March 31
It was my first outing as a lay eucharistic minister for St. Matthew's Episcopal Church in Fairbanks, Alaska. I didn't know much about Christianity, having been raised by a Jewish mother and an atheist father. I felt strongly called to the Episcopal faith and was baptized in 1990. Jesus was my home now, and I wanted to try out the things he taught. I made up my mind to visit the sick and bring them Communion every Sunday for a year.
Father Scott drove while I sat on the passenger side nervously holding the big, black Communion box. We were headed for Denali Center, a convalescent hospital where patients recover from difficult injuries or illnesses. Some live out their lives at the center, too ill or disabled to care for themselves. A few go to die.
All the residents were shy about my presence, but most accepted me. I was, after all, a sister in their faith, and, more importantly, Scott thought I was okay. Some people didn't want me -- not holy enough, I suppose. I had no credentials, no history to recommend me. I was grateful for those who welcomed Communion and saddened by those who turned me away.
June 28
At first it was annoying to have Irene follow me around. She'd tell me about new people admitted to Denali Center and what room they occupied. She was a tough, skinny old bird, pulled her peppered hair back into a tight bun and was certain her mission was to be at my side. She hung at my elbow. Her aluminum walker made quite a racket as we walked the corridors.
I kept trying to duck her, but she always found me. I was pretty certain that I was in charge. Irene felt no such certainty. After a couple of weeks, I gave up and, instead of ducking her, began to look for her. As time passed, I realized I needed her, and I came to love the cranky old lady. Truly a blessing, she became my stalwart companion.
July 5
It is hard to be social. Some of the people at Denali Center are so desperately ill that social chatter seems incongruous. Still, it is often welcomed. Like the soft patter of rain on a tin roof, it sooths and reminds us of the continuity of life in spite of current circumstance. One man likes me just to be near, to pat his shoulder. I have learned that the best in any relationship isn't how well or fluently you speak, but how well you keep a silence. The real connections we seek don't have words, or need them.
Aug. 25
The man lies in his bed. He has never spoken. He grunts and groans his misery and delight. His arms and legs twist back on themselves in grotesque uselessness. He likes rattles and soft, stuffed animals. When I come with Communion and a quiet prayer, he gazes at me in sweet silence.
Something deep in me says that something deep in him knows. My head says I am fooling myself. I go every Sunday anyway. I cling to that small seed of hope, trusting. I wonder if this young man knows that we share the same darkness and the same longing for release. Can he know that I reach with my brokenness, less visible than his, for a truth only faith can comprehend?
I pick up the stuffed animal next to him and make it play upon his chest and snuggle it next to his face. He arches his back, opens his mouth wide and lets out a guttural sound of joy. I pat his shoulder and say goodbye. Perhaps mercy is the only lesson we ever need learn. I walk out of Denali into the freshness of the day. I am grateful, grateful for a God who does not demand wholeness.
Sept. 4
Robin Hodson and a friend from the Denali Center
The remembrance of my sins haunts me from time to time. Jack had lung cancer. One morning I found him in the therapy room on the stationary bike. When he saw me, he jumped off the bike and told the nurse that he didn't want to do the rest of his therapy. She scolded him. I told him to try to finish it. He cut us both short, took my hand and led me to his room. He crawled into bed and set up his cribbage board. It was his passion and one of the last, few, enjoyable things he could do.
It was at the end of my usual visiting time, and I didn't want to stay. I made excuses. His smile and the light in his eyes fell away into bewilderment. I quickly said goodbye and walked down the hall in the echo of my footsteps. I kept trying to push his face out of my mind so I could deny his need and more easily pursue my own. Jack died a few days later, before my next Sunday visit.
The small betrayals are the ones that bruise the most. They are the peas beneath my mattress.
I KEPT MY promise of bringing Communion to Denali Center every Sunday for a year. I trusted Jesus and set out to follow his words through the wilderness of my doubt and the winter of deceit that is the world.
Jesus said that if we did these things, we would reap truth. He didn't say anything about knowledge. Bringing Christ to the sick and dying, fighting through fear and boredom and moments of despair, finding the evidence of grace, all these things helped turn the seasons of my heart. It changed me, but I can't say I know much more than when I began. Serving the people of Denali Center let me know a little of the great reality.
