It has been said that no man can be a prophet in his homeland. I have nearly always heard this expression used with a negative connotation, usually when someone in the ministerial profession is relating a problem with a friend or family member they cannot change.
But a few days ago, as I sat on the porch of my friend’s old farm house, downing Yuenglings and eating steak and chicken, I couldn’t help but thank God for this fact. Most of the people gathered that day were not regular church goers, or even Catholic. They’re the kind of folks that find God in nature and have little tolerance for organized religion.
Many of these people I only get to talk to a few times a year. They wonder why this seemingly normal person has gone to seminary, and always let me know they don’t consider me better than anyone else.
It’s a far cry from school, where so many of my peers practice one-upsmanship when they begin to doubt that they indeed channel God, or when they get the inkling that every other person has the same call to holiness.
Joining a group standing around near the coolers on the porch, it wasn’t long until I was found by the father of a good friend.
“My priest,” he said. What’s that?” pointing a bony finger at the can of beer in my hand.
“Just a beer,” I replied with a grin on my face.
“Well,” he said, considering the implications. “That’s okay.”
We reminisced about shooting and gutting a deer back in November, and his Christmas present to me, a shell casing on a chain.
“You know,” he mentioned out of the blue. “You’re never going to get me to go to church.”
“Sir,” I replied. “I never said I wanted to get you to go to church. You can believe what you want.”
“I believe in Jesus,” he said. “But Jesus never told me to go to no church. The first time he went to church he told all the elders how it was, and the second time he opened up a can of whoop ass.”
I could only laugh as I walked with him out to his car. He told me to pray for him when no one was listening, and motioned to the crowd gathered on the porch as he made his exit.
“Hey,” he said loudly, causing the ruckus around the grill to pause for a moment. “Did any of you know that my priest chews tobacca?”
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
A Peaceful Death
If the purpose of life is to come into deeper communion with the present moment, and to enjoy the life of the mind, what does it mean when you grow old and begin to lose that mind?
My grandmother won't eat. It's another day at the Alzheimer's ward of the care facility that has been her home now for the past month. When I push the button and walk in the usually locked doors, I begin to glance around. I look around like I walk, quickly and with purpose. If I pause to gaze on the sadness, I will be too vulnerable and elderly, out of their mind women will try to talk to me.
As I spot my grandmother, one of the residents greets me with her customary "Hey Boy..." I try not to jump out of my skin and wait for the second half of the greeting, "...when you get done with her, come have some fun with me."
I keep moving past another resident who stands outside of her room and tries to invite me in to look at her stuffed animals, pictures and things. The residents all share the same kind of loneliness. It's a loneliness that's even deeper than regular human loneliness. It's an emotion that comes only when you can't even rely on your own mind, on your own self, and you don't know who you are anymore.
My grandmother is weak. She won't eat because she says she doesn't have an appetite. But she keeps dropping weight, more than 20 pounds since she first entered the nursing home. Maw Maw is starving to death and doesn't even know it. She can barley walk 40 feet and has to take breaks. She's cold and has a sweater either on or by her side no matter what the temperature is. She remembers the past very well but can't remember short term conversation. She asks for the code for the door in a round about way, saying things like, "how did you find me?"
Like my dad, I have begun to tell her the code. I feel that if she can remember it, she deserves her ten or so paces of freedom before she is dragged back in by the nursing staff. I realize however, that Maw Maw's chances of remembering the code are about as good as me hitting a home run out of Busch Stadium. She cries over things that happened 60 years ago and asks the same three questions over and over again.
It's amazing to see this once proud woman, who lived an active life not even want to go anywhere. When I asked if she wanted to go out for a frosty (something she used to do with my brother, sister and I when we were young), she said she didn't have the energy or the appetite. When I tried to take her on a car ride, she didn't want to go. When I brought her the Stewart's Hot Dog she asked for, she claimed to be nauseous and threw the covers over her head when I unwrapped it.
I hate going to the hospital, but I feel like I have an obligation to continue to go every morning for the remainder of my vacation. I may not be able to get my grandmother to take even a baby bite of food, but I can provide a break in the monotony of institution life while she still knows who I am. I still have not answered my question, but it brings to life the blessing at the end of night prayer: "May the Lord grant you a restful night, and a peaceful death."
My grandmother won't eat. It's another day at the Alzheimer's ward of the care facility that has been her home now for the past month. When I push the button and walk in the usually locked doors, I begin to glance around. I look around like I walk, quickly and with purpose. If I pause to gaze on the sadness, I will be too vulnerable and elderly, out of their mind women will try to talk to me.
As I spot my grandmother, one of the residents greets me with her customary "Hey Boy..." I try not to jump out of my skin and wait for the second half of the greeting, "...when you get done with her, come have some fun with me."
I keep moving past another resident who stands outside of her room and tries to invite me in to look at her stuffed animals, pictures and things. The residents all share the same kind of loneliness. It's a loneliness that's even deeper than regular human loneliness. It's an emotion that comes only when you can't even rely on your own mind, on your own self, and you don't know who you are anymore.
My grandmother is weak. She won't eat because she says she doesn't have an appetite. But she keeps dropping weight, more than 20 pounds since she first entered the nursing home. Maw Maw is starving to death and doesn't even know it. She can barley walk 40 feet and has to take breaks. She's cold and has a sweater either on or by her side no matter what the temperature is. She remembers the past very well but can't remember short term conversation. She asks for the code for the door in a round about way, saying things like, "how did you find me?"
Like my dad, I have begun to tell her the code. I feel that if she can remember it, she deserves her ten or so paces of freedom before she is dragged back in by the nursing staff. I realize however, that Maw Maw's chances of remembering the code are about as good as me hitting a home run out of Busch Stadium. She cries over things that happened 60 years ago and asks the same three questions over and over again.
It's amazing to see this once proud woman, who lived an active life not even want to go anywhere. When I asked if she wanted to go out for a frosty (something she used to do with my brother, sister and I when we were young), she said she didn't have the energy or the appetite. When I tried to take her on a car ride, she didn't want to go. When I brought her the Stewart's Hot Dog she asked for, she claimed to be nauseous and threw the covers over her head when I unwrapped it.
I hate going to the hospital, but I feel like I have an obligation to continue to go every morning for the remainder of my vacation. I may not be able to get my grandmother to take even a baby bite of food, but I can provide a break in the monotony of institution life while she still knows who I am. I still have not answered my question, but it brings to life the blessing at the end of night prayer: "May the Lord grant you a restful night, and a peaceful death."
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