I had been doing some reading, but it was going on 10:00
p.m. I turned off the floor lamp that I use while working and prepared to head
to bed. Suddenly, my cell phone went off. I glanced at the number and sighed.
In retirement I do hospital visitations for a chaplaincy service. It was one of
my hospitals, and I suspected my late-night routine was about to be
interrupted. I answered the call, and yes, it was a nurse. There had been a
death, and the family had requested a chaplain. I asked for the name and room
number, but neither was familiar. That is not unusual; I serve three hospitals,
and among them there are over two hundred patients. I can’t see them all, but
instead focus on those who have requested a visit or patients who are referred
by the case managers.
In less than thirty minutes I was pulling into the parking
garage at the hospital. I was relieved to see the security guard waiting for
me. I wasn’t necessarily worried about my safety, but that meant I wouldn’t
have to call upstairs to have someone let me into the building. After visiting
hours the doors are locked. I exchanged greetings with the guard and headed to
the elevators. He was a step behind me and reminded me that the family was
waiting on the third floor. The antiseptic smell of the hospital was familiar,
but the dimmed lighting and quiet made the atmosphere almost surreal. I was
shocked when the doors opened and I was greeted by the laughing voices of
children. A lounge to my left was filled with over a half dozen youngsters of
various ages. They had gathered around a table where several board games were
spread out. An older gentleman who was standing with them nodded to acknowledge
my presence and then motioned down the hallway. I stopped at the nurses’
station to let them know I had arrived, but off in the distance I saw a group
of men standing in casual conversation. As I neared the group, I was surprised
to see smiling faces instead of the usual tearful ones. The men greeted me and
thanked me for coming. “Grandma has gone to be with Jesus,” one of them
reported. The others nodded, and I even detected a quiet, “Amen.”
I entered the room to find another dozen smiling faces
surrounding the bed, where the corpse of the now departed loved one lay. One
young girl held the hand of her grandmother and stroked her forehead with the
other. I introduced myself and then listened as they all related their names
and relationships to the deceased. I silently acknowledged that I would
remember almost none of what they told me. Some of the men joined us, and I
asked them to tell me about their departed loved one. They went on to tell me
about a single mom who had raised eight children on her own in south Dallas.
She had worked long hours as a housekeeper but still found time to cook, do the
wash, and make sure all their homework was done. “We all graduated from Sunset
High School,” one noted. Another related how holidays were always celebrated in
her home, even though their family had grown to almost seventy-five. I learned
that the woman had been active in her church and had taught a Sunday school
class until her health had started to fail. They all reported that they still
worshiped at the same church. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint her,” one noted.
I reminded them of the need to “Live the legacy.”
I shared a couple of Scripture references with them, including
the familiar words from John 14:1–3. I offered up a prayer placing the soul of
the departed into the hands of our loving God. I told them that I would be
available to them should they require further ministry, but they assured me
their pastor would be helping them with arrangements. I walked back to my car
acknowledging once again, Christians handle death differently. We are always
people of hope.
That hope is rooted in the Resurrection. Blessed Easter, 2016.
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