The Kingdom of Heaven Uncovered in Us
Barry in OH

Our own pastoral care--sometimes "Pearls of great price, and other "hidden treasure" isn't so hidden after all.

Her name was Mary. She was 81 years old, and had been in poor health. She lived in a nursing home. And she died Friday morning at 6 AM.

Like so many thousands, hundreds of thousands (maybe millions?) of elderly people who live in extended care facilitates, she was slowly shrinking away, and had become a mere shell of her former self. She'd never been a large person, but Mary had been a farm wife, and one of the surest things her conflicted family could say of her was "she always worked hard." Sturdy.

In her final days, she could not speak. Her family wasn't even sure if she knew they were there. She had refused further medical intervention. Finally, she could not eat or take fluids. It was, as they say, "a matter of time." On Wednesday, she seemed to be failing fast. So at 4:15 PM they called her pastor--ME--to what would most likely be her deathbed.

A twinge of guilt...I had just the day before thought of going to see her; it had been many weeks since my last visit. I was half way there even, in town doing some other stuff, thinking I should take the time and just--nah, I can do it tomorrow, or next week. I'm tired, and a little emotionally down today. So Tuesday, I went home and ended up browsing the Internet, reading and reflecting and posting to and from the Desperate Preacher's Site. Doing something important, I told myself, preparing to preach another Sunday. Yeah, I could see Mary next week.

As it turns out, that would've been the last day she was able to speak.

On Wednesday, when the call came in I was busy, a thousand things to do, bulletin to type up, calls to make, letters to get out, projects unattended, a stack of mail on the desk seemingly growing of its own volition...and trying to get psyched for the first church softball game of the season that evening, in about three hours. I'm the team's pitcher, and the "waterboy"...and I enjoy it immensely.

As it was being explained to me that Mary didn't have long, all this stuff was there, oppressing. I have too little time in the office as it is, and seem constantly behind in everything. And church council is this week, I haven't even looked at the agenda yet. And next Monday (the day of a funeral now???) there's a HUGE executive council meeting of the denominational board, that I am integrally involved with and I just HAVE to be there...Man, what do I do? What timing!...Well, you know what you have to do--it's your JOB!!...But what about my son, who I need to pick up from daycare at 5:00? And the game tonight-I have no idea what I'm getting in to. How long will I have to stay? How long will she hang on? This may take hours...So? They need you, they ASKED for you-GO. NOW...But maybe I can call one of the lay visitors...? No, YOU should go...

Perhaps you know this interior dialogue. Is it familiar to you? I wish it wasn't to me, that I could be like Mother Teresa or something...more like Jesus...

"Someone will be there," I said. The guy on the other end said "Thank you."

Hastily, I make childcare arrangements, then a quick phone call or two. Wrap things up, shut things down, hit the road again. I'm already tired, and kind of dreading this.

On may way through the church to the car, I grab my UCC "Book of Worship". I just remembered that there's a prayer service in the book "for the time of dying." I've used it a couple of times before. Maybe it will give me some words, something to focus on...people expect pastors to automatically know what to do, to have all the right things to say at a time like this. And I guess, in a way, I know as well as anyone what to say. Or maybe, what NOT to say...after 15 years of ministry, CPE in the oncology unit, lots of volunteer counseling hours for United Way...but still...still...

STILL, the words don't come easy. And they often sound pretty hollow, pretty pointless. And you are supposed to do a lot of listening anyway, and be comfortable with silence. But that's when you get those haunting looks of hurt, and pain, the projected and anticipated grief. And sometimes, the questions, the hard, unanswerable questions--or at least, questions with answers you don't want to share, answers that sound good in theological debates, sermons, classrooms, or discussion sites, but which stab wounded hearts with the dull blade of intellectual certainty and--callousness; and then there is the quibbling, groping family...So maybe the prayer book will help; maybe even if my own stumbling words sound pointless or hollow, I can find something in there from centuries of human pain, suffering, longing...and of God's balm spread liberally and frequently upon those centuries, that longing...something that just might help answer the looks and comfort the cries.

Or at least, so I hope.

Upon arrival, Mary's husband Harold is there, at her side. Harold walks with a cane, is older than Mary, has health problems of his own, and may outlive us all. He is an enigmatic old man--kind, and with many prejudices (I've heard and seen them); talking and dressing poor yet with more money than most in the church, always complaining about how much things cost, with a family who fights over his money. A daughter (main caretaker) is there, and a grandson. There are no tears, just Harold's usual deflecting street (he was a farmer, so should I say "furrow"?) humor, and some family jesting back and forth. Shooing away nerves and uncertainty, and the tightly-pressing weight of mortality. Mary lies in her bed, between listlessness, restlessness, and fleeting moments of lucidity. There is a strange calm.

We talk for a while as I kneel with Harold and Mary. The family fills me in on what has been happening; they tell me about the simple 61st anniversary party for Harold and Mary they had in this room a week ago, how she has gone downhill steadily for several weeks, about how she quit eating and taking fluids the day before, and stopped talking. I talk to her a bit. Her roaming eyes seem to recognize me; I'm not sure. Her respiration is slow and shallow. There are occasional tremors. I tell her who is in the room, stroking her hands and her head occasionally. The daughter asks me if Mary can hear us, understand us...I tell her most likely, yes. And to continue to treat her as if she can. But I really don't know, and have some doubts. Harold offers to move so I can sit with Mary and get off my knees. He is insistent about this, so I let him move.

So...it seems time for the pastor to do all the right things, say the magic words; now it's time to do what they called me to do. It's time to pray, and somehow make it all right, even though it will never be all right again, for Mary will plainly die soon, and is plainly experiencing "multi-system failure." The end-her end-is indeed near. I find myself silently praying for God to make it quick, wondering as I always do if I should pray that at all. Make it now God. Don't let her linger, and suffer. Ease my...er, uh, HER pain.

We talk for awhile longer. The strange calmness continues. I speak to her family, and to Mary, intermittently. Small talk. What a time for small talk. The grandson has disappeared somewhere.

Then there is a rather long silence. I sense it is indeed time...

"I have some prayers I'd like to offer, if that's OK..." I tell them of the "order for the time of dying." I tell Mary there is nothing to fear, with all the confidence in the world, realizing at once that there is EVERYTHING in the world and in eternity for Mary to fear, and believing my own words nonetheless...and then I catch her eyes, or rather, she catches mine. And what I see in her eyes brings the weight of the world upon my shoulders. She IS frightened. She can't talk, can't say it. But it is as plain as the anxiety in those eyes and the tears welling at their corners. Yes, Mary hears, and understands. Her grip on my hands tightens for the first time. Her face contorts with grief, with so many things I don't understand, can't understand. What is it like to die...to KNOW you are dying? Did this JUST NOW, this very moment, dawn on her? God help me.

Her lips begin to quiver. She is very restless now. What am I doing here?

I squeeze her hand back, and try to reassure her again. Mary, there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of. God is here, with you, right now, every moment, surrounding you with love. It's OK, Mary. It's OK. Let everything fall into God's hands. Trust God (that goes for you to, you know, my mind tells itself, as it simultaneously wonders if it can). Let God embrace you

I begin the prayers. Mary's eyes are closed. I focus on the words, only looking now and then at the family peripherally. I keep focused on the book, on Mary, on how my own voice is sounding. Asking myself, how SHOULD I sound?

As I pray the words, I feel a strange detachment...kind of like someone else is saying them. Yet I've never been more aware of my presence than I am now. Weird. Something's hidden, and I can't name it. But there is an uncovering...

The words are good words, about grace and forgiveness, about death coming as gentle as nightfall, about hearing Mary's words as if she could say them herself, about helping her see glorious light and love which is already hers, and which waits to catch her in a fullness we cannot imagine, to lift her, embrace her, make her whole again. About grief turned incomprehensibly to incomprehensible joy. And there are some very familiar words. "Our Father, who art in heaven..." (Mary, say them with me in your mind, even though you can't speak them out loud...I know that you remember them...); "Even though I walk through the valley...."

Then prayers for the family. God, give them strength, compassion, courage. In my peripheral vision, I think I finally do see some tears. I tell myself that's good, I think. More uncovering...

I close my book. I look at Mary. She looks peaceful. She has calmed down. She is calmer in fact than at any time since my arrival. The fear is gone, completely it seems, and though her eyes are closed, her respiration, her face, her-being-all attest to that. I express this observation out loud, for some reason...to reassure her family, I guess...or maybe to reassure myself. Yes, more that, than anything else.

The daughter agrees. She DOES seem to be at peace now. Maybe we're just grasping the same life ring, together, which I tossed out mostly for myself.

It's easier, of course, looking in retrospect., but still not entirely clear. And of course, I cannot know, can never know for sure, if it is true...that I was able to bring Mary to a peaceful place, to accept death, turn herself over to Love Complete. I couldn't get into Mary's mind, or know her thoughts. Or hear her words at all. All I had were my own hopes and observations, my own imaginings and wondering. I have been with dying before...two or three times was actually with a person who breathed their last breath. So awesome and....there really aren't words...mysterious, I guess.

I sat with Mary for a while longer, then invited Harold to join her at her side again. He too remarked how peaceful she looked. I said something inane about "the connection between mind, body, and spirit", because I didn't know what else to say. I lingered with her family as long as I could. Then we prayed again in a circle, holding hands, before I left. I said goodbye to Mary. I promised to come back when I could, and went home. I felt...serene; full; oddly CONTENT.

And I didn't want to leave. Strange indeed. I had to leave, of course--I had a six-year old to attend to, who'd been without Dad long enough for one day. But I didn't want to go, and thought how I could stay all night, could easily stay until...

And I had dreaded going there. I had been "too busy, with too many important things to do." I had been too uncertain about what to say and do, forgetting once again that God would do the "saying" and "doing," that God would take her by the hand and help her into that broad room of light and peace, and that all I had to do was point to the doorknob. As is so often the case, almost ALWAYS the case in fact, what I gave was pitiful, insignificant, compared with what was given back, compared with what I received. Or, was it?

For that utmost peace was given again to me, too. And of course, it was there all the time, hidden, and more within reach than my own heart. A pearl of great price. Something now I would again give everything for, and did, if even only for a few moments, I realize now. And what I gave-what I thought I COULD give--I had truly considered insignificant. So small, so tiny. A mustard seed, at best. And perhaps that's all it was. But it seemed to be everything...in God's hands, perhaps became everything needed, everything necessary. At least, it brings me comfort to think this, even if it is a delusion. But the peace I feel, the...completeness-this is no illusion.

How strange, I think as I write this, that it all seems so clear now. How brightly that pearl gleams. And how precious. It can never be bought, nor sold. Only owned. And it is buried deep in all of us, despite our lifelong journeys to find it everywhere, or anywhere, else. A gift. And, as Frederick Buechner reminds us in his truly great sermon on these parables ("To Be a Saint", in The Magnificent Defeat), it is a gift that is both searched for, and which searches-incessantly, interminably, patiently-for us.

We will lay Mary to rest on Monday...and yes, I'll probably miss part of that important meeting. But I will be thinking to myself, perhaps praying out of myself, that laid to rest with her will be part of my reluctance, my fear, or lesser things which detract from the gleam of the inestimable pearl that is in me...which inhibit the precipitous growth of that smallest of seeds, which salt the leavening yeast. I'll thank Mary for helping me to see it, to find and own again this buried treasure and cry with joy again for it. And I'll ask her to accept those lesser things of myself as another kind of treasure, and take them to God for me as an offering. But then, I guess she already has.

I do see I clearly now, again, for a time at least. It is the kingdom of heaven that was uncovered. Or Her name was Mary. She was 81 years old, and had been in poor health. She lived in a nursing home. And she died Friday morning at 6 AM.

Like so many thousands, hundreds of thousands (maybe millions?) of elderly people who live in extended care facilitates, she was slowly shrinking away, and had become a mere shell of her former self. She'd never been a large person, but Mary had been a farm wife, and one of the surest things her conflicted family could say of her was "she always worked hard." Sturdy.

In her final days, she could not speak. Her family wasn't even sure if she knew they were there. She had refused further medical intervention. Finally, she could not eat or take fluids. It was, as they say, "a matter of time." On Wednesday, she seemed to be failing fast. So at 4:15 PM they called her pastor—ME—to what would most likely be her deathbed.

A twinge of guilt...I had just the day before thought of going to see her; it had been many weeks since my last visit. I was half way there even, in town doing some other stuff, thinking I should take the time and just-nah, I can do it tomorrow, or next week. I'm tired, and a little emotionally down today. So Tuesday, I went home and ended up browsing the Internet, reading and reflecting and posting to and from the Desperate Preacher's Site. Doing something important, I told myself, preparing to preach another Sunday. Yeah, I could see Mary next week.

As it turns out, that would've been the last day she was able to speak.

On Wednesday, when the call came in I was busy, a thousand things to do, bulletin to type up, calls to make, letters to get out, projects unattended, a stack of mail on the desk seemingly growing of its own volition...and trying to get psyched for the first church softball game of the season that evening, in about three hours. I'm the team's pitcher, and the "waterboy"...and I enjoy it immensely.

As it was being explained to me that Mary didn't have long, all this stuff was there, oppressing. I have too little time in the office as it is, and seem constantly behind in everything. And church council is this week, I haven't even looked at the agenda yet. And next Monday (the day of a funeral now???) there's a HUGE executive council meeting of the denominational board, that I am integrally involved with and I just HAVE to be there...Man, what do I do? What timing!...Well, you know what you have to do--it's your JOB!!...But what about my son, who I need to pick up from daycare at 5:00? And the game tonight-I have no idea what I'm getting in to. How long will I have to stay? How long will she hang on? This may take hours...So? They need you, they ASKED for you-GO. NOW...But maybe I can call one of the lay visitors...? No, YOU should go...

Perhaps you know this interior dialogue. Is it familiar to you? I wish it wasn't to me, that I could be like Mother Teresa or something...more like Jesus...

"Someone will be there," I said. The guy on the other end said "Thank you."

Hastily, I make childcare arrangements, then a quick phone call or two. Wrap things up, shut things down, hit the road again. I'm already tired, and kind of dreading this.

On may way through the church to the car, I grab my UCC "Book of Worship". I just remembered that there's a prayer service in the book "for the time of dying." I've used it a couple of times before. Maybe it will give me some words, something to focus on...people expect pastors to automatically know what to do, to have all the right things to say at a time like this. And I guess, in a way, I know as well as anyone what to say. Or maybe, what NOT to say....after 15 years of ministry, CPE in the oncology unit, lots of volunteer counseling hours for United Way...but still...still...

STILL, the words don't come easy. And they often sound pretty hollow, pretty pointless. And you are supposed to do a lot of listening anyway, and be comfortable with silence. But that's when you get those haunting looks of hurt, and pain, the projected and anticipated grief. And sometimes, the questions, the hard, unanswerable questions--or at least, questions with answers you don't want to share, answers that sound good in theological debates, sermons, classrooms, or discussion sites, but which stab wounded hearts with the dull blade of intellectual certainty and-callousness; and then there is the quibbling, groping family...So maybe the prayer book will help; maybe even if my own stumbling words sound pointless or hollow, I can find something in there from centuries of human pain, suffering, longing...and of God's balm spread liberally and frequently upon those centuries, that longing...something that just might help answer the looks and comfort the cries.

Or at least, so I hope.

Upon arrival, Mary's husband Harold is there, at her side. Harold walks with a cane, is older than Mary, has health problems of his own, and may outlive us all. He is an enigmatic old man-kind, and with many prejudices (I've heard and seen them); talking and dressing poor yet with more money than most in the church, always complaining about how much things cost, with a family who fights over his money. A daughter (main caretaker) is there, and a grandson. There are no tears, just Harold's usual deflecting street (he was a farmer, so should I say "furrow"?) humor, and some family jesting back and forth. Shooing away nerves and uncertainty, and the tightly-pressing weight of mortality. Mary lies in her bed, between listlessness, restlessness, and fleeting moments of lucidity. There is a strange calm.

We talk for a while as I kneel with Harold and Mary. The family fills me in on what has been happening; they tell me about the simple 61st anniversary party for Harold and Mary they had in this room a week ago, how she has gone downhill steadily for several weeks, about how she quit eating and taking fluids the day before, and stopped talking. I talk to her a bit. Her roaming eyes seem to recognize me; I'm not sure. Her respiration is slow and shallow. There are occasional tremors. I tell her who is in the room, stroking her hands and her head occasionally. The daughter asks me if Mary can hear us, understand us...I tell her most likely, yes. And to continue to treat her as if she can. But I really don't know, and have some doubts. Harold offers to move so I can sit with Mary and get off my knees. He is insistent about this, so I let him move.

So...it seems time for the pastor to do all the right things, say the magic words; now it's time to do what they called me to do. It's time to pray, and somehow make it all right, even though it will never be all right again, for Mary will plainly die soon, and is plainly experiencing "multi-system failure." The end-her end-is indeed near. I find myself silently praying for God to make it quick, wondering as I always do if I should pray that at all. Make it now God. Don't let her linger, and suffer. Ease my...uh, er, her pain.

We talk for awhile longer. The strange calmness continues. I speak to her family, and to Mary, intermittently. Small talk. What a time for small talk. The grandson has disappeared somewhere.

Then there is a rather long silence. I sense it is indeed time...

"I have some prayers I'd like to offer, if that's OK..." I tell them of the "order for the time of dying." I tell Mary there is nothing to fear, with all the confidence in the world, realizing at once that there is EVERYTHING in the world and in eternity for Mary to fear, and believing my own words nonetheless...and then I catch her eyes, or rather, she catches mine. And what I see in her eyes brings the weight of the world upon my shoulders. She IS frightened. She can't talk, can't say it. But it is as plain as the anxiety in those eyes and the tears welling at their corners. Yes, Mary hears, and understands. Her grip on my hands tightens for the first time. Her face contorts with grief, with so many things I don't understand, can't understand. What is it like to die...to KNOW you are dying? Did this JUST NOW, this very moment, dawn on her? God help me.

Her lips begin to quiver. She is very restless now. What am I doing here?

I squeeze her hand back, and try to reassure her again. Mary, there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of. God is here, with you, right now, every moment, surrounding you with love. It's OK, Mary. It's OK. Let everything fall into God's hands. Trust God (that goes for you to, you know, my mind tells itself, as it simultaneously wonders if it can). Let God embrace you

I begin the prayers. Mary's eyes are closed. I focus on the words, only looking now and then at the family peripherally. I keep focused on the book, on Mary, on how my own voice is sounding. Asking myself, how SHOULD I sound?

As I pray the words, I feel a strange detachment...kind of like someone else is saying them. Yet I've never been more aware of my presence than I am now. Weird. Something's hidden, and I can't name it. But there is an uncovering...

The words are good words, about grace and forgiveness, about death coming as gentle as nightfall, about hearing Mary's words as if she could say them herself, about helping her see glorious light and love which is already hers, and which waits to catch her in a fullness we cannot imagine, to lift her, embrace her, make her whole again. About grief turned incomprehensibly to incomprehensible joy. And there are some very familiar words. "Our Father, who art in heaven..." (Mary, say them with me in your mind, even though you can't speak them out loud...I know that you remember them...); "Even though I walk through the valley...."

Then prayers for the family. God, give them strength, compassion, courage. In my peripheral vision, I think I finally do see some tears. I tell myself that's good, I think. More uncovering...

I close my book. I look at Mary. She looks peaceful. She has calmed down. She is calmer in fact than at any time since my arrival. The fear is gone, completely it seems, and though her eyes are closed, her respiration, her face, her-being-all attest to that. I express this observation out loud, for some reason...to reassure her family, I guess...or maybe to reassure myself. Yes, more that, than anything else.

The daughter agrees. She DOES seem to be at peace now. Maybe we're just grasping the same life ring, together, which I tossed out mostly for myself.

It's easier, of course, looking in retrospect., but still not entirely clear. And of course, I cannot know, can never know for sure, if it is true...that I was able to bring Mary to a peaceful place, to accept death, turn herself over to Love Complete. I couldn't get into Mary's mind, or know her thoughts. Or hear her words at all. All I had were my own hopes and observations, my own imaginings and wondering. I have been with dying before...two or three times was actually with a person who breathed their last breath. So awesome and....there really aren't words...mysterious, I guess.

I sat with Mary for a while longer, then invited Harold to join her at her side again. He too remarked how peaceful she looked. I said something inane about "the connection between mind, body, and spirit", because I didn't know what else to say. I lingered with her family as long as I could. Then we prayed again in a circle, holding hands, before I left. I said goodbye to Mary. I promised to come back when I could, and went home. I felt...serene; full; oddly CONTENT.

And I didn't want to leave. Strange indeed. I had to leave, of course--I had a six-year old to attend to, who'd been without Dad long enough for one day. But I didn't want to go, and thought how I could stay all night, could easily stay until...

And I had dreaded going there. I had been "too busy, with too many important things to do." I had been too uncertain about what to say and do, forgetting once again that God would do the "saying" and "doing," that God would take her by the hand and help her into that broad room of light and peace, and that all I had to do was point to the doorknob. As is so often the case, almost ALWAYS the case in fact, what I gave was pitiful, insignificant, compared with what was given back, compared with what I received. Or, was it?

For that utmost peace was given again to me, too. And of course, it was there all the time, hidden, and more within reach than my own heart. A pearl of great price. Something now I would again give everything for, and did, if even only for a few moments, I realize now. And what I gave-what I thought I COULD give--I had truly considered insignificant. So small, so tiny. A mustard seed, at best. And perhaps that's all it was. But it seemed to be everything...in God's hands, perhaps became everything needed, everything necessary. At least, it brings me comfort to think this, even if it is a delusion. But the peace I feel, the...completeness-this is no illusion.

How strange, I think as I write this, that it all seems so clear now. How brightly that pearl gleams. And how precious. It can never be bought, nor sold. Only owned. And it is buried deep in all of us, despite our lifelong journeys to find it everywhere, or anywhere, else. A gift. And, as Frederick Buechner reminds us in his truly great sermon on these parables ("To Be a Saint", in The Magnificent Defeat), it is a gift that is both searched for, and which searches-incessantly, interminably, patiently-for us.

We will lay Mary to rest on Monday...and yes, I'll probably miss part of that important meeting. But I will be thinking to myself, perhaps praying out of myself, that laid to rest with her will be part of my reluctance, my fear, or lesser things which detract from the gleam of the inestimable pearl that is in me...which inhibit the precipitous growth of that smallest of seeds, which salt the leavening yeast. I'll thank Mary for helping me to see it, to find and own again this buried treasure and cry with joy again for it. And I'll ask her to accept those lesser things of myself as another kind of treasure, and take them to God for me as an offering. But then, I guess she already has.

I do see I clearly now, again, for a time at least. It is the kingdom of heaven that was uncovered. Or rather, that is uncovered in us.