The Sacrament of Presence

Presence practiced meets the definition of a sacrament: “…an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace….”

It is in the listening that the “outward and visible sign” becomes “an inward and spiritual grace”, a blessing to “…him who gives and him who takes…”

The spouse or adult child, overwhelmed by the moment comes armed with lists, demands and questions.  As listener, I am aware of the dual conversation emanating from this person in pain.  I hear the words from the mouth, and I listen to the sounds of the heart expressed through the face, voice and body.  The family member may or may not know they are screaming at the bottom of their lungs for someone to offer them the solace of listening.  As listener, I extend the invitation to, “tell me about you”.  And it is at that moment that the sacramental grace occurs between family member and listener.

Finding shelter in the ears of the listener, family members are surprised at the ease in which they begin the journey of healing.  Most often, it is unexpected; always it is inward and spiritual grace.

“I always promised my parents that we would not put them in a nursing home”, the 40ish-looking young man said as he walked in.  He began asking for brochures, wanting to see the results of our last State survey.”  He rattled off questions as if afraid to take a breath for fear of imploding. “What is your staff-to-patient ratio?  Do you have a doctor in the facility five days a week?"  His elderly mother, by his side looked at me.  I could see the fear in her eyes.  Her silence seemed to be apologizing for her son’s barrage of questions.

As I introduced myself, I purposely did not let go of her hand and guided her into the conference room, which was the nearest safe place I could find.  I think I broke his train of questions, so he followed us.

In the safety of the room, I responded, “I did too.  We said the same thing to my parents.  And you just reminded me how painful it was for me. I never want to forget what that time was like.”  His whole body seemed to come to a standstill, as if he’d met an old friend for the first time.

The mother reached out and held her son’s hand.  They sat there in silence.  As they began again, to share of the precipitating moment that had brought them to us, the sounds of the heart drowned out the words of the mouth. And communion happened.  She talked of her fifty year marriage, their struggles to raise a family of four.  The son talked about fishing with his Dad.  Then and only then, were we able to begin talking about Dad and what he was going to need.

.  Human nature would have us label and assume that we know “where that person is coming from”.  Listening, however, keeps one from applying clichés and quick answers to the other person’s walk. 

As a woman on Face Book said, describing a story of two parents dealing with their child’s sudden illness, “This is a beautiful story and if you've ever been there you appreciate the river of denial as a healing stream that keeps you afloat until you can find some footing.”

And so the “outward and visible sign” of trust becomes the “inward and spiritual grace” of healing. And, we are both blessed.

There is something about looking at someone eye-to-eye.

I have found that to do so, I must be willing to meet that other person wherever they may be at that moment.  It is like praying the Lord’s Prayer and saying , “…thy will be done..”

It can be like falling into the softest, gentlest puddle of tears.  And, it can be like being body-slammed by obscene anger.

Both have taken my breath away and left me feeling totally unworthy.   I say unworthy because either is a gift, an honor that families bestow, are willing to bestow, if we are but willing only to receive.

The only gift I offer at this point is my willingness to be present.  When it is time, you will gift me with your vulnerability and trust. 

I do not take that gift lightly.

Journeys

In school, they used to tell us that the family member who has the most problem with their loved one in a Nursing Home (or hospital, Assisted Living Facility, or Hospice) is the granddaughter of a male resident/patient.

This explanation given was simple, if not simplistic.  This young woman was the grandbaby who sat on Grandpa’s lap; who had Grandpa wrapped around her little finger, and so forth and so on.  Usually, this child has avoided/denied that Grandpa is getting old, so she has not visited in a while.  And when she finally, comes to see Grandpa, he is not the same Grandpa she remembers.

And what happens, usually?  The denial explodes and her life shatters into pieces.  Her eyes see he who is left in front of her.  Her heart and her mind cannot wrap themselves around this frailer, more wrinkled and more stooped image of Granddaddy, Poppi, Grandpa.

And often times, the staff become the target of her disbelief in the form of anger, rage and often unrealistic expectations.  That is understandable.  I promise you, it may not seem right or fair.  We cannot even honestly say we understand.  That would be a lie.  It is a lie.  All the staff can do is allow themselves to be the focus of those feelings until.  Until she can catch her own breath, release and recover from the blow and sooner or later began the journey of grief.

These and other experiences, too many to count have given me the opportunity to come to a point in my life where I want to give of what has so freely been given to me. 

I offer myself as a guide to families, no matter where they may be in this journey.  I have experienced this journey personally, when my parents began their journey home.  In my work experience, I tried to help families walk through their emotional, mental, physical and spiritual journey of walking their loved ones home.

A Poem

Years ago I wrote this poem when I was the Administrator at a small rural Nursing Home.  It came to me as I watched one particular wife come to visit her husband. 

As is my practice, I always meet the families.  As much as they will let me in, I become part of this time of their life.  And so, she came in.  We talked briefly and she admitted today was particularly painful.  "To tell you the truth, I don't want to see him.  Is it horrible, for me to feel this way?", she asked pleadingly.

And so, this dutiful wife walked out of my office and saw her husband sitting in the Living Room.  There was that split-second delay on his part, as if looking through a fog and spotting someone familiar.  Without seeing her face, I knew the pain that hesitation caused, and she knew where it came from.

They held hands.  And then, she walked with him as he got up and left.  She followed him.  She followed him.  And as he went in and out of his disease, she became alternately, wife and then, stranger. 

And so, the words came to me.

Fear not for me

black and white stills,

8 millimeter,

color polaroids,

                                    video,

digital.

images of then.

cobwebs shimmering  and glossy, yet true;

blocks of time or precious moments

are anchors to the otherwise gossamer reality of my now.

This parallel universe haunts,

confuses and diffuses

                                    and even excuses me.

for me, one moment is here and now

the next who knows where.

You follow, or so you think ,

the wispy, milky, silky strands

of polysyllabic nonsense that betray me

Be not pained for me.

                                    Acceptance came gratefully included.

In my two worlds you exist–

                                    I whirl you around –so beautiful in your wedding dress.

                                    I wipe your brow as you breathlessly encourage our child into life.

Sliding, gliding I inhabit then and now

                                    not at my whim, but swept acceptingly about.

Like the gentle slide of a whirlpool

                                    with its inevitability of no-refund and no-return.

Know that I slowly leave, though in body I remain.

Be not pained for me.  I am here and I’ve already left.

I am a memory in a physical presence.

Adieu.

© paul pineda

    san antonio – fall ‘02

The beginnings

It has been said that a vocation is "where life's greatest needs meet my greatest joy".

As I look back in my life, being of service has always been my vocation.  And working with the elderly (and their families) has always given me this joy.  I don't have to look far to know where that spark came from and where it has been nurtured. 
Three salient parts of my life formed that vocation:
     * We had older parents - my father was 65, when I graduated from high school
     * In high school, I worked in a Nursing Home, as part of a work/study program, and
     * In my mid 40's, after the death of my parents, I returned to Nursing Homes as a Social   
     * Worker and eventually, a Nursing Home Administrator.

And so, for the past eighteen years, I have been  been privileged to be with these elders and their loved ones.  It has never been easy.  It has often been messy.   But messy is good, for it is in that mess that we come face-to-face with life.  Scary, hurting, ugly, painful, alone life.  But in that mess is often a personal "resurrection", where physically, emotionally, mentally or spiritually, we experience an awakening to life.

I know from personal experience that in this "mess", is when I most need community.  I need help.  I may not know what, where or when, or I many not even know I need help.  My hope is that my journey can be a resource for those who are in this transition - elder, disabled, friend or family member.