Because
we have moved to different parts of the country, I have had to say goodbye to a
lot of people. And because we have lived in each place for a decent chunk of
years, I have had the chance to develop incredibly deep and meaningful
friendships everywhere we have lived. So saying goodbye has been deeply painful.
I have been able to meet people and connect with them in a deep way at each
season of my life. My friendship with Laura came at a pivotal time in my life.
I was in the midst of decisions about having children and still discovering who
I was as a pastor. And then once I had children, I was discerning what that
meant for my career and where God may be calling me. In the middle of this I
met Laura. Our friendship developed in
what would become the last season of her earthly life. It’s not fair that I
still had so much ahead while her journey was unexpectedly cut short. Unfair
doesn’t seem like a big enough word for it.
I
recently had to write a “Grief Journey” for my second unit of Clinical Pastoral
Education, which is a program required for being a chaplain. I wrote the paper about
my journey with Laura. One Saturday, when the kids were out with Jeremiah, I
sat down and wrote it all out, all the memories I have- from when I met her
while visiting her dad at Hospice to when I said goodbye to her at that same
Hospice. As I typed it out I cried … a lot. It was hard and sad but also it was
cathartic and I felt comfort and gratitude as I realized how much of it I
remember. I remember knowing glances, times of laughter, Bible studies, talking
about being moms, deep talks about theology, moments when our friendship
deepened. It was all there in my heart and now all written out. When I
presented it to my class, my heart was beating so loudly I thought they might
hear it. I appreciated the tears of my classmates, I saw it as acknowledgement
of the beauty of what I experienced with Laura.
I have a
hard time letting go of relationships that mean a lot to me. I am so grateful
for dear friends who make the effort to stay connected and I continue to rely
often on the strength and support of dear friends across the country through
texts, phone calls and sometimes visits. I couldn’t do that with Laura. I longed
to … I still do … but I can’t. Her number is still stored in my phone. But she is not there. Instead, I have carried
her in my heart. 10 years later and she is there, sometimes more than ever.
I have
always known it was a gift she gave me by having me there with her when she
died. It was a gift because it was beautiful and it was a gift because it was
unbelievably difficult but she knew I would make something beautiful from it.
She believed in me. And I have worked to honor that gift.
Now that I am a hospital chaplain I
find myself with many people who have just received word that they have a
serious illness, many people who are in treatment for cancer and many people
who are approaching their final breath. I carry her memory with me into those
spaces. I carry her belief in me, her love and care to others who faced cancer
and came to her for support, her worries about people in her family possibly
facing this battle and everything she taught me by how she faced her final
journey with deep faith, bold honesty, profound depth and sarcastic comments.
Just
this past week I asked my manager if I could start doing rounds in the cancer
unit. Chaplains had not previously gone there unless called (because it is
outpatient), but I know from my experience with Laura that those days of
infusions and treatments and various reports from doctors are exhausting …
mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually.
Some may
know that I have long experienced health anxiety. My mom was diagnosed with
cancer when I was young. She is still here and has responded well to treatments
over the years but her tenuous health, scary hospital stays, mixed test results
and regular preparations for death left me with a constant feeling of being on
edge about health. And a distrust of my own body. I have times when it is
really hard and times when it is easier. Therapy, regular prayer, friends and
my husband help a lot. But for those who know I have had this struggle, it may
be a surprise to find me asking if I can spend time in the oncology unit and in
a vocation where I enter room after room of people facing uncertain health outcomes.
But all of me- my hurts, wounds and even my anxiety, open my heart to
compassion. And my broken heart has plenty of cracks for the Holy Spirit to
shine through. And in some ways, it keeps me closer to my memories of Laura. I
take her memory with me in each connection I make, each compassionate response
I offer and each prayer I lift up with a patient.
So ten
years later and many miles away I still feel near to her memory and for that I
am unbelievably grateful. So today I am wearing the same Toledo Mud Hens shirt
I had on when I said goodbye to her, because even though it’s been ten years, I
still want to feel close to those memories.
