ElderBlog

We in modern society are fond of complaining about the health care system. Indeed, complaints about modern health care are ubiquitous - like talking about the weather: “Was it raining when you came in? Darn if my hemorrhoids aren’t acting up again. You never see the same doctor these days.”

See what I mean? I know, the example is a little extreme (but not by much - look at prescription advertising for medications on television these days). But, it still speaks to a broader issue: Our sense - perhaps our fear - that health care won’t take care of us now if we need it, and more anxiety-provoking still, will not be there when we need it as old folks.

As a health care professional (and married to another quite fetching health care professional), I am deeply familiar with these fears both on a personal and a professional level. But as I was reading an article this morning, I realized that I am a part of that system each day for each patient I see. Indeed, I may be the whole of the system for that patient on that day. In four hours when I begin seeing patients, I will either cast sunshine or shadow over the patients I am seeing who will be having a heart cath, or perhaps a catheter ablation to fix a unstable heart beat. The system may very well succeed or fail based on what I do or say. Even if the procedure is a success, the encounter with the system may fail based on how I or my co-workers take responsibility for the well-being of this patient in this room at this time and how well I do what I said I would do.

I fear that we hide behind our systems. Our hospital coalitions are even called systems. When did we buy into such an impersonal way of saying that we are caring for people? As long as we hide behind our systems, will our health care professionals ever fully own that it is people, persons, that we care for?

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This message was given at the Christmas service at the hospital where I am chaplain on the Thursday and Friday before Christmas.

Recently, I have been reading a book by Jewish theologian Carol Ochs. In this book she writes about the idea that we all learn much about God from the threads and meanderings of our life stories. I think her point is true. Many who come into this building day in and day out enter in fear and apprehension, and leave feeling like people really cared for them and that they have a new chance at living life.

In several traditions, worshipers prepare to make pilgrimages throughout their lives to holy places. From the time they are small children they plan their lives around this pilgrimage, this experience. Though they may have other concerns throughout life, the thought of making such a trip fills their thoughts and life. It is in this preparation that they come to understand that their lives have a deeper and greater purpose. It is in this preparation that they and their children feel the intervention of God into the world.

Similarly, in the Jewish tradition, Chanukah or the Festival of Lights, we are reminded of the miracle of God’s presence. Powerful king Antiochus Epiphanes sent out 40,000 of his soldiers to destroy the Jewish people, the Maccabees. The Maccabees, willing to lose their lives to preserve themselves and their Temple, won a mighty battle against Antiochus’ armies. After retaking the Temple in Jerusalem and fashioning a new altar, the Maccabees made a new Menorah. Unfortunately, there was only enough oil for one night – and only one night. But, the second night, beyond comprehension, they were able to light the candle again… and again the next night…and the following night – until eight nights were past – a miracle! And so it was that the Festival of Lights was born. It was a reminder that God was with His People. In Chanukah, God breaks in through history, when life is hard, when it is troubling, when His people need a sign, and He gives them just what they need. He reminds them that He has not forsaken them.

In the Nativity Story, there appears in the most unexpected of places the Son of God. He adorns, of all places a manger. It’s with a brilliant light that the angel announces the birth of Christ to the shepherds. Marcilio Ficino spoke of the bright star that stood out over Bethlehem as an angel so consumed by the need to direct the Magi to the place of Jesus’ birth, that the angel forcibly coalesced itself into the form of a bright star. The name of the child born that day is “Immanuel” or “God with us.” God breaks through the human story in the most unanticipated way to show us that He is present and cares. The Christ Child, the Son of God, draws the attention of kings, shepherds, carpenters - every kind, and class, and gender of person there is - to worship.

So in our own lives, we have experienced moments where God has broken into our story - taking the rawness of everyday humanity, with its doubts, confusions and fears - and making them the curriculum of healing, growth and change. And, as it did so many years ago, God’s ability to make our brokenness an experience of utter wonder, healing, and surprise brings forth the only response that it can – worship and amazement. So often, those transformational experiences arise from two sources: Occasions and Others.

There have been many experiences that have utterly changed me, as I’m sure there have been that have changed you. The birth of a child forever changes us. Changes that occur in our families alter us in ways that may shake us to our very core. Some of those changes remind us that God is with us. Others cause us to wonder where God is? Hardly a day goes by that some patient doesn’t tearfully speak of God’s faithfulness to them in the past and their trust in Him for the procedure that day. Hardly a day goes by that a patient doesn’t confess their wonder about God’s caring for them. The very act of wondering where God is in their situation says that they believe but they’re just trying to make sense of their confusion.

Many of us learned about comfort and nurture from a mom who put Vick’s Vap-O-Rub on our chest when we had a cold. We learned that even a hard and cold dad, who seemed far away from us, would have moments when he would find some place in his heart for fathering and would take us to the zoo and buy us popcorn. We learned awe and wonder when we saw a shooting star in a winter’s cold in the midst of a deeply dark night. We learned that there were things that were ever so much bigger than us when we saw Yosemite or the Grand Canyon. Mentally, I collapsed in amazement the first time I saw our Electrophysiology Labs do a cardiac ablation. I still get tears in my eyes when I see the folks in our Cath Lab open up a patient’s clogged vessels and bring relief to him or her.

And then there are the people, the Others that I spoke of, who make a difference in our lives, who speak to us of realities greater than ourselves. I had spent twelve years in hospice and was perfectly prepared to spend the rest of my career working there. When I came here, it felt like a humongous risk. But, there were moments that said, “You’re in the right place, Mike.” One of those moments was when I saw one of our techs place his hands gently on a patient’s shoulders and reassure the patient prior to his surgery. So many other individuals in my life have taught me about God, have brought me to a personal manger where I found myself worshipping. One is my son. One is my wife. My parents and their sacrifices made my work, life and ministry possible. There are many, many others, some of whom were a direct cause for my presence here today as a chaplain. I wonder who it is in your life that taught you about God, about grace, about love, about goodness? Can you thank them now, as you, yourself kneel in a spiritual sense, at the brink of Christmas?

During this time of year, it’s easy to confuse the symbols for the meaning. We’re tempted to abandon the symbols. I think that would be a mistake. The call is to use the symbols of this Season as an arrow to Heaven, as the Star of Bethlehem as it were, to give thanks and gratitude for all that we have been given.

As a youngster, our family traveled often and occasionally for long periods of time. My dad worked in the Federal government and he got immense amounts of time off (or so it seemed). He would save up a lot of that time and every three years we’d take an extended vacation. I remember while traveling as a kid that I was continually asking, “Are we there yet?” I suffered for asking that question. By the fifth hour of the trip my parents were ready to drop me off at the nearest Stuckees (remember Stuckees?). “Yeah , Mike, this is where we we’re going (winking at each other). Now you run in to the boy’s room and we’ll be right here when you get out.”

They didn’t really do that. They were good parents. But, I’m sure they felt like it. It’s funny how the gifts that we give to our folks are given back to us, years later. Now, when we’re all watching a movie, Justin frequently asks what amounts to, “How’s the movie end, Dad?” It’s really the same question I asked years ago: “Are we there yet?”

It’s human nature to define our lives as though it is a story: Beginning, Middle, and End. It’s a human need to try to make sense of where we are in the process of life, how far we are away from the terminus, and how it will all work out. As I give my son a hard time for asking how the movie ends, I realize that even now, at my age, I often ask, “Are we there yet?”

I see my son growing up, and myself growing older. I see my Dear Dad saying Goodbye in some significant ways. It brings tears to my eyes. I wonder how the story will end. “Are we there yet?”

I wonder if I will live to see my son graduate from High School? From college? Get married? Have a child or two? Will he pilot a plane in some future war? Will he serve in our country’s military (actually, he’s already in Jr. ROTC and in the Civil Air Patrol at age fifteen). I’m very proud of all he’s doing. But I’m also wary of it. Scared, in my own way.

I spent the last several months awaiting a recent trip to my parents. When we planned it, it seemed so far away. But, as is common within the slippery walls of time, the trip was here and over before I knew it. Somewhere during our time there, it occurred to me that at the rate we are able to see my folks, and at the rate that things are changing for my dad, the time I have with him is very limited.

Suddenly, Are we there yet is no longer being four hundred and eighty miles away from my grandfather’s home at eight years of age. It’s driving down Indiana Avenue in Salt Lake and nearing his front door. Suddenly, we’re ringing his bell.
And, suddenly, we are all older. We take a deep breath, we sleep a little longer, and the childhood vacation is over, school is starting up again, we have new teachers, we’re saying goodbye.

Fall induces some sorrow in me. It is, very existentially, a way of saying, “There’s no more point in asking are we there yet?” Summer’s already come and gone. Some important part of life is over.

I arise early in the mornings to go to the hospital - about four. At that hour, the stars are often breathtaking. I’m picking out more constellations these days. I never had the time to do that as a child. I let Jeffie and Jillie do their business. I tell Jillie to hurry it up. She continues to walk around in circles, telling me in her own way that “We’re not there yet - and I’m going to take my time getting there.” I observe their positioning and make sure they get they’re work done. I rub their heads and they nuzzle me back affectionately. The stars don’t care about me being there. I’m nothing really, in the world. This mystery - that we all feel ourselves to be so much a part of the story - yet we are a less than a drop in the proverbial bucket - amazes me and captures my fascination. All around me, new stars are being born, old stars are collapsing in on themselves. I can look above and not even begin to count the stars. How can I complain about the passing of time and life? It is the way of all things. Who am I to complain? Maybe the baleful cry of whales is an appropriate anthem for such mysteries?

As a new hospital chaplain some fifteen years ago, I covered the hospital deep nights on the weekends. I remember the fall nights then, as well. Some nights I would care for three or four families who had a loved one dying. The heart was heavy. When it came time to leave, I had to pass over a skywalk. But before I did, on those nights when I had a lot of deaths, I would pass the nursery and see all the newborns. Then I’d walk over the skywalk. The sun was just coming up with it’s beautiful copper and azure tints just popping over the curvature of earth. Somehow, it brought peace, and a short half-hour later, gentle sleep, knowing that as some folks were leaving, others were joining us. I hoped that in the coming and going, both would find peace and happiness.

“Are we there yet?” We’re always there - we often just don’t realize it, or take advantage of it.

Today, my fifteen year old son who is in the Civil Air Patrol, Black Sheep Squadron, rode in a small plane for the first time. He even flew the plane for a good while on each flight (he took two flights). He has learned so much since he started in the Civil Air Patrol, just about three months ago. He has grown as a person amazingly in the past three months since he started. I almost thought I would burst with pride when I saw him take off today. I thought I would share with each of you my joy at what he is turning into. And, maybe, it will be of some small help to you, dear reader. Learn more here about the incredible work of the Civil Air Patrol. There follows a letter to my son on this very special occasion.

Dear Justin:

I wanted to write you to congratulate you on your flights today.

Seeing you get in the plane, taxi away, and take off was one of the most exciting times in my adult life . Then to see you landing was awesome. That you were able to fly a plane at fifteen years of age was amazing, simply amazing. Sometimes, it seems while we’re growing up that we’re just marking time, waiting for something fun and exciting to do. And, the things that so many folks find fun and exciting only lead to sorrow and emptiness at the end.

But, in choosing to go in the path you are taking, you are choosing a better way, one that will open untold possibilities to you for your entire future, your entire life. Yes, even the choices you made today will have consequences in thought and in well-being. And, I believe you will have more fun - good fun - than you possibly could have imagined.

Today, you learned that by thinking about things in the right way, you can overcome obstacles that others might consider impossible. For thousands of years, people have watched birds fly and have longed to do the same themselves. What they failed to understand was that flight was logical, and indeed, easy, if only one knew the laws of flight and how to use them. Today, you did what humans for thousands of years felt was impossible. It is sometimes possible to do what we think is impossible.

You can take that principle far into your life - most of life is finding the way to think about something and then acting upon what you learn.

But, more importantly, life asks of all of us to give it our best try, to enjoy it, to learn each day, and to have good, clean fun. You’ve done al lot of that and more in the past several months. You’ve always made me proud but sometimes in the past months I’ve felt so happy with you that I thought I was going to bust.

As I see you embrace life, as I see you fly in your way, a very good way, I feel very, very proud of you.

I hope you know that this is true.

Good job, Justin! Good job!