Visiting

As a pastor, one significant part of my job is visiting people - the sick, the homebound, the grieving, and also the folks whom I see at church but may not really get a chance to talk to.

When I first considered being a pastor, this was the aspect of ministry I looked forward to the most. I did a lot of visiting during the year I spent in Slovakia, usually tagging along with the pastor, but sometimes by myself or with my host family, and it was part of what helped me discern this call to ministry - not because I loved it, but because I was so frustrated that, due to the language barrier, I couldn't engage with it better. "If only I could really communicate with these people beyond the few words I can pick up," I thought, "I would love visitation."

As it turned out, I was wrong.

Not all the time - sometimes I do love it, and I leave a visit energized, affirmed and content. But I am an extreme extrovert, and so a long period of concentrated time in which I don't have an opportunity to express myself externally drains me. Put me in front of a congregation all day long, put me at coffee hour, put me in meetings, put me in Bible studies, and I'm fine; but put me in the quiet of someone's hospital room and I've got maybe forty minutes before I need to get back in my car and sing along loudly with the music on my stereo. It is not something I like about myself (though it does serve me on Sunday mornings), but it is just the way I am built.

But this week, as a part of my pre-Christmas round of visits, I have had a couple of lovely encounters that have lifted my spirits and put me in awe of this aspect of my calling.

The first was with G. G. has recently moved into a memory care unit of her elderly care facility. She is at the excruciating point in her dementia that she recognizes how much she can't remember. She used to be able to laugh it off, saying, "My memory isn't what it used to be!" but now you can see the frustration in her face. When I arrived she was getting her hair done, so we chatted in the beauty parlor for a while, then headed back to her room. She could not remember how to get there. Even after I pointed her in the right direction, she was still very confused. A nurse came and helped her, encouraging her, telling G., "You know the way!" even as she gently guided her. Once we were safely in her room, I set up communion. As a part of the short service, I read her the Christmas story, then asked if she'd like to sing some carols. Back in the day, G. had a lovely alto voice, and sang strongly in the choir. Oh, did she love to sing! I asked her favorite, and we sang Silent Night - every word. It went so well, I suggested we sing Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and we did. I could see in her face that at first she was trying to remember the words, and then she just let go and sang them all, every last one of them, with nary a stutter. And to my surprise, on the final chorus, she broke into harmony! Again, on Joy to the World, she confidently belted out the harmony part throughout, perfectly in tune, every word in its place. What an incredible gift that this woman who literally cannot find her own way home, can still sing with joy the words of these carols that tell this story of God coming into our midst, adding her harmonies to those of the angels. Remarkable.

The second was with J. I had visited J. early on my time here, three years ago, but somehow she did not get on my usual rotation of visits, so I hadn't visited her since. She graciously welcomed me in, and I learned she had recently had some health issues, and was working on healing from that. Her family all lives 1000 miles away. She has a friend who helps get her to appointments. She is a fiercely independent woman, but is starting to come to terms with the fact that she may need help around the house. I could see how she struggled with this fact. I asked if she would like communion and she was delighted. I have done this a zillion times, so I started in with these familiar words, first the confession. I turned to her and said the usual absolution: "Almighty God has given his son to die for us and for his sake, forgives us all our sins. As a called and ordained..." and then J. burst into tears. I was stunned. I didn't know what to do, so I stopped, and reached out to hold her hand. Through tears she said, "I just need the Word of God so much."

Wow. Wow. Total reality check. This thing I do every Sunday and every home visit, that I can practically do in my sleep - I had taken it for granted. It never occurred to me how it is to hear those words, "For Jesus' sake, God forgives us all our sins," when you haven't had someone else say them to you in three years. We sat there, holding hands, for a few minutes, while J. cried. Then she wiped her eyes and said, "I'm okay." I told her she could keep crying if she needed to, and she said no, she had gotten it out. We went on with communion, and I could see in her face just how much she needed, craved this. I told her afterward that we could arrange for regular home communion visits, and it was as if I had given her the best Christmas present ever: the power and promise of God's grace, given to her and said to her face on a regular basis.

Of course in both cases, the true gift, was to me: witnessing the power of singing the faith; the joy one finds in pulling up the oldest of memories and singing them without caution; the reminder of the power in those words, "God forgives you"; the nurturing and sustaining power of this gift of life. And all this doing something that normally drains me, but this time, brought me life and love.

Merry Christmas to me.