Author: Kitty

#28: Meridian

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Communion

My theology grew up around the kitchen table. I didn’t know it at the time, but those hours spent with pots of pinto beans, bowls of fried potatoes, and pans of buttered cornbread served as the basis for my understanding of the Lord’s Supper. That’s what it was called in the church of my youth. Back then, I knew it as the thing that happened on the Sunday before Easter. My country congregation didn’t follow what I now know as liturgy so there was no procession of palms or distribution of ashes during the week that led up to the resurrection. What we did have on the Sunday of Jesus’ return to Jerusalem included small cubes of unleavened bread passed from neighbor to neighbor through every pew, followed by small plastic cups that held a sip of grape juice.

I loved the Lord’s Supper. Even as a child, I understood what it meant to share food and drink with everyone in the room. Looking back, it’s the only time I knew that everyone actually was welcome.

My experience in the Catholic Church was a little different.

When you know what is happening during Mass, what to say and when to say it, when to stand and when to kneel, and how to receive the bread and wine, it really is holy. The prayers and movements that have been repeated by millions of believers over almost two thousand years of worship connect you to a congregation that expands far beyond the walls of the church. The reverence for the sacrament of bread and wine invites you to step into a heavenly meal. It is mystical, magical, miraculous.

And it is exclusive.

When I made the choice to convert to Catholicism, I understood that I would not be able to participate in Communion until I was fully received in the church. This meant time spent in study and reflection, conversations with male deacons, confession with a male priest, and a sponsor to walk with me through the whole process, known as the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults. For the last part, I asked for, and was paired with, a woman.

On the day of my confirmation, I was joined by graduate school friends, back home friends, and my ex-husband. Among the group, there were pastors and priests in the making, though none in the denomination I would soon claim as my own. There were members of the Methodist and Disciples of Christ churches, current and former Baptists, and an atheist. There was a farmer, a teacher, and a grounds worker. And there was one Catholic.

It looked a lot like the kitchen table theology of my childhood.

Around that table, my mom, sister, and I would browse through old cookbooks, looking for the most disgusting recipe. Better Homes and Gardens, Taste of Home, Betty Crocker, Good Housekeeping, and a collection of church and school compilations—often issued as fundraisers—led us to JELL-O salads (with and without meat), ham and bananas hollandaise, and too many opportunities for Miracle Whip.

Around that table, I shared meals with my parents, siblings and their partners, aunts and uncles, cousins, friends, coworkers, mission workers who built a handicap-accessible ramp on my parents’ home, county jail inmates, and my ex-husband.

Around that table, I contributed more than one but less than five pieces to the array of puzzles my dad and mom completed over 35 years of marriage. I wrapped Christmas presents, finished homework, drank coffee, and smoked cigarettes.

Around that table, I took my first Communion a la biscuits and red eye gravy.

As I stood in front of priest and answered, “I do,” to the many things he asked me if I believed, thus professing my faith to the congregation, I was anointed with oil and sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit. After the study and reflection, conversations, confession, and a sponsorship that turned into friendship, I was in. It was mystical, magical, miraculous.

And it was exclusive.

When I was finally able to take in the blessed bread and wine, I was joined by my one Catholic friend and the former teacher whose time in a Catholic school taught her to cross her arms in front of her chest to receive a blessing. Out of respect for or a lack of familiarity with the rules, everyone else stayed in the pews. They were who I saw when I made my way back from my first Holy Communion as a Catholic.

They could see the table, but they could not pull up a chair.

They could smell the biscuits and red eye gravy, but they could not taste.

They could celebrate for me, but they could not celebrate with me.

My final initiation into the Roman Catholic Church became the starting point for my eventual departure.

What we did share after Mass was Mexican food. Chips and salsa, dishes served with hot queso, frozen margaritas, and a lot of laughter. The pastors and priests in the making, the Methodists and Disciples of Christ, the current and former Baptists, the atheist, the farmer, the teacher, the grounds worker, and the two Catholics ate and drank and celebrated my version of the Lord’s Supper. Everyone actually was welcome.

It looked a lot like the kitchen table theology of my childhood.

I know there are theological justifications for the rules, but I disagree. With every decision made to exclude someone from receiving Communion, I disagree. This is admittedly risky to say out loud, but I do not believe that religious affiliation (Christian or other), baptismal status, stance on abortion, political party, sexual orientation, gender, or favorite basketball team should keep any human from God’s bread.

It is the most ungodly thing to do, to say, “No, not you.”

I recently saw a small Jesus figure laying upside down on the sidewalk outside a basilica in Asheville, NC, and took him home as a souvenir. My husband joked that I literally found Jesus at the Roman Catholic Church. I remembered the days when I would have entered through the doors and repeated the prayers and movements that connected me to a congregation that expands far beyond the walls of the church. I will always, always, always be grateful for those mystical, magical, miraculous pieces of my story. I will always, always, always wish it could be different. If, or when, it ever is, I will pull up two chairs. One for me, one for you.

#44: MTA Shuttle

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Miracle

The first miracle attributed to the man called Jesus involved alcohol. Those who take a cabernet with Communion really appreciate that detail. And whether or not water actually turned into wine or if the author of John was intent on proving the divinity of a human being, it is still called a miraculous story.

Those of us who aren’t so sure of the idea of miracles as divine might also look at the tale of five loaves and two fishes that are said to have fed 5,000. Was it Godly multiplication or (and this is hardly an original theory) did the actual miracle come from 4,993 people watching one mother offer what little she had for herself and her six children and were moved to do the same? That’s more my kind of miracle – the unexpected that comes from human intervention.

It’s also the kind I’ve witnessed.

Tim and Becky reconnected in their 50s, Tim having been an old friend of Becky’s big brother. Early adulthood found them both in marriages that did not last and a hope that did. Love came quickly, followed by a proposal and a plan to spend their lives together on the beaches of Hawaii, where Becky called home. Her sun-kissed shoulders and long, blond locks would have caught anyone’s attention, but it was the tall, thin, salt and pepper, close-cut fellow with a balding spot on top who received her, “Yes.”

I don’t remember what brought them to Nashville, but I do remember what brought them to St. Thomas Midtown Hospital, the place where I served as a chaplain-in-training while trying not to ruin anyone’s spiritual journey – including my own.

It was Tim’s all-of-a-sudden-and-ongoing-and-relentless headache, fatigue, nausea, and confusion that took him from the Emergency Room to one of his own. And as quickly as the proposal came, so did the diagnosis. Brain tumor. Terminal. A couple of weeks terminal. Get your affairs in order ASAP terminal. Call your people terminal. You won’t be leaving the hospital terminal. 

For Tim, getting his affairs in order meant saying, “I do” to the Hawaiian beauty he had known for decades and loved for only a few months. And even though “’Til death do us part” would come much sooner than hoped, it was Tim’s dying and Becky’s living wish to be husband and wife for as long as time would allow.

The Pastoral Care Director, Lewis Lamberth, was an Alabama-raised and Baptist-ordained minister, complete with an accent that substituted “h” for “r” when it came to “nuhses” or “flowehs.” He also understood what it meant to have limited time with a spouse, as he spent the week in Nashville serving patients and staff and flew home to Austin to spend the weekend with his wife. Having been in the work of chaplaincy for nearly 30 years, Lewis had seen his share of heartache and never lost the soft spot where it hurt.

Yes, he would marry them.

It’s fairly common knowledge that nurses are the backbone of medicine, the ones that understand patients and their needs best, as well as their stories. They take care of more than vitals and medication, including families. They see a need and get something done.

So it was with Becky’s bouquet and a small cake for the happy couple to share. After collecting donations from staff on the floor where Tim was declining as fast as he fell in love, they made sure Becky would have flowers in hand and a dessert to share with her soon-to-be husband. The hospital gift shop made sure it was beautiful. The cafeteria made sure it was sweet.

On the big day, the hospital chapel was warmed by dark wooden walls and dim lighting. The intimacy of a space where people often came for respite in the midst of unease served the same for the 10 or so staff members who were able to step away from the floor and into a celebration – even a hard one. Lewis stood in front, with an empty altar and cross in the background. Tim took his place to the right, guided by a friend behind the wheelchair that held his weakened body. Becky proceeded in a bright, flowery dress – very Hawaii – that hit just above her knees. She beamed and cried on her way to Tim, in love and in grief.

Given the reality of Tim’s decline and inability to be away from his hospital bed any longer than necessary, the ceremony was short, simple, and sacred. And when it came time for Tim to take Becky as his bride, the friend who guided him in the wheelchair, along with a nurse, helped him stand. It was heartbreaking and holy to watch him promise from this day forward, for better, for worse, to love and to cherish.

When they were pronounced husband and wife, Tim softly kissed Becky and leaned on the two men who had helped him stand to help him sit. And much like Becky’s walk down the aisle, the tears among us all coexisted in joy and sorrow.   

There was no mysterious disappearance of a brain tumor, no short-term recovery that would allow a flight across the Pacific, no resurrection on the third day, but there were witnesses who saw a man offer what little he had for himself and his wife and were moved to do the same.

#24X: Bellevue Express

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Thanksgiving

“It hurts when they use those paddles. Feels like you’ve been kicked in the chest. I got kicked three times.”

It was the fourth Thursday of November and Bob was back. We had met a few weeks prior when his name was on the list of official requests for a chaplain visit. What I knew up front was that he was in his early 70s, had a medical history that included hypertension and a heart attack, and he used to be a Baptist preacher.

The last part was the one that intimidated me the most. It was still early in my residency year, and I often questioned if I was a suitable candidate to walk through a door and claim myself a chaplain. Sure, I had experienced a lot of grief. Sure, I had studied theology. But with a background that included some wounding from my own Baptist experience, I was triggered from the moment I saw that piece of information under his name.

Bob couldn’t have been more welcoming. “I love chaplains!” was his first response to my introduction. “Come in. Come in.”

As was customary, there was some superficial conversation to get us started. The room was big. His bed was comfortable. He liked the nurses.

Somewhere along the way, Bob mentioned that he was looking forward to all of the work being done on the townhouse he shared with his wife, Shirley. It had been damaged in the flood of 2010 and a year-and-a-half later, their home was still in a work-in-progress. There’s only so much that can be done at a time when you’re living on a fixed income and your body “ain’t what it used to be.”

He had also survived prostate cancer and was being monitored due to a recent spike in his blood sugar.

Seeing Bob’s name on the patient roster on Thanksgiving Day tugged at my already fragile heart. I was a few days out from a different kind of flood and trying to make some sense of God – and myself. The hallways were much quieter that day with a smaller number of folks on staff and every measure possible taken for patients to spend the holiday at home. If you didn’t have to be there, you wouldn’t be.

Bob had to be there.

When I first passed by his room, I noticed that he was having his holiday meal and opted to let him enjoy it without interruption. About 15 steps down the hall, I realized that having a holiday meal alone, in a hospital and with his medical and emotional history, was not a call to leave him be.

I knocked on the open door. “Hey, Bob. How’s the turkey today?”

“Not worth much, but the stuffing was alright. Come on in.”

We made it through the surface-level stuff within those first few sentences. He remembered our previous visit and I found myself wanting to stay.

“Do you mind if I pull up a chair?” I asked.

“Come right on,” he said. “What did you do to get put here today? They could use the help. That’s for sure.”

“Well, that’s just kinda how it ended up and right now, I’m glad I’m here. How are you?”

Bob was wearing his age more than he had just a few weeks prior. His unshaven beard matched the fatigue listed on his record. That and another round of elevated blood sugar found him in a cramped room, likely the consequence of availability of both space and staff.

“I didn’t want to come in, but Shirley wouldn’t let it go. The night before Thanksgiving and I’m on my way to the hospital. Hardly anybody’s paying attention. Can’t be that different than if I would have waited.”

“And this room is awful.”

He was right. The light was the worst kind of artificial and the walls were a reminder that this was the hospital’s oldest building. Shirley’s cot was to the right of Bob’s bed and took up what little space was left between him and the window. She had stayed overnight and was currently in the cafeteria picking up her own Thanksgiving meal.

“I don’t know how anybody gets better in a room like this,” he said. “Did I tell you I was here for over a month back in September?”

“Yeah, I do remember you saying that.”

“I was supposed to be DNR (Do Not Resuscitate). Thought I had signed the papers. I guess Shirley made ’em do it.”

He paused.

“It hurts when they use those paddles. Feels like you’ve been kicked in the chest. I got kicked three times.”

No one tells you the thing that’s going to save your life is going to hurt so much. I had just spent the past few days knowing it to be true.

“How are you feeling about it now, Bob?”

He got teary. “I’m so angry. Why didn’t they just let me go? I’m ready. I’ve had a good life, been able to do lots of good things. I don’t want to hurt Shirley, but I can’t keep doing this – in and out of the hospital. It’s no life. It’s Thanksgiving Day and I’m here again.”

His honesty was holy.

I struggled between wanting to make it better and wanting to let it be.

Then Shirley walked in the room.

“Did you know they’re giving lunches to the people who are working today? No matter the families that are here – we have to pay. She did give me the water for free.”

The dynamic changed.

“Isn’t this room just awful?” she continued. “I think I’m gonna open the curtain.”

It was one thing she could control.

We talked a bit more about the difference between the room I had first met them in and the room where we were that day. Shirley was obviously frustrated with the whole of the situation, likely a response to her simultaneous desire and inability to make things better. After fussing around her lunch she decided to step out again.

Bob had shared some stories about his own ministry and how he got his call to preach three months after he gave up drinking. He was especially grateful for the time he spent in Kenya. I took the opportunity to move in a bit closer so I could lower my voice, just in case Shirley returned.

“You know what? I think, when you meet God, God is going to say, ‘Well done.’”

“I sure hope so.”

He started to cry again.

“I’ve tried but this last part is the part that’s a little too hard.”

“Do you tell God when you’re having a hard time?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Do you think God understands?”

“Yeah, I think he does.”

“Y’all okay in here?” Shirley asked as she came back in the room. The IV pole started beeping and she was quick to comment.

“Hope we can get somebody in here to fix that.”

Bob assured her that he would call the nurse and asked if I would offer a prayer before I left.

“Of course. Do you have anything special you want to pray for today?”

“I think you probably know.”

I mumbled through some words about Bob’s life and ministry and asked God to draw close in his time of need. It was the only way I could address the depression and subtly recognize that Bob was asking to die while also not wanting to pray for Bob to die.

Eleven years later, I still don’t know if those words were right, wrong, or both. I also don’t know what happened after that visit. I kept an eye out for Bob’s name, but I never saw him again.

That’s one of the harder parts of chaplain work – not knowing. Some patients are long-term and open-book, and others go home before you have a chance to meet. Some, like Bob, show up twice and stay with you, especially on the fourth Thursday of November.