. And, as usual, some unexpected blessings.
Some years ago, I was talking with a pastor from Southern California. For some reason or other I asked him about funerals. I’m not a numbers person, so I doubt I asked him how many funerals he conducted in a year. But something prompted him to share that he virtually never “did” funerals. His community was young. Almost everyone was healthy. His community was affluent. Everyone pretty much had what they needed, and health was one of them. There was no need for him to do funerals.
I remember being shocked. To me, the closing of life is such an essential ministry, such an essential part of church. In the rural communities I served, we understood church to be all about accompaniment. Kids are born; confirmed; married; grow old; have their funerals in the same church that married them 70 or so years ago. Continuity counts. I wondered if I could ever pastor in a church for whom funerals were a great exception rather than an intrinsic part of life.
So what’s the unexpected part? you’re asking.
A year and a half ago we moved from Big Timber, Montana, to Minneapolis. To tell the entire story would require more time and space than I have here. Suffice it to say I found an apartment building that had space. It is a HUD building. Many of its apartments are subsidized. Some people, mostly widows, have lived here for years. Some were on the street not long ago until Catholic Charities found them a home here. We are essentially a pre-nursing home retirement community. How odd. I am not retired. We are some of the youngest people in the building that is an astonishing collection of the infirm, those healing, those wondering when they’ll be taken over to the nursing home, those for whom living in a building is a new experience. It is quite a place.
Here, virtually every day their is a piece of news. I go outside to get my bike to ride to the store, and there on the bench is the boxer. He is a large man who was a boxer, and may have been a pastor. He was in a coma for four weeks, and then had brain surgery. We begin to talk. The brain injury took some of his speech, but none of his wisdom. He knows he came through the storm thanks to the providential care of a loving God. Me too, I say. You too? he asks. We talk for fifteen minutes . . . praying, really. Laughing, really. Sharing, really. This is not an expected event. These things happen here. I feel blessed to cross paths with him.
The woman from Guyana who tended the flowers . . . she died two weeks ago. ”I’m not well,” she said to me at the elevator door. ”Oh,” I said. ”Have you called the doctor?” ”Yes.” ”Good.” But the doctor arrived too late.
“How you doing?” I ask the man with a walker festooned with all kinds of little American flags and stuffed animals. ”Not so good,” he said. ”Chemo. I’m weak. But I’ll make it.”
“Oh my,” I say. ”I see strength in your eyes. You’re going to make it. I’d bet you, but I’ve got nothing to bet.”
“Me neither,” he says, we both laugh.
Outside, the woman dressed in too many jackets begins her walk. Who knows where she goes. Has Pearl fallen? No, not today. Good. Jay, is the oxygen tank working?
I am surrounded not by death, but by life and the dignity of those pursuing it in so many ways. Who knew we would end up here? Who knew how many conversations on the porch, in the elevator, on the floors would have something to do with the God of life?
Not me.
But here we are.
Amazing.
The lights of the city are coming on. The view is unimaginably beautiful. In church, today, we sang hymns. We offered prayers. We tried to both mend and accompany the world.
I am grateful for the new day. There was night, and then there was day . . . the first day.
Here.
And where you are too.
We are blessed.
Thanks as always for your stories. Is that what rural living is all about? Here, I have a community of elders. We buried our eldest resident, a centenarian, a few weeks ago. My children and I pass the cemetery on the way to the playground, and we bring her flowers and berries. I loved bringing berries to the elders. It is a new experience for me, to have so many stories held in my heart from the time I spent with the elders. From old Junior Gregory, I learned to say “Good Job” to people, and to laugh and find the good in someone who was often “bad.” From Grandma Lena, I learned to say, “Go ahead” to my kids or anyone else, meaning “yes.” From my mother-in-law, I learned to respect a solid refusal to live beyond one’s ability to contribute meaningful work. I am filled with the richness of all their stories and in them lie the complexity of life–of hurts and healing, the tending of birth and death. Grandma Lena tended my husband’s birth. He threw a handful of dirt on her grave, along with my children and me. I cannot imagine my children growing up without understanding this complete cycle of life.
One of my best friends, a neighbor, is in her mid eighties. Actually, at first her dog was my dog’s best friend and we talked while we walked our dogs or they romped in her back yard. After various operations she can barely walk and she is greatful that her loyal dog does not run off.
Last year she volunteered as an assistant in a second grade classroom at our local public school. She says that too many of her peers have died.
One child asked her if she was old. Then he asked if she was really, really old. She replied that yes, in fact she was. They continued with the school work.
I feel competitive around her. How can I keep up with this force of nature?