ElderBlog

Sometimes, you just have to move forward. When you’ve gotten all the information you can reasonably get and have chosen the most moral path you can, you may have no choice other than to move forward. Those were similar to the words of my father, who, when I brought home my first report card in private school - three F’s, two D’s and a C - asked me a simple question, “Did you try as hard as you could? If you did I don’t have a problem.” That semester I did try as best I could - thereafter my efforts might have been more debatable - but that semester they were wholehearted. His words have stayed with me since that day. I still, though, have lots of guilt about decisions. That guilt sometimes paralyzes my ability to make decisions.

Last fall, after nearly twelve years of working for Vitas Healthcare Corporation, the United States’ largest hospice provider, I began to get tired. Too many losses. It was taking longer and longer to recover after each loss. Still, I loved hospice care deeply. I felt that as long as I took care of myself and kept a clear eye on the things I value in life (my wife and son, and all of my family), I would be okay and could keep going in that career until I chose to draw my working life to a close.

Along the way, a dear friend told me about a job at the hospital where I did my clinical training as a chaplain. I thought it was a long shot, but threw my hat in the ring via my resume. I didn’t hear anything for the longest time. Then, around this time last year, I got the opportunity to interview. As I interviewed and the doors began to open, I became more and more fearful. I loved what I was doing. And the hospital I was going to was very different from anything I had done in nearly twelve years. Did I give up nearly six weeks of vacation, over a month off, for something that would require a great deal more work and would be something I hadn’t done for some years? “Life is really good now. I could die happily doing what I do. Why should I do something else? Why, indeed. Maybe it’s time to step out of that circle that you’ve made for yourself and grow a little bit.” Like Smeagol/Gollum in The Lord of the Rings I had those kinds of conversations and counter-conversations going through my head. The thought of leaving the team, job, hospice patients and people I had come to love paralyzed me.

You know how sometimes the smallest thing will reboot your mind into doing better thinking? Well, I had just such an occurrence. I was taking the trash into the garage very late in the evening. To save energy, having left the interior garage light on repeatedly through the nights, I had installed an infrared light sensor that automatically turned the light on and off when it sensed someone entering. At that time it was pretty new. As I walked into the garage, the light was off. Because of the position of the switch, I knew that I needed to walk forward in order to turn it on. It would take a couple of steps into the dark in order to be able to see the light come on.

How often is that true in our lives? I had every reason to believe it would be alright - I had installed a light that would do exactly what that light did. But, I had to trust and to move forward, until it came clear. So many of us teeter on the brink of making decisions that we know will take us in good directions but we don’t simply because we’re entering into someplace that’s dark. It’s been that way for me a few times in my life. Sometimes, either decision I would have made would have been right. But, I needed to move forward just to see what lay ahead.

Having been at my new hospital for half a year now, I’m grateful for that simple lesson in that dark garage - sometimes, you just have to walk forward into the dark before the light comes on. My decision to make my move has served me well and helped me find a renewed vision for my life. As I think back to that late evening epiphany, I feel that I need to share that simple truth - having the best information you can gather, having collected wise counsel, having taken a moral heart, if you feel the tug of a direction in which you ought to go, trust yourself and God to lead you in good directions. You have done the best you can.

Some things, you just love. When Barb and I were doing more seminars on death and dying, we had an exercise that we did with the participants in which they were asked to list five things in each of the following categories: Activities that they valued; Material possessions they valued; Relationships they valued; and, hmm, I forget the last category. At any rate, I’ve generally had very few material things that I could say that I deeply valued. There was my Apple Newton that I dropped at a hospital. I loved it.

I loved my Saturn SL1 which got 235,000 miles on it before it said goodbye. It didn’t even make it onto vehicle hospice - just died. I’ve loved some things my son got me, if for no other reason than he got them for me. Certainly some things Barb has gotten for me I have deeply cherished. But, few things have I really loved.

But, this past Fall, in celebration of my new job as chaplain at Baylor Jack and Jane Hamilton Heart and Vascular Hospital, Barb and I got a grandfather clock. Now when I was a small child, we would go to visit my Aunt Blanche and Uncle Seldon in New Haven, Connecticut. I was always struck by their grandfather clock. In some odd way, rather than keeping me up through the night, it aided my sleep. I admired the wide swath it’s figure cut in the dining room. It had a commanding presence.

When we saw Benjamin, as we named him, we knew there could be no other clock. I knew him, practically recognized him. For Barb, Benjamin brought remembrances of her dear woodworking father. Both of us were in tears the first tim we heard him chime.

I’m amazed by the solidness and the tenor, the deep earthiness of grandfather clocks. I know that I am anthropomorphizing here, but Benjamin seems to have an almost human quality to him. I am charmed by the idea that part of our life story abides in things: they are sometimes the who in who we are. In some very real sense, the grandfather clock stands watch over all the family events. It is the keeper of the tales, the inner lighthouse. It watches our Christmas dinner, our Valentines, the family engagements (Jennie and Joel!). Occasionally, it even closes its eyes when I snuggle with Barb.

Hopefully, it is gathering all the celebrations of our lives together somewhere in its rich wood. Indeed, it times them, alerting us to the passing of every quarter hour. It reminds us all through the night and all through the day that time is passing. It is a constant in what sometimes seems ever too turbulent. The pain we feel will pass. The love we feel must be savored, for it too will pass.

Every four days or so, it’s weights must be cranked up and reset for it to run another four days. It’s a lot like love in that respect. It demands attention - perhaps the better word is that it pleads for attention.

When we have long past, hopefully one of our kids or grandkids will have an interest in having it. Perhaps they will look at it and be reminded of a birthday many years ago. In truth, these item are the only real material items of value - the ones that carry a little piece of ourselves, a reminder of some day when life was good, when everyone we love was all gathered around, when all were happy. A day that was heaven - as much as can be on earth.

Is it wrong to love things in this way? Last weekend, Justin, Joel, Barb, Jennie and myself went to see the new movie, Roving Mars. It was a spectacular motion picture in the marvelous IMAX format. What was so amazing about the movie was that it humanized these rovers, Spirit and Opportunity. Spirit, aptly named, is the rebellious little youngster always getting into trouble. The other, Opportunity, is Miss Perfect. Both of them are extensions of their creators. These creatures become images of their Creators.

Like the rovers, I take comfort in the things that extend the story that I have been part of. Perhaps the same is true for you? Maybe you take comfort in cooking pancakes and sausage when the kids come in from out of town. You drag out that old cast iron skillet, the same one your mom used, and in some way, though she is gone for some time now, she stands close beside you. She puts her hand on your shoulder and tells you, All is well. Moments later, as sleepy eyed grandkids make their way into the dining room, the grandfather clock, Benjamin, chimes eight times, and you know the day has begun and that your mom is right.