shaped by our heritage

How do we become who we are? I remember a small group question that asked what our families told us about their hopes for us before we were born. A co-worker, who is now a hospital chaplain, said that his mother dreamed that he would be a man who would lead people to God.

The first stage of faith development, according to several theories, is learning who we are. Are we safe? Are we loved? Are we a Smith, or a Jackson, or a Robison? What does it mean to be a member of that family? Does our family have hopes and dreams for us?

Three stories have run through my mind today. One is that of a blogger friend who told about the stories she grew up with about a dad who was her hero, until she found out at seventeen that they were lies he'd told to make himself look good. He had been in trouble with the law, rather than the bold, adventurous, entrapreneurial spirit she'd learned to love. Her own life had taken on those same positive traits.

The second story is about a man who was in a group I mentored. He had previously belonged to a fundamental sect and believed the Bible to be factually true and the inerrant word of God. As we studied Hebrew Scripture, the Old Testament, he was appalled to read that seminaries teach that Adam and Eve were not two particular, real people, and that Moses didn't really write the first five books of the OT. He said that he felt like an orphan, that all the old Bible characters had been like family to him and he'd just found out he was adopted. It was truly a painful experience for him, but one that was necessary in order to grow spiritually.

The third story is about a baby who was born in Seattle a few years ago. She had a congenital condition of the brain that meant she would not survive, would not ever progress beyond infancy; in fact she was had not been expected to even be born alive, but she lived for six months.

The family had previously been a part of a fundamentalist church, but they had moved and had not made any connection locally. The other children in the family made friends, and the parents of those friends heard about the situation. They offered help, compassion, emotional and spiritual support, and the family joined their church, a different sect entirely. When the baby died, the family had found a sense of meaning in this tragedy: the baby's mission, from God, was to convert this family to this religion.

Here's the question: are any of these people worse off for believing something that was not, or may not be, true?

the play's the thing

Daffodil’s Debut

the snow is almost gone
and, though I’ve had no time to practice,
today is my day to shine

“Stand up straight.”
“Be brave, little daffodil,
you’ll do us proud.”

here I am,
watching the grass grow,
waiting nervously for my cue

"Spring."

I heard it! I’m on! Ta Da!
I am here to fill your heart with joy!


Tonight is the dress rehearsal of HMS Pinafore, in which my husband is starring in a leading role. So, naturally, a dramatic image came to mind when I saw this beautiful prompt from Abbey of the Arts at Christine's Invitation to Poetry

Have you had your playing time today?

a lovely day for a drive...

Spring has arrived on the east side of the Cascades, and it was a beautiful day to have a job that doesn't keep me inside!

introducing Mavis and Margot...

Mavis and Margot are two of several characters I’ve written in my writing.com site blog. Sometimes I’ve used them to make comments on things I don’t want to say myself, or even things I have said. Sometimes they’re just for my own entertainment.

Margot was headed for her driveway when she spotted Mavis, sitting on the front porch, enjoying the first warm day of spring and reading a book. Changing directions, she slid her new car in beside Mavis’s Prius, turned off the ignition and strode across the lawn.

“How do you like it?” Margot called. “Isn’t it super!”

“It’s terrific, and it certainly suits you, but I thought you said you’d gone green. It isn’t a hybrid, is it?” Mavis asked.

“Well, it’s British racing green. That’s good enough for me.” Margot made a face, and Mavis laughed. “Want to go for a ride?”

“No, not right now, I don’t think. I was just finishing this page, and then I need to get the potatoes peeled for supper. Maybe tomorrow though, if you’re up for it. I’d love an excuse to go up to the lake if the weather is as nice as it is today.”

“I think I could manage that, if I finish up with my client by lunchtime. So, what are you reading? Anything I might want to borrow?”

Mavis replied, “Oh, I don’t think it’s anything you’d be interested in.”

“Too intellectual for me?” Margot chided. “Try me.”

“It’s Thomas Merton,” Mavis said. “Here, I’ll read you this bit. I think it’s rather wonderful.”

My Lord, You have heard the cry of my heart because it was You Who cried out within my heart.
Forgive me for having tried to evoke Your presence in my own silence: it is You Who must create me within Your own silence!

“Is that about enough?” Mavis asked.

“No, go on. It’s a bit over my head, but I want to hear the rest. There isn’t much more, is there?”

Mavis laughed. “All right. Let’s see….
You are not found in the Temple merely by the expulsion of the money changers.
You are not found on the mountain every time there is a cloud. The earth swallowed those who offered incense without having been found, and called, and known by You.
If I find Him with great ease, perhaps He is not my God.
If I cannot hope to find Him at all, is He my God?
If I find Him wherever I wish, have I found Him?
If He can find me whenever He wishes, and tells me Who He is and who I am, and if I then know that He Whom I could not find has found me: then I know He is the Lord, my God: He has touched me with the finger that made me out of nothing.

“There, what do you make of it?”

“I’ll give it a go. He’s saying that God doesn’t come to us on our own terms, and we can’t find him wherever and whenever we might want to. God is bigger than all that. Am I close?”

“I’m impressed.”

“You won’t be when I go on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think God is like a cat, and we want him to be like a dog, waiting for us and wagging his tail. Instead, he comes if and when he chooses. Like my cat Chloe, who occasionally graces me with her presence. Rascal wants my attention full time, to keep throwing the ball for him. I don’t think God’s like that, do you?”

Mavis stared at her a minute. “Hmm…” she said, “Not exactly.” Then, noticing her friend’s expression, she continued, “That’s very clever of you. I’ll have to think about it. Maybe I’ll bring the book along tomorrow on our ride.”

“Oh please don’t. That’s enough philosophizing to last me for the year. But it was fun. Thanks for not laughing at me,” Margot said.

“I hope I would never laugh at you when you were being serious. I won’t bring the book tomorrow, but I might tell you why that passage is important to me.”

“Well, maybe. But I might rather get away from thinking and just go have fun. I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, as she turned toward the car.

light through the window of grief

I mentioned last week a video the hospice staff watched of Naomi Tutu. In it she talked about ritual, particularly the ritual of South Africa. When a person dies, the bed is taken apart, and the mattress is placed on the floor. All the matriarchs of the family come and sit on the mattress, and they stay there until the body is buried. As callers come to pay their respects, the women tell the story of the person's life and death, over and over, over and over.

We are a culture short on ritual; and, due to a growing lack of religious interest, the rituals we have are fading too. Fewer people have funerals or memorial services. Fewer still have wakes. Even the family gatherings, the bringing in of casserole dishes to the home, and the calls and cards are less frequent than twenty years ago.

The adult grief group began last week, with a poor showing of five people. One dropped out, thank goodness, and one will be absent this week, so I'm praying for a few late starters to show up this week. (Thank goodness because she wasn't ready to be in a group yet, had too many issues to work out for the group to handle, and would monopolize the time at best and might scare other group members from talking.)

One of the things they'll be doing is journaling, and they have a book designed just for that. Beyond the exercises in the book, I've been thinking about other ways to journal that would be helpful to people who are grieving a loss. Here's what I've come up with, sort of off the top of my head:

1. Go through old pictures, and, choosing one or two per journal entry, write about the situation the pictures were taken in. What was happening? Who took the pictures and why? What did you want to remember from that time, whether or not it showed up in the picture? Is the picture a good representation of how the loved one looked, or one of his/her* better moments? Did he like that picture of himself? How does it make you feel to see it now? (*From now on I'll refer to the loved one as a 'he' for simplicity's sake.)

2. Using the same pictures, or memories without pictures, revisit the places where the pictures were taken: the beach, the back yard swing, the dining room table, wherever. Maybe take another picture. Write about what you're feeling in that same place now.

3. Journal about something that has happened to you this week, and what would have been different if your loved one were still alive.

4. Make a record of the times of day you find yourself missing him most, the scenes and scents that tug at your heart, maybe giving you a grief attack. Imagine him there, and write about what you feel.

5. Think of things the two of you didn't agree on, but you went along with anyway. Maybe you watched football because he liked it, or bought Crest because it's the kind of toothpaste he wanted, or ate Captain Crunch because it was easier than buying a box you liked instead. Maybe you liked to take walks but didn't very often because he wouldn't go with you. Make a list of things you like. You may find this easier than you expect.

6. Make a list of his annoying habits, and forgive yourself for being annoyed with him.

7. Describe him in your journal, in as great a detail as possible, using all your senses to imagine him. Linger with that sense of his presence after you've written, before you go on to do something else. Write about that experience.

Oops, I've exceeded the obligatory (arbitrary) list of 5. Well, maybe it's like a baker's dozen, one extra suggestion in case one of the first 5 wasn't any good. No excuse for number seven though. :( :)

I've just begun this train of thought, so please feel free to add to it.

burst into song!

angel of narcissus

The Angel of Narcissus

I strike a pose,
so high above you all,
so wise and stern,
and all who see me crane and yearn
to view the words I write.
“Is my name on your list?”
you wonder, your uneasiness
creating flurries in the air
around my stony soul.

The stone mason’s chisel
does my fair proportions justice,
but he carefully omits
what flows from my pen:
buy milk, suntan lotion,
start the laundry,
mail the rent check,
put out cat,
pick up Jean at 3.

This statue of an angel, in the cemetery in Framingham, Massachusetts where Christine's mother is buried, is the prompt for the Invitation to Poetry from Abbey of the Arts.

questions and coincidences

Last week a post from Mind Sieve quoted a line of a poem by Oriah Mountaindreamer. The name didn’t ring any bells, and the quote only nudged me slightly to respond. I shrugged it off, but I've been thinking about it ever since. I won't be writing about it tonight though, still thinking, but here's the quote:

"The question is not
'Why am I so infrequently the person I really want to be?'
but 'Why do I so infrequently want to be the person I really am?'"

Thursday morning we had a video at work of a speaker from last summer’s National Hospice convention, Naomi Tutu. I saw her and enjoyed her presentation last summer in New Mexico, but hadn’t remembered how she began it. She quoted a long poem from, coincidentally, Oriah Mountaindreamer, who Naomi said she thought at first was a native American, not a blond Canadian. Several people commented on the power of the poem, and I was happy I had the name and the link right at hand to give them. Her poem, The Invitation, is printed on her homepage at oriahmountaindreamer.com.

Isn’t it strange how we can hear something new and then immediately have it crop up again somewhere else? Sure, maybe it’s because we are awake to the sound of the name and recognize it again, but not always.

When I went to her site, http://www.oriahmountaindreamer.com/creative.html, I found a section called Creative Writing Exercises. The page begins with the title What We Ache For, the name of one of her books..

The book I began reading last night, Henri Nouwen’s Life of the Beloved, begins with the story of how he happened to write it. A young man, Fred, was interviewing him and was obviously uninterested in the job. As they talked, Henri asked him what he really wanted to do, which was write a novel. Anything you really want to do, you can, Henri told him, or words to that effect. You clear off from your calendar the things that are in the way, and you get started. Henri even made it possible for the young man to quit his job and come to be an artist in residence so he could write.

Fred never did finish the novel, but other things came from the choice that were invaluable. Henri began to hear of the longing that Fred, a Jew, and other friends of his had, a yearning for meaning and spirituality in their lives. Fred asked him to write a book for them, not for religious people but for secular people. And he did so.

Oriah asks: “How would you complete the phrase: I never feel I should be doing anything else when I am…?”

How would you complete that phrase?

finding some, if not all, things new

In a recent entry to Mind Sieve (and I'm sorry I don't know how to make that a link right this minute,)Sunrise Sister challenged us to try new things. Her most wonderful example was taking surfboarding lessons at the Royal Academy in Hawaii.

I like the idea, even though I am doing it on a much smaller scale. Today, for instance, I took a new road between housecalls, hunting for an unimpaired view of the new snow on the Blue Mountains. I also tried a new 2 calorie drink called Cascadia, very delicious. And played a new CD that our medical director made of "happy" music. It included The Elephant Walk, Day-O, and Brown Eyed Girl, among many other singable tune. The interesting thing about it was that it was not only happy, it was energizing too.

What new things might add some joy to your day?

What music makes you happy?

P.S. Almost forgot: the very best first thing ever I did today was call and get a repairman to fix my refrigerator without any waiting. He came right over and did it while I was at work. All I did was leave the door unlocked. Wow!

time, where does it go?

If you had to make a list of what you had done with the past twenty-four hours, would you be happy with it? I know I wouldn't. I can't believe how much time it takes me to get out of the house in the morning, or clean up the kitchen at night. And I really truly don't know how neat people stay neat all the time, and keep their houses neat!

Although I think comparisons are seldom helpful and certainly not comfortable, I'm tempted. Surely I spend more time buying fresh produce and cooking meals from scratch than some people do, but since that's the norm for me, it doesn't feel like it's worth much. I know I don't spend much time chatting with friends, more's the pity; and I log zero hours at the beauty shop getting manicures, and only a haircut every couple of months. I hardly ever watch tv or go to the movies, so where the heck does my time go? Okay, I get a massage maybe once every other month, or less. Can't remember one this year yet.

Of course there's a fast answer, that I spend too much time on the computer, but I'm not going there. I fasted from blogging for most of December, didn't I? What did it get me? Time to get packages mailed, but no Christmas cards sent.

Is there a word like 'klutz' that means clumsy with time? Probably one in Yiddish, and if not, there should be.

Today I took my car to the garage for its ABS (brakes) recall, and then had to cancel my eye appointment. Could have gotten a ride, I found out later, but the appointment time had already been filled. Darn. I was scheduled for a mammogram tomorrow but had a training at work postponed from last week interfere, so had to reschedule for Friday. Don't you ever wonder what's the point of scheduling ahead? Things come up, and you have to change everything. It's darned inconvenient.

The refrigerator wasn't very cold this morning, and Bill said the freezer hadn't been quite closed. Tonight he said he thought maybe it wasn't quite closed, and the refrigerator seems to have maintained on cool but not cold enough. The freezer still is making ice, but Bill says he can't hear the condenser come on, and no cool air is flowing upwards into the frig. Great. Now I'll have to cancel something else to stay home and wait for another appliance repairman! Well, if I can get to the paint store tomorrow, maybe I can at least start painting the living room while I wait for the repairman.

Where does your time go? Can you believe that everyone has 24 hours a day, just like you? Some people sure do a lot more with their hours than I do. But do they enjoy it?

touched by the Holy

Have you ever had experiences that were different, set apart from your ordinary days, that you didn’t know how to describe?

One of the priests, in commenting about the Easter Vigil Saturday night, said that he had been in a very thin place. I’ve said that myself before, and for me this was not the same. It was sacred space, a place of knowing without having to make sense of it, a participation in the Mystery that was a being and a doing, rather than a feeling.

It would be very like me to try to inspect the experience, dissect it and investigate it, but why? To validate it, or replicate it? I don’t think I’ll try; or, to put a more positive slant on it, I choose not to.

Yes, it would be good to go over the week’s many services with the other clergy, as that same priest suggested, to talk about what went well and what might have been better if we’d done something differently.

But I don’t want to be writing down a recipe: 3 parts prayer, 1 part preaching, 4 parts music, mix well together and heat till the Holy Spirit takes notice and the batter begins to rise.

The thing is, you can’t make Resurrection happen. The dry bones, as much as they might like to, don’t just get up and dance. The earnest hearts that fast and pray and do all the right Lenten things sometimes find that, as much as they regret it, nothing new happens. They have gone through the same motions, the same devotions that have worked before to draw them closer to their Lord, and yet...and yet….

And yet, sometimes something new does happen, something unaccountable and uncontrollable, sometimes even to the person who just stumbled into Lent at the eleventh hour.

In the sermon today, the preacher told an anecdote about an incident at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City. The bishop was to begin the service by knocking on the closed doors with his crozier, Inside, the church would be in darkness following the Great Vigil, and when the doors were opened, the bishop would shout out:, “Alleluia. Christ is risen.” The congregation was to respond in kind, “The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.”

Unfortunately, the bishop had turned on his microphone too early, and what came before those traditional words was unexpected. The congregation of 600 worshippers heard mumbling and grumbling, followed by, “This is damn awkward, damn awkward!”

The preacher went on to say how very fitting and theological she thought those words were. Resurrecting hearts and minds from the dead doesn’t fit the regular pattern of life. Christ shook up his world in his own time, by his life, death and rising. Christ still shakes up the world, in this very day and time. We cannot will it to happen. The Spirit blows where it will. That too, is damn awkward.

P.S. One thing about these Easter services that made them different from any I've ever been to before is that people were asked to bring bells. If they didn't have any, ushers passed out bells at the door, and we rang them all during the hymns. Imagine how "Christ the Lord is Risen Today" sounds with two hundred bells ringing! Wow!

Maundy Thursday

The Maundy Thursday service is one of the most impressive in the church’s liturgical book. We began in the parish hall with an explanation of Passover and the Sedar dinner, while we are already seated at tables for our own meal. Following that, we processed into the church singing a short, melodic but eternally repetitious song (which works fine for a time when people have to remember the words.) It was unaccompanied, lent itself to simple harmony, and had a solemn, prayerful sound.

After the reading of the lessons came the foot washing. Of the 50 or so people present, probably twenty came forward to have their feet washed by one of the priests. The water in the basins was pleasantly warm, and was changed frequently.

It is evidently difficult for people to allow themselves to participate. With no apparent self-awareness, they mimic Peter in the gospel lesson, who said to Jesus, “You will never wash my feet.” Once you have overcome whatever barrier holds you back, it isn’t difficult to accept the loving ministrations from someone you respect. The foot washing is a symbol of servanthood, and Jesus made two points very clear. We cannot have a relationship with him if we are not willing to accept what he offers, and we are to offer the same service to others.

My petty little whine is that I have bad circulation in my legs due to an old blood clot that would not resolve. Consequently I wear prescription compression stockings, waist to toe, and cannot take them off to have my feet washed. Out of kindness some years ago, the priest decided it would be too difficult for me to help do the washing either, so I sit it out. Try as I may to be grateful for not spending that extra time on my knees on the hard floor, I almost feel like crying. I am frequently an onlooker at life by inclination, but I hate to not be able to participate in something so rich and meaningful.

I offered a suggestion, which this year was finally accepted, that I could stand at the door of the parish hall with a large bowl of sudsy water and wash people’s hands as they came in to dinner. This was a custom from my former parish that was always well received , and it was last night too, although with a little uncertainty at first. People who chose not to have their feet washed later at least got a taste of some servant ministry.

(Actually I have a second part of my whine, and that was about the bulletin. I evidently got a draft rather than the real thing, and although mine looked just like everybody else’s on the outside, it was missing some liturgical responses before the foot washing. I couldn’t figure out what everybody else was reading, and they couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t reading too. Fortunately it wasn't a part I was supposed to lead! You can imagine, though, that this mistake set me up for feeling left out in the rite to follow.)

Anyway, the service went off without any real hitches. The altar guild and clergy stripped the sanctuary of all the hangings, vessels, books, and even emptied the tabernacle of the reserve sacrament. This was done with the lights low, following the eucharist, and ended with the tabernacle door open wide to show its emptiness, and the lights turned out. It is invariably moving.

Give yourself a laugh

I've been having fun making lolcats ever since I saw one in somebody's blog. Give yourself a good break from seriousness and try it out sometime!

night and day, and the Passion

Our search committee at church has found three likely candidates to be our new rector. The first came to visit this weekend. Several groups, some were particular people invited for lunch and there were some open-to-anyone receptions held to meet him and his wife. The clergy met him last night over dinner.

It was 10 p.m. when we got up from the dinner table, and I still felt as if I hadn't even met the man inside that face. He had few, if any, questions for us, and, as my husband put it, appeared to wish he were somewhere else. Although we gave him lots of information (or, maybe because we gave him lots of information) about the city, the church, the diocese, and the people, he had no questions. I felt as if we'd invited an interesting couple to dinner, but they didn't show up.

Today was Palm Sunday, with all its pagentry. Our assistant rector carried on the show in grand form, complete with the changing of the Lenten purple vestments and hangings to the Passion week red, a change made after we processed all around the neighborhood with the choir, brass players and congregation singing, "All Glory Laud and Honor, to Thee Redeemer King."

In place of the gospel lesson, we had a reading of the passion, this year from the gospel of Matthew, done in parts, that is, with different people playing different roles. I was the narrator, and, at the early service, did some of the parts too.

It is a powerful thing to do, especially when the whole congregation yells, "Crucify him! Crucify him!"

The sermon centered around Peter's denial of Christ, three times before the cock crowed, as Jesus had predicted. Peter continued to say," I do not know the man!" The preacher said that Peter spoke truly, that he did not know Jesus, really, and we frequently don't either. It was a well written, well spoken homily; in fact, the whole liturgy was excellent. If we'd been trying to impress the candidate, we surely should have done so.

Fortunately, that wasn't our goal. It was to worship, and to involve everyone in the drama that the passion of Christ is, and to see ourselves in the ongoing drama of our lives in Christ.

In case I don't get back here till Easter, have a blessed Holy Week.

Heroine

Today, on our way out to see a patient who lives 18 miles from town, the social worker and I were discussing the difficult tasks one family member has taken on in order to insure a good end of life for her mother.

The daughter in question, whom I’ll call Arly, is here from Connecticut to visit her dying mother. She has made the trip several times a year, and has been paying on a funeral plan for a long, long time. Her mother, I should mention, is not a wealthy woman who will be leaving an estate, not even a small one.

The dedicated care, in itself, is not rare, but it is also not commonplace. The thing that makes this particular mission unusual is the relationship between these two women. Arly was sexually abused by her father from the time she was an infant. When she caught him doing the same thing to a much younger sister, she turned him in to the police, and he was sent to prison. She had to be removed from the home because her mother was so angry with her and treated her so badly for reporting him.

Arly’s mother has never said she was sorry that it happened, or even indicated that she might be. Forty years after the fact, Arly is here to tell her mother she forgives her for not trying to stop the abuse. She wants her mother to be able to die in peace. She knows her mother will probably not reciprocate, but she wants to give her the opportunity. Even if mom doesn’t say a word, Arly will know she did what she could.

a little seasonal humor

I followed the truck in yesterday's entry at a safe distance, not wanting to risk dodging logs. I think I'd just as soon be a ways behind anyone with a car full of snakes as well!

We had a four hour training on HIV, with more than we really wanted to know, and my drippy nose and I haven't been able to get far from the Kleenex box today. So I was ready for this cartoon when my husband sent it to me.

are you on overload?

When you look at your datebook for the week, do you feel like this?

This truck was seriously overloaded. The picture isn't as sharp as it might have been, had I fit a car wash into my schedule. I snapped it through the front window as I sat at a stop sign.

Seriously, it doesn't take much to overload me. I feel overwhelmed by too much structure, too many notations of places to be at certain times, while I try to fit my patient visits into their schedules, and the schedules of nurses and CNA's.

Today was a wonderful exception. I slalomed through the scheduled visits posted on my computer at work, making it to my first patient in Dayton shortly before the CNA arrived to give her a bath. Made it to my second patient just as her CNA left, and reached my third front door fifteen miles farther up the road, at the end of her CNA's shift.

Great visits, a beautiful day for driving, all in all a big Woohoo!

Part Two about Cork's Place

I’ll continue to describe the rooms of Cork’s Place, a grief center for children. For the first part of the article, see below.

The next room is geared to an older level, with foosball and air hockey, shelves of games and books, the piano and other instruments. Teens sometimes sit and talk on the couch or floor pillows, with or without the diversion of activities.

The third room we toured has a wall filled with craft materials of all kinds for all age levels. There’s a rectangular table built like a sandbox but filled with rice instead. Many little toys and figures, including tiny caskets, are there for the children to play with.

The next room was the paint room. Only three children are allowed in there at a time, and there are many smocks and shirts hanging on pegs on one wall. There’s a table of big jars of washable paint, and a canvas drop cloth to protect the floors. The walls are fair game, and they are covered with handprints, splashes, hearts, stick figures, anything the child wants to do.

The “volcano room” was the final spot we visited inside the house. It too can only take three children at a time, plus an adult, and its floor is covered with a thick foam mat. Shoes stay outside the door. A huge mound of large pillows takes up one end of the room, and above them is a “heavy” bag, a long punching bag that is suspended, hanging securely from the ceiling. Little children like to try to climb up on it, we were told, or bury themselves in the pillows. Older ones put on boxing gloves and whap away at it.

Outside the house, in a fenced back yard, there are more activities. A wonderful playhouse has been decorated with a fireplace and rugs and chairs, all painted on. A replica of an old panel truck like the one Cork’s Pharmacy used to deliver medicines 70 years ago is a favorite of the kids. The adults almost always have to ride in the back, the social worker said. Cement has been poured for a basketball hoop, and there’s a great sand area with a large scoop shovel.

All the painting and the toys and equipment used to furnish this house were donations. It is a community project, and one to be proud of. Our own town will be looking for ways we can offer something similar in the near future, maybe in collaboration with the children’s museum and hospice.

Yea! A field trip!

Yesterday we went on a field trip, two social workers, the other chaplain and me. We visited Tri-Cities Chaplaincy, which has a hospice program with an outpatient count of about 90, plus a 10-person in-patient house. They are a large agency with many programs, and we wanted particularly to hear about their grief groups.

The part of the tour that was entirely new to me (having been on the chaplaincy board and in several of their programs in a previous life—twenty years ago) was Cork’s Place. It is modeled on a house in Portland called the Dougy Center, a place that works with grieving children.

Cork’s Place is an average 1980 vintage rancher with a daylight basement. Adults who bring children to the grief group, which runs all during the school year, have a group of their own upstairs. Since the loss is often a parent, sometimes a grandparent or sibling, the person who brings the child usually has their own grief to cope with, in addition to that of the child’s.

The Dougy Center began in 1982 as a tribute to Dougy Turno, a 13 year old boy who died of an inoperable brain tumor. Its founder, Beverly Chappell, was a registered nurse who worked in the area of death and dying. She saw that most people were uncomfortable with the subject, and that hospitals, churches, and schools had very little to offer children in their grief. She began to educate herself on grieving by attending seminars and lectures given by Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, who wrote much about the until-then neglected subject.

Dougy wrote a letter to Dr. Kubler-Ross, asking why no one would talk to him about dying, even though he was facing his own death. Dr. Kubler-Ross corresponded with Dougy, and encouraged Beverly Chappell to meet him and his family when they came to the university hospital for treatment. Watching him, Beverly saw how compassionate he was with other children in the unit, and how they helped each other. She grew to have faith in children’s ability to process their own grief in the way they need to, as long as they have the freedom and safety to do so.

Children in the grief program at Cork’s Place begin each session by meeting in a downstairs room that is rimmed with stacks of pillows. On one side a huge stuffed gorilla sits, inviting a child to sit in its lap and wrap its arms around him. The group begins by going in a circle, each child stating their name, age, the name and relationship of the person they lost, and how they died. Then they go over the rules, of which there are just a few. After that, the children go to whatever room they want, or outside, to play and maybe talk.

The children range in age from three (I think that’s right) to eighteen, and they are divided into four age groups which meet on different nights. Well trained volunteers plus two staff people are there for the children at a one-to-two ratio of adults to the younger kids, a lower ratio for the older groups. The adults are specifically trained not to teach. That isn’t what they’re there for. They aren’t allowed to direct or guide, to criticize, or even to praise or affirm the children. The point is that the children don’t need anyone’s approval, and they don’t learn how to do what they need when they’re trying to please adults. The adults become more of a resource than anything, someone to listen, to help if asked, to play with if invited.

The social worker in charge of the program gave this example: if the child wants to bang on the piano, the adult might bang on it too, or might simply reflect, “You’re playing the piano.”

One room has all kinds of playthings, doll houses, dress-up clothes, toy kitchens, and, startlingly, a casket that the funeral home would use for a real infant. I asked about that, and the social worker told me that the youngest children like to climb into it and lie down. One ordered her and another adult to pick it up and carry it, and they had a mock funeral procession. Other children will put dolls or stuffed animals in it, and, of course, they often talk while they’re doing this.

Mourning, as Dr. Alan Wolfelt refers to it, is the work you do relating to your grief, the talking or writing about it, the visiting of places and memories, the paintings and sculpture, maybe even mud pies, that help you express what you’ve lost and what you’re feeling about it.

This is becoming too long, so I'll finish it tomorrow night. I hope it's interesting to you. It certainly was to me.

Reaching Out

Searching Faces

Visiting the old folks
I strain forward in my seat,
trying to coax from them
stories of who they are,
where they’ve lived,
what they’re proud of.
Sadly, and too often,
pictures on the night stand
tell the only tale I’ll hear:
him in his uniform,
her in her wedding gown.
Sometimes, the best that I can do
is whisper in an ear,
“You’re beautiful,”
or pat a shoulder saying,
“I’m so proud to know you.”
Later, in the paper, I may read
of an extraordinary life
I never got to know.

Loss of memory, loss of self,
are barriers greater than time.

This bi-weekly prompt for Christine's poetry party is a graceful picture from her family album. Maybe I'll try again sometime to make a poem from it, but what comes to me today is the difficulty of reaching out to connect with others, not only across time. What I've written is more prose than poetry, but you can try your hand at it at
Invitation to Poetry