Crawling into bed

I crawled into bed with a parishioner once. I know it probably broke every boundary we are forced to learn by the lawyers, but it needed to be done.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of boundaries (and lawyers). It is good to know where I stop and you begin. It is good to define and stay within limits so I don't abuse or manipulate you or vice versa. But sometimes you just have to crawl into bed with folks.

I suppose I have to start this story like a smartass because it is one that still brings tears to my eyes.

I didn't want Connie to die while I was her pastor. She was one of the matriarchs of the church. She loved pastors and tended to them well. I loved her so much, but she came with her baggage and she held on to it tightly. 

Toward the end, she was being eaten alive by cancer and dementia. Her hearing was never amazing as long as I knew her and she was so tiny in her hospital bed. 

This is not conducive to a pastoral visit to deal with some of the anger and secrets that were keeping her from resting in peace. 

Chaplaincy with the dying is not easy for me. I'm good at being present with folks, saying our prayers, but any statement of hope always rings a little hollow to me because I get to go home to my family and health while they get to keep wrestling death and pain. 

I was not having a good visit with Connie. She was restless and hollering out arguments that no one understood. She couldn't hear me or quite understand what was going on so finally I laid down my prayer book and I crawled in with her. Luckily I'm a small person too so we curled up in her hospital bed like two thirteen year olds at a slumber party.

Some of my favorite ladies. Judy, Brenda, Connie and Betty.
I'm not quite sure about the woman on the end

We giggled some as I told her silly stories. We wept as we acknowledged her pending death, great regrets, and unforgiven hurts. And we planned her funeral meal. Connie had always been in charge of funerals so we talked through hers. 

I reminded her that even in death she was going to be okay. I didn't quite know what okay looked like, but I trusted God's promise that things turn out okay. 

I know you're probably shaking your head at what a pathetic pastor I am. 

OKAY! That's the best you can do?

When a body is eaten alive by cancer, pain, and confusion, okay seems like paradise.  We always sang Children of the Heavenly Father at funerals. (We also sang it in Swedish at midsummer, but that's completely different). 

Children of the Heavenly Father, 
safely in His bosom gather, 
nestling bird nor star of heaven, 
such a refuge e'er was given

I wrapped Connie in my arms and reminded her she'd be okay in God's arms. I really don't know what that looks like, but I know what it feels like to be strengthened in a loving embrace and I'd be okay with that through eternity. 

We're entering Holy Week. This is my favorite week as a pastor. Not to sound creepy, but it's kind of like crawling into bed with everyone. 

I get to wash feet. What a huge honor it is for folks to trust me with such vulnerability. We will see each other's tears as we hear the story of Good Friday. We'll get up way too early on Easter and gather around the fire in the cold to greet the quiet dawning of hope. 

I love this week! (Except for ham; I hate ham.)

We get to share vulnerability and hope. 

We get to remind each other that it will be okay.