Today is Wednesday, September 8, Day Five of Hospice. At least I think it is.  I have already lost track of days and dates.  I am in a state of complete exhaustion.

Yesterday, after a really challenging night with mother, I came back to Krum in the middle of the afternoon.  How I even made the 50 mile drive is beyond me.  I got home, spoke at length with a friend of mine whereupon I simply starting weeping and just couldn't stop, washed my hair, soaked in bubble bath (clearly into water therapy), slept a restless 12 hours and am still barely functional.  Somehow, today I must get to work, and in the next two days, get a week's work of things done.

One of the issues that faces us, like it or not, is the fact that the human body while alive, and no matter how immobilized, must be able to eliminate wastes.  We're able to deal with the liquid part easily--a catheter deals with this efficiently and neatly.  It is the solid wastes that are the issue.

I won't go into the details here, but let me just say that much of Monday evening and well into the night was devoted to this challenge.  Thank goodness for the most excellent night nurse and her caring and competent hands, or I don't know what would have happened.  After that night, I made an executive decision that we needed to hire her to come in most nights for the duration of this time, expense be damned.  She's not a hospice employee--she works for an independent agency, so we were able to make arrangements for her to continue as much as possible.  

I'm having many mixed feelings about this hospice situation. In my previous post, I had mentioned the hospice nursing supervisor who visited on Monday.  I experienced her as young, arrogant, and snippy.  A huge contrast to the intake nurse who had been there Sunday afternoon and who actually took the time to get to know my mother through my eyes and her writings.  She understood the hugeness of the loss here and the challenge facing us.  Yesterday's woman, who had the power to withdraw the extra help, did not understand it and very much exercised her power.  And so, we now get 45 minutes three times a week of someone who will come in and bathe mother and hopefully also change the sheets, (maybe she'll empty the catheter bag?), and a nurse who will stop by once a week to evaluate.

This young, arrogant and snippy woman looked at me Monday and said, "You know your mother can't be left alone. She is helpless in that bed."

I sought a gracious response, but was appalled at this comment.  My brother, sister and I have completely re-arranged our lives to make sure that at least one of us is there all the time, and preferably two of us there most of the time, just in case.  Actually, it takes two people to move her, and she needs to be repositioned every two hours, around the clock.  Apparently, Miss Arrogant-Snip, as I now name her, thought we would just cavalierly leave this helpless woman alone as we uncaringly go about our lives.

So, by choosing not to keep mother in the hospital, and giving up on rehab, we are saving the government huge, and I do mean huge, amounts of money in Medicare charges.  Instead, we are essentially abandoned and critiqued in our quest to honor my mother's express directives and to live faithfully as those who choose not to feed at the government trough.

There is something terribly wrong with this picture.  Just terribly wrong.

If My Mother Knew, Day Three of Hospice

If my mother knew what I was doing, she would have my hide.  On my previous post about this end of life time with my mother, I noted that I had hit the bonanza when I found a file of letters she had written.

This find spurred me to do start digging deeper into her stashes of papers.  Stashes, stacks, files, folders, boxes, bins, and most of all, big hefty freezer bags.  That's what she put her papers in.  And, as far as I can tell, with no system. At least with no system that I can recognize.  Vitally important papers, like my dad's death certificate, are mixed in with fliers and takeout menu's for nearby restaurants.  I found her will and the various power of attorney forms under a crushing pile of printed out emails.  Her birth certificate, which we had been looking for, was under that same pile.  

The warranty deed to the house, which we also needed to find, was stuck randomly in a folder with empty envelopes and Christmas cards. 

I have about decided that my mother's determination to recycle faithfully simply gave her justification for her life-long battle with pack-rat habits.  She was absolutely adamant about recycling, and has carefully separated her trash for many years now.  But as she became more infirm physically and, I'm beginning to think, was slipping just a bit mentally, efforts to actually get things into the recycling bags and out to the curb became too much for her.  The only things that were recycled regularly were the newspapers, but that is because she and a neighbor shared subscriptions to a couple of papers and he made sure they ended up in the proper pile and were taken out.  But anything else . . .  

As I glance through each sheet of paper, I found multiple pages with yet her latest organizational plan for all this stuff.  I am keeping copies of some of these various systems.  Each would be slightly different.  Each would have thorough documentation (for example:  red folder at desk:  bank statements; blue folder in cabinet, notes for children; purple box on counter top:  to recycle).  And clearly she attempted some follow-through, but it never lasted, and paper chaos took over again.

And, again with no system that makes sense to me, mixed with folders filled with old bank statements, I would periodically unearth another folder of letters, my hidden treasures.  I've only begun to read these--am just skimming pieces of them.  Some give just normal news of everyday happenings; some offer hilarious descriptions of my dad's over-the-top reactions to the various medical procedures he subjected himself to over the years; some expose heart-rendering sadness as she wrote of broken dreams and especially her fears that she would spend her last days in grinding poverty.

She had grown up extremely poor, and knew how that kind of poverty can destroy the mind and soul.  Somehow, a brilliant and beautiful woman emerged from that underprivileged and uneducated household.  Her father had wanted her to quit school when she was 12 and go to work to add to the family income.  She flatly refused, and fought her way to finish high school.  College was not even an option for her, but she went to secretarial school and honed those skills to perfection.  And then she met my dad.

Daddy, the introverted offspring of two college graduates himself (very, very rare in those days, especially to have a mother who had a college degree), and himself already with a Master's Degree in Mathematics, must have been immediately charmed by this gregarious, gorgeous young woman.  

According to my mother, her own dad was appalled that she wanted to marry my dad.  Essentially he told her she was marrying out of her class and would regret that.  He completely underestimated my mother's ability to learn and educate herself to a point where she could become conversant on just about any subject.  I'm so glad she didn't listen to her dad, and confine herself that way.  Not that marriage to my dad was particularly pleasant in many ways, but it did open doors for her and she went happily through them.

Now, as to Mother's having my hide if she knew . . . I am filling blue recycling bag after blue bag.  Should she suddenly decide to make a miraculous recovery from this stroke, arise from her bed and walk, she would have another stroke at seeing so much of what was the structure of her life dismantled.

But she shows no interest in recovering.  Unlike this always active woman, she lays uncomplainingly in her hospital bed.  She never asks to get up (she did ask that frequently right after the stroke); she never asks for anything except that she be able to listen to the radio or that we bring her the daily crossword puzzle (which she can no longer work, even if I give her all hints possible).  

We were fortunate enough to have a nurse again last night, although this was beyond what hospice said they'd give us.  This was our second night with this wonderful woman, and I so wish she could just move in with us.  The two of us gave mother a back-rub last night plus an aspirin just before settling her down for the night.  Mother fell into a deep and peaceful sleep, and she did not want to be roused this morning.  It was almost 14 hours later before she really opened her eyes.  She then had a couple of hours of what passes for alertness for her now, and then drifted off to sleep again.  She did want some ice chips this morning, but other than that, doesn't ask for food. She will take it if we offer it, so we are working to keeping her adequately hydrated and nourished.

The hospice supervisor came out this morning and looked at me sternly wondering how on earth we had finagled that much extra help.  This supervisor, the age of my youngest son, seemed quite full of herself.  Her 30 second analysis of my mother led to this decision:  She's completely alert, shows no mental impairment, and it makes no sense to her why we wanted that much help.

I sighed, and then started explaining again.  I went through the same thing with my dad.  They come in, do this quick assessment, and think they know everything.  But they don't.  They know almost nothing.  I know that the woman who lies with such docility in that hospital bed, permitting strange hands all over her, being spoonfed, and saying sweet "thank you's" to everyone is not the woman who had the stroke nearly four weeks ago.  The sweet "thank you's" are about the only connection with that other woman.  

So, as of tomorrow afternoon, we are finally on our own with this dying process.  Hospice will send out someone three times a week to bathe her.  The nurse will check on her once a week.  At some point a "comfort pack" will arrive, full of pain medications and anti-psychotics, none of which do we need.  We do plan on hiring some extra help from a home help agency, but . . . my questions abound.

How will I do this?  How will I keep up with my work which I feel piling up with so many major concerns at the church right now?  How will I deal with my growing fatigue?  Yet, I must. This is my gift to this woman and I won't turn my back on her.  

Laughing Through My Tears, Hospice Day One

I was sitting at my messy desk Friday trying to clean it off enough so that my husband, who was preaching for me on Sunday, would have a place to put his books and Bible when he showed up Sunday morning.

My Christian Education Director, Kristi, came in and sympathized with the mess. I told her, “It has always been my mother's job to have the paperwork mess. As long as she did that, I could stay somewhat organized. But now since her stroke, she's not fulfilling her part of the family bargain.”

I was joking, but not really. Mother has been at war with her papers as long as I've known her. Everytime we'd talk, she'd say, “I'm going to get all this organized.”

Saturday, I was waiting for her to be transported to her house under hospice care. I got to the house early in order to get some things ready and decided to start taking care of laundry, knowing that this would be a primary responsibility for me in the next few days and weeks. I have never minded doing laundry, so this is a good place for me to serve.

When my parents built this house in the 80's, they planned it very well. It has, among other things, a very nice and spacious laundry room, well shelved and a place to hang clothes as well.

I had cleaned it out somewhat couple of years ago when my middle son's wife's family (yes, this a bit confusing), needed a place to stay for a week around Thanksgiving. That is the last time anything material has happened in there.

As I said, I don't mind doing laundry. Mother never liked it, and avoided it as much as possible. And I'm beginning to think that for the last year at least, when something of hers got dirty, she just stuck it in a bag and put in in there. 

But dealing with the dirty clothes would be the easy part of this.

There are also multiple huge zipper plastic bags full of folders and papers. I just unzipped one and took a look. Newspapers from 2006 Investor's Daily. A folder marked “Mail D.” That had mail in it for my dad from 2006. There is another folder named “read.” Among other things, it contained a Reader's Digest from 1991. At that, I just starting laughing, and crying all at the same time.

How like my mother! And how like her I am! My stacks of books and articles piled everywhere that I want to eventually get around to reading. The only difference is that I don't actually hide things in plastics bags that I want to read. I just leave them out. My car has a crate full of fascinating books waiting for me just in case I get stuck somewhere and have some free time. I've got at least 200 books on my Kindle (all free classics) that I will eventually read, naturally.

Mother arrived early in the afternoon. The first six hours with her were pretty terrifying for my sister and me as there was a mixup with the hospice organization and the planned for first 24 hours of continual care from them didn't happen. As in no one showed up. No one gave us instruction. We had no real clue what to do except just talk with her and keep her company.

Fortunately, my sister's SOS calls were finally heeded and someone came for the night. We may have someone one more night, but that will probably be all. Mother's care primarily is in my hands, my sister's hands and in the hands of whatever other family members show up to help except for the few hours a day we will hire some home health care.  Hospice folks show up two to three times a week, but not for extended care times.

Mother can talk well. Has good use of her right arm. Can help us a bit with her legs when we need to adjust her in the bed. And that's it. Otherwise totally helpless.

She's with us, and yet not with us. She certainly recognized her golf course view, and was glad to see that again. But wondered how the golf course got to the rehab center.

We put on some old Jack Benny Show videos that I had bought her. She said, “is he still alive?” Then, “he looks younger than I remember him.”

We were mentioning to the intake nurse that Mother's hearing seemed to have improved dramatically since the stroke. Mother said, “Sometimes there are improving strokes.” I love it. One of those moments of clarity and humor that keep us going.

In the middle of the afternoon, as I was still working on cleaning out the utility room, I hit a bonanza. It had already become clear that I didn't dare throw out a single sheet of paper without looking at it closely. Most of the stuff was worthless, but I found a stash of checks written in the 1950's by my grandmother who moved in with us then. What a history of her life through those checks!

And then I hit the big time. My mother writes very well, and has always been an avid letter writer. I knew that she had written dozens, perhaps hundreds, of letters to me and my brother and sister while we were at college and I knew she kept carbons of them (she wrote on her typewriter—she's an expert typist). Stuffed in a folder with dozens of newspaper clippings were the letters she wrote in 1965, when my brother was at Rice and my sister and I still in high school and junior high. I've only just started to read them, and am seeing my family and my life described through my mother's eyes and skillful way with words.  I see my teen years all over again.  She described the parties we gave, the dresses we wore, the hours on the telephone with various boyfriends.  

I read a heartrending letter she had written to my dad who was apparently thinking of relocating to Fort Wayne, Indiana (their hometown).  She explains her fears of what would happen to my sister and me should be be transplanted at that precarious time in our lives.  Her eloquence in the descriptions of her fears moved me immensely.  How she fought for us!

So, I now choose to give back, as best I can, fumbling to learn how to turn her, how to change the bedding with her in it, to spoonfeed her slowly so she won't choke with her limited swallowing ability.  

I hope to write regularly about this over the next days, weeks, or how long this takes.  I would love responses--how do you feel about death?  Taking care of the dying?  What do you hope for yourself at that time?  How can we do this in a more holy and responsible manner?

Honoring Directives

It is Thursday afternoon, not quite three weeks since this saga with my mother started when she was found after suffering her series of stokes that felled her. My sister and I are back in the hospital with my mother again.  This time, we are at Methodist Richardson, and the experience here stands in stark contrast to the experience at Medical City. To start with, they actually read my mother's health directives, something that was apparently never done at Medical City.  Second, they are listening to my sister and to me, and recognizing that we have something legitimate to say about the situation.  They do not not treat us as uninformed idiots but as loving and concerned family who just want the best for our mother.  Third, they are willing to acknowledge the truth about my mother's situation.

Truth?  Her strokes were so massive and disabling that there are no recovery options.  Truth?  Her body is ready to say goodbye as bit by bit, it is breaking down.  Truth?  There is a much more gentle and loving way to do this than moving her from hospital room to skilled nursing center to hospital room and back again.

My sister and I will shortly be interviewing a hospice organization we have both worked with before.  Before the day is over, we hope to be well into preparations for taking my mother home.  Home, to her house, to her known and comfortable surroundings.

That horrific feeding tube will be removed this afternoon.  If my mother wants coffee ice cream, she can have coffee ice cream.  No more, "Oh no, she might have a problem with it!"  No more forced therapies that were hurting her. No more, "Stay awake, Mother!" when someone came in the room to work with her when all she wanted to do is sleep.  No more standing or sitting only at the left side of her bed to force her to use that side.  Today, we sit and converse at her comfortable right hand side.

Mother is relaxed and peaceful.  She is in and out of present reality, and having a wonderful time meandering through her memories.  She does her crossword puzzles with her mind writing words on the ceiling of the room.  

We've been reminiscing about favorite radio and TV shows and I've just ordered DVD's of Jack Benny and Allen and Burns shows.  We'll have a blast watching them together.

She drifts off to sleep and then gently awakens again, knowing we are with her.  Jill and I look at each other with relief and some sense of sanity returning.  We are emerging from this medical nightmare, well supported by competent and caring professionals.

A couple of hours ago, a technician came into draw blood.  I pulled her out in the hallway and explained what we were planning to do and told her, "No more pain.  No more squeezing her arm.  No more pricks with the needle."  She nodded with compassion and understanding and left.  

A little while ago, Mother mentioned that her hip was hurting.  The nurse immediately arranged for pain medication.  No, "Oh it might make her sleepy."  No, let it make her sleepy.  It is time for this discomfort to be over.

There is a a time to fight for life.  There is a time to accept that a different phase of life has come, one that says, "Death has lost its sting."  

In the will of God, I hope we have weeks or even more of good time with her yet.  Time for family and friends to come and spend with her.  Her house is large and I hope it will be a revolving hotel.  We'll hire enough professionals no matter the expense to make sure she is properly attended around the clock.  And we will savor each moment we have left with this sweet, kind and generous woman. 

Reason Number One

Today, I've reached the final excuse that actually sparked the whole series of the top fifteen reasons for avoiding transformational worship gatherings.  

The other fourteen ranged from complaints about the checkered history of the church to frustration over unclear and divergent doctrines to the personal sense of feeling unworthy, unwelcomed, or unknowledgable about the mysteries of church language and customs.  

One excuse, "God will understand," suggests that God doesn't expect us to live in holiness, but is perfectly happy for us to give into in and all impulses, no matter how base or unworthy they might be. 

Some excuses blamed outside factors: children's scheduled activities, the inability of church people to live from their stated beliefs, the call for financial generosity.

This final, and first reason, is the most personal of them.  Excuse Number One, "I don't go to worship because the pastor (pick one or several of the following): 

 

• Didn't make me feel good.
• Disagreed with me about something.
• Didn't do what I asked.
• Didn't visit me often enough when I was in the hospital.
• Doesn't call enough on the shut-ins.
• Didn't speak to me on Sunday morning.
• Speaks to too many people on Sunday mornings.
• Is in the church building too much of the time.
• Is out of the church building too much of the time.
• Forgot that it was my birthday/anniversary.
• Preaches for too long a time.
• Preaches for too short a time.
• Prays too much.
• Doesn't pray enough.
• Can't carry a tune.
• Sings too loudly.
• Didn't come by to see me when I was down.
• Didn't figure out that I needed a phone call.
• Is a poor administrator.
• Spends too much time on administration.
• Missed some important outside events.
• Goes to too many outside events.
• Spends too much time studying.
• Doesn't spend enough time studying.
• Focuses too much on the future vision of the church.
• Doesn't have a vision for the future of the church.
• Acted human instead of as a god-like and perfect creature.

"The pastor didn't make me feel good."  All the rest emerge from that rarely spoken, invisible but inviolate job description floating around that says, "The job of the pastor is to make sure that I feel good."  

What an impossible burden.  If the pastor didn't make you feel good, then the pastor is a failure and you have no reason worship the Almighty God.  

No wonder they crucified Jesus!  Gospel accounts make it excruciatingly clear that it was his intention to do his Father's will, no matter what anyone thought or felt about it. People didn't like it then, and people don't like it now.  

Add to this the fact that pastors, unlike Jesus, are excruciatingly human, and prone to all human failures and foibles.  It is no wonder that many, many clergy at least mentally write a resignation letter on Monday mornings.  Failure lurks around every corner.

We become most aware of God's image residing upon us when we assume full responsibility for who we are and what we are feeling.  We most advance the possibility of healing of the world when we work out our own salvation with fear and trembling, and then link arms to transform the society around us.  Quit blaming the pastor and start looking at your own soul. This one step frees everyone to do the good works planned for us before the beginning of time.

Worship is the one activity that only humans are privileged to perform.  Other biological creatures can share affection, mate (sometimes for life), rear families, feel grief, even make tools. They can form highly sophisticated societies and build amazing structures.  They can play games, share tasks, watch over one another.  But we, and only we, can worship and acknowledge that we are privileged to know and be known by God.  This is a privilege to be taken seriously and joyfully--and not discarded on a heap of excuses.  

Reason Number One

Today, I've reached the final excuse that actually sparked the whole series of the top fifteen reasons for avoiding transformational worship gatherings.  

The other fourteen ranged from complaints about the checkered history of the church to frustration over unclear and divergent doctrines to the personal sense of feeling unworthy, unwelcomed, or unknowledgable about the mysteries of church language and customs.  

One excuse, "God will understand," suggests that God doesn't expect us to live in holiness, but is perfectly happy for us to give into in and all impulses, no matter how base or unworthy they might be. 

Some excuses blamed outside factors: children's scheduled activities, the inability of church people to live from their stated beliefs, the call for financial generosity.

This final, and first reason, is the most personal of them.  Excuse Number One, "I don't go to worship because the pastor (pick one or several of the following): 

 

• Didn't make me feel good.
• Disagreed with me about something.
• Didn't do what I asked.
• Didn't visit me often enough when I was in the hospital.
• Doesn't call enough on the shut-ins.
• Didn't speak to me on Sunday morning.
• Speaks to too many people on Sunday mornings.
• Is in the church building too much of the time.
• Is out of the church building too much of the time.
• Forgot that it was my birthday/anniversary.
• Preaches for too long a time.
• Preaches for too short a time.
• Prays too much.
• Doesn't pray enough.
• Can't carry a tune.
• Sings too loudly.
• Didn't come by to see me when I was down.
• Didn't figure out that I needed a phone call.
• Is a poor administrator.
• Spends too much time on administration.
• Missed some important outside events.
• Goes to too many outside events.
• Spends too much time studying.
• Doesn't spend enough time studying.
• Focuses too much on the future vision of the church.
• Doesn't have a vision for the future of the church.
• Acted human instead of as a god-like and perfect creature.

"The pastor didn't make me feel good."  All the rest emerge from that rarely spoken, invisible but inviolate job description floating around that says, "The job of the pastor is to make sure that I feel good."  

What an impossible burden.  If the pastor didn't make you feel good, then the pastor is a failure and you have no reason worship the Almighty God.  

No wonder they crucified Jesus!  Gospel accounts make it excruciatingly clear that it was his intention to do his Father's will, no matter what anyone thought or felt about it. People didn't like it then, and people don't like it now.  

Add to this the fact that pastors, unlike Jesus, are excruciatingly human, and prone to all human failures and foibles.  It is no wonder that many, many clergy at least mentally write a resignation letter on Monday mornings.  Failure lurks around every corner.

We become most aware of God's image residing upon us when we assume full responsibility for who we are and what we are feeling.  We most advance the possibility of healing of the world when we work out our own salvation with fear and trembling, and then link arms to transform the society around us.  Quit blaming the pastor and start looking at your own soul. This one step frees everyone to do the good works planned for us before the beginning of time.

Worship is the one activity that only humans are privileged to perform.  Other biological creatures can share affection, mate (sometimes for life), rear families, feel grief, even make tools. They can form highly sophisticated societies and build amazing structures.  They can play games, share tasks, watch over one another.  But we, and only we, can worship and acknowledge that we are privileged to know and be known by God.  This is a privilege to be taken seriously and joyfully--and not discarded on a heap of excuses.  

Lost Things

I finally confessed to Keith today that I had managed to lose a number of his socks. Somehow, before we married and when he was still doing his own laundry, his socks always matched up perfectly. I've always had leftover socks. When all my sons were young, just matching socks was a huge weekly chore and I always kept a bag of mismatched ones which I would periodically pull out and try to make pairs from them. Eventually, the unpaired ones would be cut up and used for cleaning rags. Yes, lost socks.

Several months ago, I was driving on LBJ freeway in Dallas and saw the middle cushion to a sofa resting on the side of the freeway. Just the middle cushion. I immediately visualized some woman looking with disbelief at her husband/boyfriend who had transported their new sofa, "You what? You lost the cushion on the way home? Don't you realize I will NEVER be able to match the fabric on this couch and now it is ruined?" A lost cushion.

Periodically, I lose my debit card. I'm always just stuffing it in a pocket after using it, and than have a frantic search for it later. Earlier this summer, the frantic search turned up nothing. Had to get a new one. I'm betting the lost card will appear someday, useless and dead.

I had a thriving cherry tomato plant in my garden, all ready to put out an abundance of blooms as soon as the weather cools, ensuring me a good supply of those sweet tiny tomatoes. But in my necessary neglect of the garden recently, some of those gorgeous butterflies that have graced us for some time now did what butterflies do: laid eggs, which hatched into voracious caterpillars. Within days, that huge plant was stripped. That tomato plant is now lost.

And now I'm losing my mother. Her stroke was 15 to 16 days ago. Actually, strokes, for there were several. This independent, brilliant woman initially gave us hope of recovery. But my own hope is fading. She seems to me to be declining mentally more each day, and while some movement has returned to her left arm, she is unable to do even the most basics of self-care tasks. She can't call for a nurse if she needs it. She can't feed herself, toilet herself, bathe herself, dress herself, or express herself with more than just a few words, often impossible to hear. She can no longer read--and she was an extraordinary well-read woman. She did try to write yesterday a bit--she seems to think we are making a movie about rehab, but I couldn't make out more. Fascinating way to integrate what is going on with her.

I am now back to the questions I asked at the very beginning of this crisis: How does one go about dying in our society? Why can't we embrace this natural act fearlessly?

I think about the neurologist in the hospital and realize that I never heard from her a full picture of the damage to my mother's brain. I never asked to see the results of the scan; I never asked to have them explained to me; and this was also never offered to me. All I heard was, "multiple stokes, both sides of the brain, but right side mostly gone." I also know that brains can heal, but in an 88 year old women who has lived a sedentary life, who has had untreated high blood pressure for years, who is clearly worn out now and was very much wearing out before this happened? Her skin is beginning to break down, she has completely lost her cough reflex, so can't clear her lungs, has no feeling in her left hand, and goodness only knows what else. So we have her in a $1000/day facility where the cost is currently being covered by Medicare and for what? 

I've expressed this before and will say it again. I love my mother. She gave life and gave it generously. Full of hospitable graciousness, long suffering with my father, intellectually curious, sociable and gregarious, kind to all and especially to her grandchildren, fiscally careful and wise--all these phrases describe her. 

Now, I ask this: am I loving her well at this point? I know this is not the way I want to be treated when I get to this point. I want to be taken home, gently nursed, generously medicated to ensure I have no pain, and left to drift off.

But there is always the "what if . . ." What if I am premature? I do not want to hurry the process. But I also do not want to unnecessarily delay it if the delay causes any distress for her. 

We really don't know how to die, do we?

Excuse Number Two

Several weeks ago, I watched this year's induction into the Football Hall of Fame.  In almost every case, these exceptional athletes first gave honor to discipline of practicing their faith as a key factor in their athletic success. Clearly, church life had permeated their hearts and minds. Football was their occupation; excellence their goal; but the development of their souls through worship was not discarded or put aside in the process.

I was reminded then of a story Jesus told to his followers about a man who decided to have a big dinner party.  He told people about it ahead of time, and when all the preparations were complete, invited his guests to show up.  In response, they started making excuses for non-attendance:  property, animals, family obligations.  Now, the man who decided to have the party got pretty upset that these people chose not to keep their commitments.  He sent out messengers to bring in others to the party.  And then the story ends with the line, "no one originally invited will get a place at my table."

I've been pondering that story as I agonize over Excuse Number Two for not being in worship. "I can't be there because my children have a sport event, sport practice, birthday party, band practice, stock show, etc."  

Everybody needs to develop body, mind and soul in order to prepare for healthy adulthood. Extra-curricular activities serve a vital role in this process.  The activity of being part of a team, and of developing a talent, whether it be athletic, musical, intellectual, vocational or artistic, help form the foundation of a person.  Friendships form, and great memories are developed. That's not the problem.

Where I wrestle, and I wrestle greatly with this, is that these activities have replaced God.  Mind and body development alone cannot stand healthily without the third leg of soul development.

I implore parents to start saying "no" to extra-currucular activities that insist on routine Sunday morning practices, games and events.  Yes, special events do take place.  Yes, there are occasional tournaments that mean weekends gone.  But children and youth who grow up with no knowledge of God and have seen their faith development given no priority will not return later to figure it out.  They've seen from their parents that it is unimportant, and rarely change that pattern.  

Those who have no understanding of the Bible are severely hampered when studying literature. References to biblical stories abound in great literature, and ignorance is not bliss.  More and more scholars are recognizing that biblically and religiously ignorant people cannot comprehend properly much of what is happening in the world.  

Those are just academic and political facts.  It gets worse. Societies that intentionally refuse to acknowledge that there is an external authority, namely God, who does have a claim on our lives, ultimately degrade into wanton evil. We're not that far from it. 

We put our eternal souls in peril when we decide to worship something besides God. 

Adults must be adults here and stop this process.  I know it is easier to go along and give into the pressure that says, "But Mom, Dad, if I don't play or practice on Sunday, I'll get kicked out." 

I understand the pressure.  No one wants their children to suffer this way.  But all will pay a huge price for this.  Individually, societally, morally, politically:  we will pay.  Going along to get along ends up costing everything.  

I return to the story Jesus told:  Those who were invited to the party and made their excuses, "But my child has a team practice" may not get another invitation.  Those are hard words and I personally don't like them.  I want lots of lots of invitations and tons of tolerance for my excuses.  But apparently God does run out of patience at some point.   

I just continue to pray, "May God have mercy on us and our misplaced priorities."  We need it.

The Loss of a Generation

Why is this situation with my mother hitting me so hard?  For what reason do I find myself in inconsolable tears so much of the time?

I am beginning to think that the loss I see happening with her represents to me the loss of a whole generation.  A generation of people who actively pursued right; who suffered deprivation, who gave up so much to fight a war overseas, who lived up to their civic duties, who practiced their Christianity.

Yes, we had many quibbles with them.  Their boring box houses, their conventionalities, their fear of debt, their willingness to stay married no matter what. We baby boomers would do it better.  But we didn't.  We have contributed to a decline that we may not be able to pull out of.  We are selfish and we have raised selfishness to an art form and those following us are taking it to even higher levels. The idea of sacrifice for the greater good cannot penetrate our hedonistic brains.

My mother's generation faced pain and learned from it. We avoid pain and learn nothing in the process.  Comfort is our god; our own puny minds sit enthroned as ultimate power--we will not acknowledge that God is God and actually has a claim on our lives.  No, we will create our own tiny and tinny little gods that we can control.  And we will think there are no consequences from such actions.  But there are.  Oh yes, there are.

My mothers generation practiced discipline and service of others.  We practice self-indulgence and gratification of our own desires.  If it feels good, do it.  That was our mantra and it is now so thoroughly engrained in the current generation of youth and children that 12 year olds are actively engaged in sex.  After all, it does feel good.  The ideas of restraint and self-control strike them as hopelessly out of date. 

In my current exhaustion, I sense a overwhelming sadness taking hold. My awareness grows that there is little I can do to fix this, except be faithful and in that faithfulness, quit telling God how I want my life to go and start being much more willing to say, "Not my will, but Thine." 

I see my struggle with what is right transferring to the life of the church.  We too want what we want, not necessarily what God wants.  I look at myself:  I want to build a successful church, be known as the pastor who made it happen.  Yes, I do indeed want to be god. 

What if God is calling me into that place of death as well?  The place, where, like Jonah in that nasty fish belly, all pretensions are stripped away? The place where I fully acknowledge my own finiteness, my own tendency to make questionable decisions and to run away from the challenging call of God, the place where I look myself squarely in the face and say, "Christy, you really do need a Savior." 

What if God is calling me to be a failure?  Jonah, after all, was ultimately a failure--and his story is so much our story. 

Lots of questions.  So few answers. 

As for my mother . . . sometime in the next 24-48 hours, a "PEG line" a semi-permanent feeding tube, will be inserted into her stomach.  This is the best thing we can do to ensure that she gets adequate nutrients and a chance to recover.  When I spoke with the physician who evaluated her for the procedure, she didn't pull any punches.  The chances of another stroke are very high.  But . . . this appears to be the best of all options, so we are going forward. 

She appears to be much more alert today.  The mild sedation needed for the insertion of the tube will probably affect that alertness negatively, but we hope that will be a minor step backward and one accompanied by steps forward soon after.  Even with the beginnings of her swallowing reflex showing up, there is no way to start regular mouth feeding safely.

A feeding tube . . . I hate the idea.  I hear horror stories of elderly people with no mental life left being kept alive for years with Ensure and a feeding tube.  I hope they are apocryphal. But we are doing what we must at this point to give her the best support available for recovery.

A Brief Respite In the Garden and With Family

It has been eight days now since my mother was found with her massive and multiple strokes.  I spent the first six days with her, although I did start going home at nights.

Yesterday, Friday, I just couldn't go.  I needed to get back to work, to get the message ready for Sunday, to meet with my staff who have been at a vital seminar all week that I had to miss, and to start facing the challenges here.

I also needed to give the parsonage a swift pick up as my son and daughter-in-law who live in London decided to fly over and see me.

Yes, they came to see me.  They came out of love for their grandma, but more out of concern for me and my own agonies with this situation with my mother. What kindness!

So, Keith, my sweet husband, who himself has been battling what seems like a never ending storm of kidney stones, went grocery shopping.  I invited my brother, who is here from California, and my sister and her husband to join us for dinner.

Keith put on a royal feast for us.  I had been eating hospital food off paper and plastic all week, so decided to get out the good china.  As I set the table, I realized I didn't have a centerpiece, so dashed to the very neglected garden and found some lovely celosia and zinnia blooms from plants that had managed to stay alive in the burning heat and packed them together in a crystal bowl. 

We feasted on marvelous appetizers, a combination of sushi, sashimi, and shrimp.  Keith had purchased a tenderloin, and took orders as to the way we wanted it fixed.  Multiple salads preceded the perfectly cooked meat, accompanied by grilled vegetables.  A choice of desserts (Crème brûlée or chocolate mouse) followed.  We relaxed, satiated.  My son and daughter in law, exhausted from their travels (they had been vacationing in Abu Dhabi, so flew from there, dropped their children off in London, and then came here), went to sleep, and my brother, sister and I continued our conversation about our mother.

We're doing all the right things.  Actively researching rehab centers, looking into the complexities of medicare reimbursement policies, making contingency plans.  We are intentionally doing all we can to delay her release from the hospital to give her more time to regain some strength so she can actually respond to the therapists at the rehab center.  Otherwise, we waste precious and limited rehab days because she can't do the work necessary to progress.

When we are in the hospital room with her, we intentionally stand or sit on her left side to force her to start using that side of her body again.  We put swabs in her mouth to encourage her to start to swallow.  When the therapists come in to work with her we . . . well, we try to keep her awake.  And this is the problem:  she doesn't want to wake up.  The coma-like sleep continues and does not seem to be lessening.  Her heart stays in a-fib unless on a constant drip of some regulating medication.  From that moment of unusual clarity on Monday, her confusion seems to be growing, not decreasing.

But when the therapists come, they say loudly, "Mrs. Thomas, wake up!" We join in, "Mother, wake up.  Work with the therapist!"  I was out in the hall a couple of days ago when the speech therapist was there.  I heard my sister shout in what sounds like such an angry tone, "WAKE UP, MOMMA."  Yes, wake up.

But she doesn't want to. She just wants to sleep.  She's tired.  She worn out.  She's ready to go.  She passively submits to whatever is being done in her half wake state and then drifts back to sleep.  This is not my mother.

And I know this is not what she wants.  We had talked too much about this.  This is not what she wants.  Catheters, feeding tubes, medication drips, strangers all over her body, trampling the privacy of a private woman. 

This morning, I spent a couple of hours in my neglected garden, knowing it was alive at all only because Krum was one of the places that saw some rain this week.  I rummaged around and found two full-grown eggplants, dozens of okra pods, most too mature to cook, but still enough for a good pot of heavenly fried okra, and, much to my surprise, two ripe cherry tomatoes, which I immediately picked and gave to my daughter-in-law for a special treat.  I found enough sweet peppers for my son to put in the frittata he was fixing for breakfast (how my three sons all turned into such good cooks after growing up in my household will forever remain a mystery--perhaps it was just a survival mechanism), and noted that while the basil has gone to seed, there is still plenty to enjoy.  But much needs to be pulled and placed in the compost bins.  Time for them to decompose and give life to the next generation of plants. 

Death comes.  There are times to fight it with every piece of medical genius available.  And there is a time to welcome it as a good friend, and start looking for the angels to take us to the next place. 

I want to do the right thing.  But I know very well how disappointed she'd be in me to know about these decisions.  Thousands and thousands of dollars being spent in what are clearly the last weeks or maybe months of her life, imprisoned in her body in an impersonal hospital room, when what she wanted was comfort care and her own home. 

Health care is a limited resource.  We're she adequately cognizant, the first thing she would say is, "That money should be spent on saving the lives of children, or younger people suffering these debilitating strokes, not prolonging mine when it is time for me to go." 

Why can't we cooperate with nature?  What are we missing here?  The last thing I want is to see the elderly routinely dispatched into hastened deaths.  Those elderly are our national treasure.  They are the repositories of wisdom.  They embody our history.  They are our important link with the past so perhaps we might create a more adequate future.  They are our beloved parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents. They deserve love, care and utmost respect.  And they deserve to be treated better than this at the end.

Hospitals and other Thoughts, August 18, 2010

In the few hours of sleep I had last night, I kept having dreams that I was facing multiple impossible tasks.  There was also some sort of poisonous snake or lizard that infiltrated the bookcases.  It would be in plain sight and then hide away again.  I woke this morning in despair.  I have this sense that by going ahead and arranging for her to be fed that I am condemning my mother to a life consisting of a slow descent to hell.  We'll keep her alive, and her heart pumping, and she will never get out of bed again.  

My brother flew in last night and I filled him in on everything.  It is good to have him here.  I have this feeling that the hospital folks want her out of here as soon as possible and she will only qualify for skilled nursing at this point.  If she is not at a place that has an incentive to get her from skilled nursing to rehab, then my worst fears will be realized.

When I got to the hospital today, my sister and brother were already here. They had found her as has been the case extremely unresponsive again. Not able to awaken.  She was taken for a CT scan then and that did wake her up.  

We talked with her for a while.  She moves in and out of awareness of what is going on, but clearly does not understand the severity of her stroke.  One of her Sunday School class members came by.  For a number of years (I don't know how many and when I asked her, she said she started writing it in 1940--but I think it was closer to 1970), she has written a weekly article for her church paper about her Sunday School class.  Week in, week out, she has managed to condense the lesson into its main point, recognize visitors, celebrate marriages (of grandchildren and great grandchildren!), mention those who were ill, and mourn the passing of long term members.  Mother said to her visitor, "I'll be there on Sunday and will write the column on Monday as I always go."  I so wish . . . 

She just mentioned that she wanted to take me and Keith to dinner and to send some food home with us so I'd have something to eat.  Her incredible kindness and concern for others continues to shine through.  What sweetness.  When she's awake, she thanks everyone who does something for her.  The habit of courtesy will not leave her.  

She wants to get up.  I'm using her walker as a chair since there are not enough chairs in here.  She keeps asking for it.  We're just delaying, not really speaking truth to her.  Is this helpful?  

We are still waiting for the neurologist to appear and give us today's assessment.  We must be patient. I know that.  I also know I'm near total exhaustion and this is not good.  So, the day continues.  And we wait.  And we wait.  And we wait.  

Hospitals and other Thoughts, August 17, 2010

For the fifth day now, I am sitting in my mother's hospital room at Medical City Hospital in Dallas.  After a really massive stroke sometime Thursday night, my sister found her Friday afternoon and she was brought here.

Roller coaster ride--first it looked like she'd recover, then her heart headed back to the state that caused the stroke to begin with and they insisted that she be moved to the cardiology floor.  On the neurology floor, she was getting good attention for her neurological issues.  On the cardiology floor, we spent a long weekend trying to get some information and seeing her physical functioning issues being ignored.

Yesterday, we were sure she had bought the farm when a CT scan showed further bleeding into her brain and she started having seizures.  I called my brother in California, told him what was going on and asked him to come and be here so we could make some very hard decisions together.

And then, last night, she woke up.  And I do mean woke up.  She, my sister and I talked for a good hour together.  She was coherent, alert and aware of what had happened.  She agreed to a feeding tube through her nose ("wow, that sounds really uncomfortable!" was her initial response to it) in order to get some nutrition into her since she still couldn't pass the "swallow test."  She agreed that she'll go to rehab and work hard and get back on her feet.  Her speech was clear--she didn't even sound as though she had experienced the stoke. A sense of humor that had never been seen before just popped up and she cracked some jokes. Magical, mysterious time.

And now, Tuesday morning--I'm here with her, and she keeps opening her eyes and doesn't seem to know that I am here.  

I am so torn.  None of us want for ourselves what she is experiencing.  I keep writing my sons with updates and reminding them, "Just put me on the ice flow" when I get to this point.  I had spent some time with them this summer wrestling with whether to purchase long-term care insurance for myself.  The cost is prohibitive.  By purchasing on it, I dramatically lower my already limited available funds just in case I need it later.  By not purchasing it, I gamble with the financial future of my children in case I need to be warehoused somewhere.  

We have made a mess of the dying process.  I just don't know how else to put it.  

I want my mother to have every chance to return to the life she has so enjoyed.  The life of her books, her radio, her friends, her family, her church, her solitude, her fun with the stock market, her crossword puzzles.  Yesterday, she asked for her crossword puzzle.  Jill brought the paper up, and we put on her glasses and set her up so she could work on it.  She said, "I don't have my red pen!"  She always does them in red pen.  Fortunately, the really kind nurse (and we have had all male nurses since we've been here--which I find fascinating), found her one.  Of course, she couldn't do it, although she did manage to write the date down as she is trying to reorient herself.  I showed that to the occupational therapist today when she came in and found mother so out of it again.  "Look," I said.  "She wrote the date down.  Don't write her off--her brain is still there."  I don't think I convinced her but she agreed to come later in the day when there seem to be more chance of Mother being more alert.

Yes, this is what I want for her.  But as I see her getting more and more sucked into the medicalized world of the end of life process, I wonder what I am doing. 

I also wonder if she is being starved to death. She has had nothing but sugar water for five days now and she had eaten very little for a couple of days before the stroke because she had a stomach upset.  A phone call I just received from an old friend whose wife had suffered a devastating stroke pushed this question into high gear.  He just insisted that a central line be put in for nutrition several days after her stoke when she too, was going into this terrible lethargy.  Within two hours, she perked up and her recovery, long and complicated, actually began.  I think it is time for me to do something about this.

Just after I wrote these words, a physical therapist came in wanting to get her up.  We can't wake her.  I told him what I wanted and he said he'd try to get the ball rolling.  

If you read this, please pray for us.

Reason Number Three

From the beginning of this series on why people avoid worship, I’ve defined worship as a time when unrelated people gather together to acknowledge God and intentionally move beyond our humanness into an understanding of the Holy. An integral part of transformational worship lies in the connection we make with others think differently than we do.

Connection between humans requires vulnerability where we expose who we are, what life forces have shaped us, and what we value most. Think about it: the ones whom we love most richly are also the ones about whom we know the most. Interestingly, the ones about whom we know the most are also the ones who tend to be most challenging in our lives. Communal worship glues us together in both our love and this challenge.

However, the process of opening ourselves to others may take us on such a treacherous path of betrayal and judgment that the hermit’s hut or some place of superficial engagement seems more desirable than a worship gathering where we may become known by others. 

Ultimately this fear of exposure brings up Excuse Number Three, “I’m not good enough to go to church. I’ll show up when I get my act together.”

This excuse cripples the process of personal transformation.

The Christian journey is not one of getting better and sinning less each day, but is one of growing awareness of the everlasting human tendency to substitute anything, just anything, for God. All activities, possessions, emotions, relationships, habits, occupations, times, families, illnesses, sport . . . every one can and is turned into something to worship that takes the place of the often scary encounter with a Holy God. 

Our abilities to deceive ourselves over our idolatry are so well-honed that they make Superman’s ability to run faster than a speeding train look like he’s doing a clumsy version of the Hokey Pokey in comparison. Communal worship, study, and accountability are the tools that expose our blindness. When those scales fall off, the sort of repentance that pushes open grace-doors to their widest point blows through us. Then we can say, “My Lord and my God! Have mercy on me” and know that we have indeed received it.

Churches have always been for the broken, not the put-together. Jesus made it clear that he didn’t come for those who already had it all together, but for the sinner, the distraught, the suffering, the oppressed, the poor in spirit, the hungry, the naked, the ashamed. 

The process of healing, the walk to wholeness, the journey to salvation--however you want to term it--takes place in community. Slowly, we lay plank after plank on the bridge of trust, both in God and in one another. Joyfully and painfully, we open ourselves for examination and freedom from our idol worship. 

We talk, sing, pray, work and serve together. We teach the children, mentor the teens, comfort the ill, feed the hungry and clothe the naked. We celebrate births and death, weddings and divorces, heart breaks and heart bursts together. We praise God and pray through tears with one another. We wrestle with sacred texts and hone our interpretative skills in a mutual sharing of knowledge and wisdom.

But we do it together, with all our flaws and our flatulence, our posings and our posturings, our hopes and our helplessness. This is corporate worship--and no one who is willing to engage in this practice, no matter how broken, sin-ridden, troubled, lost, angry, full of hate and doubt, tortured by anguish, bled by addictions--no one should be turned away by a place that calls itself a place where the grace of God may be found. This is the nature of true worship.

Reason Number Four

At our church, we often have a "stump the pastor" time during part of the morning service. Members of the congregation are free to pose any questions on their mind concerning the Christian faith and see how quickly I can come up with an articulate and biblically accurate response. One Sunday, a younger member who had been reading some work by Shane Claiborne asked, "In order to be fully Christian, do I have to give away everything I have?" Good question. Complicated answer.

How much are we to give? How do we balance giving to God with caring for family and other financial obligations?

This question leads to Excuse Number Four for avoiding worship: "Churches ask for money and I don't have any to give."

Most of us know the story of the rich young man who came to Jesus and wanted eternal life. After Jesus learned that the young man already practiced following the commandments, he told him, "Give away everything you have and follow me." The young man walked sadly away. He couldn't do it.

Is that a universal request? I don't think so. But I do know that the story makes a vital point: we can serve God or we can serve money. We can't serve both.

I have personally made two important discoveries after many years of wrestling with this: First, giving away a minimum of 10% of what I bring in has become one of the most freeing disciplines I have ever practiced. It teaches me deep gratefulness for what I do have, and I find I have little or no yearning for what I don't have. Second, money and possessions are demanding and ultimately ugly taskmasters. I, as did the rich young man, had to learn that if I possess something I can't give away, it actually owns me. I don't own it. This doesn't mean I must give everything away. It does mean I might need to someday, and it is good to be ready.

Ultimately, I am a steward of my possessions, not their owner. As a steward, I have an obligation to care well for them, to handle my finances with integrity, and to be prepared to hand them over to the real owner at any time. Such a mindset releases joy. It sets me free from the of golden handcuffs of thinking money or possessions are mine. They are not.

Yes, churches do ask for money. They do so because learning to give is an important spiritual discipline. Generous giving teaches us to trust in God, to learn that God's economy operates very differently from human economy, and to acknowledge that God's economy ultimately does win. 

A church should handle its finances with watchful holiness. That means transparent financial books, including clergy compensation figures, with this information freely available to anyone who asks. If this is not the case, beware. 

But a church of people who practice the discipline of giving is able to effectively use those funds for a transformation of the world. The leadership board, instead of sitting around glumly wondering how to get more money out of people, now spends time asking, "God, who would you have us feed today? Who needs clothing? Who needs medical care? Who can we send that would be particularly effective in bringing the good news of Your grace and love to the oppressed, the suffering, the imprisoned? What children can we help? Who needs to be set free and how can we do this?"

This is the mission of the church and the church is remarkably effective at both personal and societal transformation. But its effectiveness depends on people learning the freedom of generosity. It sounds paradoxical, but those who practice it know this: the one who gives freely ends up with far more riches than the one who says, "I have nothing to give." I have never figured out how it works. But I know it does.

Reason Number Five

Two experiences radically change our perception of the world:  First: travel that takes us a long way outside normal routines;  second: learning a new language.  

Why? They expand our awareness of our interior lives and our habits.  That which is normally rote and routine suddenly becomes challenging, even scary. 

Adventurous travel means going from the known to the much less known, or even the unknown. It carries some element of danger and discomfort.  Luxury travel packages seek to lessen that discomfort by surrounding the traveler with as many buffers as possible and by eliminating much of the risk of different places and customs.  However, those disruptions and differences themselves actually mark the life of the successful traveler.  They give insight into our daily norms and help us question why we do what we do.

Learning a new language offers similar insight.  We must think about each word and phrase. Especially for adults seeking to speak in another tongue, nothing comes easily.  We must work exceptionally hard to hear others and to make ourselves understood.  But the very act of learning another language also opens the brain to very different ways of thinking and perceiving the world.

Yet, few of us really travel adventurously (trips to amusement parks, even with multiple children in two, cannot be classified as "adventurous" travel), and even fewer of us here seek fluency in a language not our own. Most of us prefer the familiar.  It takes less energy to stick with what we know.

All this brings me to Excuse Number Five for avoiding times of gathered worship:  "I don't know the songs or the liturgy or the Scriptures or the customs."  Frankly, going into an unfamiliar worship experience can be much like landing in a foreign country where we don't have a clue has to how to read the road signs and there is no map to help out.  Verbal instructions sound like so much gibberish, as do all languages when we've never heard them before.  It's easy to get frustrated and embarrassed and decide, "Never again."  It can also change our lives so that things will never be the same again, and in a very good way.

The language concerning grace-filled living does not come naturally to most of us. Words that acknowledge our awareness and awe at the immanence and transcendence of a Holy God are radically different from our usual speech.  It takes practice to learn to speak this way. 

In addition, the music played and sung in different worship services challenges us. The language of classic hymns, often littered with "thee's" and "thou's" and archaic terms (does anyone really know what an Ebenezer is?) leave many puzzled, although such music is often filled with great theology.  Contemporary songs have their own problems and are equally unfamiliar to those not accustomed to them. And I haven't even begun to address the issue of liturgical vs. non-liturgical worship customs along with dozens of other unknowns that confront the novice worshipper.

But . . . I must ask this:  Why must it be "easy" to go to worship?  Why should we not demand the most of ourselves in order to acknowledge the greatness of God and seek to learn something that can and should expand our brains and souls to their greatest capacities?  

We live in a world where leisure, free time, electronics and visual stimulation have become gods to us.  We head to familiar chain restaurants in new cities because the familiar is easier. We avoid the challenge of the unfamiliar in order to keep from having to address the nature of our often stuck lives. How terribly sad that we miss the best because we won't discipline ourselves to embrace something different from the ordinary. Yes, it is difficult to walk into a worship space from which we have long been absent or one we have never seen before.  But it is worth it.

Excuse Number Six

When I watch TV, I enjoy some forensic science shows and medical dramas. I suppose I've watched enough of them now that I could easily hang out my shingle and perform delicate brain surgery.  Would you be willing to be a candidate for my first try?

Only a fool would answer "yes" to that question.  Watching McDreamy on Grey's Anatomy hardly qualifies me to cut into someone's scalp and do a delicate dissection (nor does it qualify McDreamy, for that matter).  Yet, there is not much difference in me doing this than in the statement I hear so often that constitutes Excuse Number Six for ignoring times of gathered worship:  "I'm spiritual but not religious."

What fascinating hogwash.  Such hubris dismisses years and years of scholarship with a simple, "I know more than you do."  It says, "My feelings about God, however vague and unformed, do not need the discipline of examination, study, and exposure to different ideas in order to develop and grow healthily." 

I am, as those who know me best are aware, an avid reader. I love it when someone recommends a book or website to me that contains accessible scholarship and well-reasoned arguments--even when I disagree with the major premises. I'm facinated by Stalin's Soviet Union, and India's quest for and achievement of independence from Great Britain.  I find the science of nutrition intriguing, the off-beat books on behavioral economics insightful, and the study and implementation of family systems theory to be enlightening.  I know a little about all of those areas, but I am not an expert, even after years of reading, on a single one of them. Trust me on this:  don't trust me to do brain surgery. 

I have often seen these "spiritual but not religious people" with their unformed spirituality get caught up in cults led by charismatic personalities because they have not taken the time to examine the presuppositions informing the so-called spiritual activities taking place.  We've all heard about them--suicide cults, the fundamentalist polygamous groups, mind-control organizations that empty pocketbooks in the name of gaining secret knowledge.  These are full of spiritual people who are scarily ignorant about the nature of their faith.

Sadly, the word "religious" has become pejorative for many sophisticated people.  They see those who identify themselves as religious as little-minded, backward, uninformed, and unthinking.  The term "organized religion" is even worse--as though there is something wrong with organization, and utter chaos is preferred. 

Yet, I, too, have my problems with institutionalized religion.  I define institutional religion as a religous body whose energies are primarily devoted to keeping that particular institution alive.  The focus on a holy and wholly other God who seeks good, not evil, for the world has been lost.   

We are all spiritual beings.  Even those who have decided that God cannot possibly exist and the physical life is all there is often have a sense of spiritual connection with other people or with something in nature. 

This spirituality provides meaning and transcendence.  An exploration of that intrinsic spirituality by engaging in the historic disciplines of religious formation will test it and prove it and discover its strengths and weaknesses.  Those disciplines include prayer, study of the Holy Scriptures, and gathering with others in corporate worship where we can learn from others and teach them as well.  

The isolated "spiritual but not religious" person cannot develop that sense fully any more than a baby, isolated from birth from human contact, will grow into a well-developed and socially adept adult.  We need each other for this. 

It is frightening how much people just don't know about religion.  Yet, religious beliefs underlie many world decisions, some of which mean life or death to hundred and thousands.  Developing one's spirituality in the context of an open, questioning, worshipping group of people is an act that could easily change the entire world.  Ignorance hurts and destroys. 

Excuse Number Six

When I watch TV, I enjoy some forensic science shows and medical dramas. I suppose I've watched enough of them now that I could easily hang out my shingle and perform delicate brain surgery.  Would you be willing to be a candidate for my first try?

Only a fool would answer "yes" to that question.  Watching McDreamy on Grey's Anatomy hardly qualifies me to cut into someone's scalp and do a delicate dissection (nor does it qualify McDreamy, for that matter).  Yet, there is not much difference in me doing this than in the statement I hear so often that constitutes Excuse Number Six for ignoring times of gathered worship:  "I'm spiritual but not religious."

What fascinating hogwash.  Such hubris dismisses years and years of scholarship with a simple, "I know more than you do."  It says, "My feelings about God, however vague and unformed, do not need the discipline of examination, study, and exposure to different ideas in order to develop and grow healthily." 

I am, as those who know me best are aware, an avid reader. I love it when someone recommends a book or website to me that contains accessible scholarship and well-reasoned arguments--even when I disagree with the major premises. I'm facinated by Stalin's Soviet Union, and India's quest for and achievement of independence from Great Britain.  I find the science of nutrition intriguing, the off-beat books on behavioral economics insightful, and the study and implementation of family systems theory to be enlightening.  I know a little about all of those areas, but I am not an expert, even after years of reading, on a single one of them. Trust me on this:  don't trust me to do brain surgery. 

I have often seen these "spiritual but not religious people" with their unformed spirituality get caught up in cults led by charismatic personalities because they have not taken the time to examine the presuppositions informing the so-called spiritual activities taking place.  We've all heard about them--suicide cults, the fundamentalist polygamous groups, mind-control organizations that empty pocketbooks in the name of gaining secret knowledge.  These are full of spiritual people who are scarily ignorant about the nature of their faith.

Sadly, the word "religious" has become pejorative for many sophisticated people.  They see those who identify themselves as religious as little-minded, backward, uninformed, and unthinking.  The term "organized religion" is even worse--as though there is something wrong with organization, and utter chaos is preferred. 

Yet, I, too, have my problems with institutionalized religion.  I define institutional religion as a religous body whose energies are primarily devoted to keeping that particular institution alive.  The focus on a holy and wholly other God who seeks good, not evil, for the world has been lost.   

We are all spiritual beings.  Even those who have decided that God cannot possibly exist and the physical life is all there is often have a sense of spiritual connection with other people or with something in nature. 

This spirituality provides meaning and transcendence.  An exploration of that intrinsic spirituality by engaging in the historic disciplines of religious formation will test it and prove it and discover its strengths and weaknesses.  Those disciplines include prayer, study of the Holy Scriptures, and gathering with others in corporate worship where we can learn from others and teach them as well.  

The isolated "spiritual but not religious" person cannot develop that sense fully any more than a baby, isolated from birth from human contact, will grow into a well-developed and socially adept adult.  We need each other for this. 

It is frightening how much people just don't know about religion.  Yet, religious beliefs underlie many world decisions, some of which mean life or death to hundred and thousands.  Developing one's spirituality in the context of an open, questioning, worshipping group of people is an act that could easily change the entire world.  Ignorance hurts and destroys. 

Excuse Number Seven

I really enjoy the theater.  I am fascinated by the art of an accomplished actor convincingly becoming another person.   Such a one displays expert play acting--and, by definition, is a hypocrite.  A hypocrite:  someone playing another part, pretending to be someone else.  So every time we go to see a performance, either live or on film, we are looking at a bunch of hypocrites.

Now, on the stage or in film, that kind of hypocrisy is accepted and admired.  While many of today's film stars have gained acclaim more by their off-stage antics than their on-stage abilities, most of us really do appreciate the hard work that goes into pretending to be someone else, especially when it is done live, with day after day performances.  However, we are less appreciative of those who claim to be God's people, but whose lives don't match that claim.  They also are play-actors, hypocrites.

And so, that brings us to Excuse Number Seven for avoiding times of worship:  "They are all hypocrites."

Yes, most of us are.  I know very few people who live lives of absolute authenticity.  In fact, most of us are taught hypocrisy from our parents.  "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."  "Son, go apologize to your sister.  I don't care of if you feel sorry, just go say that you are sorry."  "Learn self-control.  Behave yourself.  Get a handle on your anger and learn to quiet it down."

People who say everything that they feel or think are, at best, considered strange and hard to be around, and, at worst, mentally ill.  We practice hypocrisy in the name of politeness and good manners.  No one really wants to stop at a stop sign.  But we do, because if we don't, we'll probably hit or be hit by another car.  We  don't particularly like waiting in lines.  But we wait anyway in order to keep chaos at bay.  Hypocrisy promotes civil discourse and makes society possible.  It keeps the traffic flowing and mob mentality at bay.  Airplanes fly, trash gets picked up, and schools teach children effectively because people are hypocrites.  Thank goodness.

That is the positive side of hypocrisy.  But there is another insidious and destructive side:  insisting that others adhere to behavioral and moral standards that we ourselves feel free to ignore or violate. The wounds from such practice go deep into the soul.  I know far too many church-wounded people.  They come from an environment where a hypocritical righteousness led to a such a level of self-deception that a toxic miasma spread over the entire worshiping body. 

We all know what happens in such places.  Children are abused.  Broken people are discarded rather than being offered a place and time to heal.  Those who momentarily stumble are kicked aside.  As I heard once, "The church is the only army on earth that routinely shoots its wounded."  I, personally, experienced much of this when I endured a very difficult personal time about fifteen years ago.  The "righteous" wanted nothing to do with me.  I made them very uncomfortable.  Best to kick me out.

Frankly, I think such toxic places should be avoided.  So, is the excuse, "They are all hypocrites" a valid reason for staying away from a worshiping congregation?  No, for it is simply not true that all worshipers are self-deceived and destructive hypocrites. 

Many people who gather to worship God and practice spiritual disciplines do so with an acute awareness of the fact that they don't measure up to their own standards, much less God's standards of purity and holiness.  They come with humility, wanting grace, forgiveness and reconciliation.  They seek transformation so they might actually integrate what they feel and think privately with what they do and say publicly. 

Hypocrisy has its place.  Sometimes, we must play-act.  At its best, though, play-acting will eventually transform the soul, especially if we play-act the holy practices of worship, prayer, giving and service with a group of like-minded people.  Do not let the poor performance of some keep you from the life-giving hope of a gracious God.

Excuse Number Eight

As a real master of procrastination, I know the mantra, "I'll get to it later."  A couple of days ago, I sat down at my desk and looked at my "I'll get to it later" stack.  It was not a pretty moment.  Everything in me wanted just to shove it aside.  After all, I could get to it later. 

I bet I'm not alone.  Most everyone will occasionally delay tasks or the formation of habits that are difficult for the moment.  "I'll eat better tomorrow."  "Next week, I'll get the laundry caught up." "This semester, I will get all my reading ahead of time."  "I'll start tomorrow to build that important habit into my life."

An very unscientific survey of a random group of people turned up these tasks as highly subject to procrastination:  paying bills, sleeping, doing the laundry, cleaning the bedroom (this was echoed several times by teens), scrubbing the toilet, finishing writing projects, grocery shopping.  We'll get to all of this later when we have time, even though "later" doesn't come until the pressure gets so great that something has to be done about it.

So here we have Excuse Number Eight for skipping out on worship services: "I'll get there later when I have time."

The act of forming one's soul, learning about the nature of God, practicing the art of loving God and neighbor, exploring the nature of forgiveness and grace, intentionally entering the Holy Mystery, wrestling with our doubts, all in some sort of worship setting that may bring some discomfort . . . All this will happen later when we have time. 

Here is the problem:  we don't have time to form good and holy habits unless we simply start doing it.  We have to start, not just wish we had started or think about starting. We will never have time otherwise.

Time seems to be the most scarce commodity around these days.  The pressure is on.  We can't fit it all in. When I have time I'll write those letters, make those phone calls, pay those bills, hug my children, weed the garden . . . and make peace with God. 

But right now--?  Yes, right now, what? What will I do with the 24 hours a day given to me?  Will I be a good steward of those hours and build good habits that will last a lifetime and generations beyond?  Will I recognize that time spent in worship is not lost time, but promotes a way of being and seeing that helps me transcend pressures and make better decisions?

Here's what happens to me when I use the "I'll get to it later when I have time" excuse for important things. Panic, despair, living from crisis to crisis, no practiced paths of discipline and self-control. When difficult circumstances hit, I scream to God for immediate rescue.  And God had better have time for me, even though I've not bothered to give time to prepare my soul to receive that grace and hope in the midst of my darkness.

I spent hours that day working my way through that "when I have time" stack, piece of paper by piece of paper.  Financial issues I didn't want to face.  Stuff that needed to be tossed or filed. Lost information that I had laboriously replaced. Had I called upon the habit of dealing with these things immediately instead of letting them build up, the total time spent would have been far, far less.  "I'll get to it when I have time" ended up costing me a lot of time.

"When I have time" to get to worship means we'll never get there.  The habit of putting it off takes on a life of its own.  It becomes a given in our lives.  And it will end up costing everything.  

Messiest Desk in the Country

I was watching "Clean House" for a little while last night as they tackled the "messiest home in the country."  It was pretty horrific, to be sure.  I sat there wondering how on earth that family had managed to get into that mess, and feeling somewhat superior to them.

Then I came to work this morning to try to clear some things off my desk.  Now I know how they got into that mess:  neglect of the little things that could easily have been done in moments turns into big piles that will take me hours to sift through.

Simple procrastination. Not wanting to deal with some things.  Letting myself get buried in paper and clutter rather than clearing it as it comes.  And now . . .

I know I'll feel much better at the end of the day.  Just pick up one piece of paper at a time, figure out what to do with it, and then go to the next.  But how much I want to do anything but this!  "Let this cup pass from me," I pray in agony.  "Bring in the magic desk-cleaning fairy and fix all this," I demand of God. 

But then the words, "not my will, but Thine." 

Time to get to work.

Unless, of course, I can figure out a way to distract myself again!