Sharing Yourself

"Sharing yourself is always better than not sharing yourself (within safe confines)."

- Dr. David Hilfiker

Joseph's House was founded by Dr. David Hilfiker. At the time, David was practicing medicine at Christ House, a residential medical facility for those who are homeless. He noticed that many of his patients were not only homeless, but alo suffering from HIV/AIDS. He saw a need for a place of both healing and community. Joseph's House, just around the corner from Christ House, became that place.

I am still a bit star-struck by David. If he had not been brave enough to listen to the calling that inspired Joseph's House I would not be where I am right now in my life. You can feel David's intelligence and passion when you are with him. He practiced medicine for nearly two decades, has written extensively on issues of social justice, and teaches classes - one on urban poverty in which I am in now. I am walking in a legacy that David created. His brilliance and compassion has very literally changed my life.

A few weeks ago, David very honestly shared with his wide network of friends, acquaintances, and colleagues through an e-mail his experience so far of having Alzheimer's disease. Today, at the Joseph's House staff meeting, he spoke about how the disease is changing his relationship with his sense of identity. Throughout his entire life, David has identified as an intellectual. So much of his success has been based on his mental prowess. He took pride in this, established a life through this, created good because of this. Now things are different. Now this man who I admire so, so much is literally losing his mind - and he is in tune with himself well enough to know it. Furthermore, he is embracing this process that many people fight. He is letting go of the identity he gave himself and is allowing himself to be more than he ever realized he could be.

As someone who has also self-identified as an intellectual throughout my life, David's situation scares me. The thought of forgetting memories, loved ones, and then myself is terrifying. Yet David says that this is the happiest time of his life. That he feels both freedom and beloved. He is documenting his disease through his blog, sharing what is most vulnerable in order to create a space for something sacred. David says that he is not courageous in his choosing to share his personal loss so openly, but he accepted when my staff insisted that he was being generous. Wonderfully generous in letting us into his life to experience with him something so new, intimidating, and real.

Alzheimer's disease takes a lot away, both from the person losing cognitive function and from the people around him or her. Yet many people note that relationships do not disappear. Memories and details may be forgotten, but love still remains. How miraculous are humans that our minds may lose strength but our hearts do not? It made me think, if I was to get Alzheimer's today, what loves would my heart remember? What relationships would sustain what my brain no longer could?

I am aware that I am learning things at a very young age that some people never learn. How not to fear disease and loss. How not to cling tightly to things that were never mine to keep. How to be gentle with myself. Today I am thankful for the many loving, life-giving relationships that have brought me here and to David for continuing to leave a legacy of courage (even though he would never agree to that) and peace for me and everyone who is touched by Joseph's House.

Why are Irish People so Cool?

Liz is the eldest of my housemates and the only one of us who has done JVC before. Last year, as a member of JVC Northwest, she was placed in Wenatchee, Washington. Maybe that is why she reminds me so much of home. I admire Liz because she is always asking questions and seeking truth. A couple of months ago she lent me a book by John O'Donohue called Anam Cara. O'Donohue was a Celtic mystic, and though it is taking me forever to read it, Anam Cara is beautifully written. The poem that O'Donohue uses to dedicate the book is particularly poignant to me, and when I am having a rough day I re-read it for encouragement. Here is the poem:

BEANNACHT
For Josie

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the gray window
and the ghost of loss
gets into you,
may a flock of colors,
indigo, red, green
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the curach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

Life According to Bob Ross

A couple of weekends ago, two of my housemates and I stumbled across a rerun of Bob Ross's show "The Joy of Painting." You know Bob Ross. That artist with an incredible afro and calming voice? Awesome, I know. We sat transfixed in our living room as Bob turned a blank canvas into a stunning landscape. The man was a terrific creator.

As I watched him, I was also struck by his wisdom. As he painted, Bob gently instructed his television audience on how to recreate what he was doing on the canvas. According to Bob Ross, we can all be master painters. I have my doubts about that, but I was flattered by his faith in my skills. Bob offered guidance on how to create vivid colors and realistic imagery, but I found myself realizing that maybe his advice on how to paint was actually advice on how to live life. At one point, as he lovingly created clouds out of nothing, Bob told the audience that a painting is your world. You get to make it however you want it to be. He calmly noted that, "if you are not happy with the world you have created, you have only yourself to blame."

Huh. What a thought. So often I try to find others to blame when something in my life goes wrong. It is society's fault for not properly caring for and therefore signing the death certificate of the Joseph's House residents who die even though I love them so much. A messy house is the fault of my housemates. Forgetting a Skype date with a friend who I was really excited to talk to is my church's fault for making the Ash Wednesday service too long after an already exhausting work day. As much as possible, I try to avoid blame. If I can find another person beside myself to assign fault with, I do.

But according to Bob Ross, who is nearly as wise as Mr. Miyagi, I am in charge of my happiness in this world I have created. There are some things that I can not control, like society determining who are and are not valuable in our culture. So much of the little things that frustrate me though, like messes and my own forgetfulness, just need a change of perspective in order to have a different outcome. I can alter the result by a few words or actions. With enough persistence and faith, I can even alter the big things.

This, of course, requires a certain level of humility, courage, and grace that I am not always willing to live out. It is much easier (and fun even) to be snarky and miserable about things I do not like about my life rather than doing something about them. I want a beautiful world, though. I want my life to be as awe-inspiring as a Bob Ross painting. So I might as well take both the credit and blame for what I am creating. I get to make it however I want it to be. It might as well make me happy.

Never Forget

There is a resident at Joseph's House who I find myself calling Mama. I always remember how long she has been with us because her first day at Joseph's House was my birthday. Mama is used to being the primary caretaker for others in her life. She was a single parent and worked multiple jobs to put her oldest grandchild through college. Her entire life revolved around providing for those that she loved. Cancer, however, is not impressed by hard work and devotion. It comes when it will and does not care that everything must stop to face it.

In spite of the cancer, Mama refuses to stop living. She has turned the attention that she gave to her jobs to everyone who comes through Joseph's House. On her first night with us, she pulled a stool into the kitchen and proceeded to peel potatoes and wash dishes while supervising what my coworkers were cooking on the stove for dinner. She spent the next few days diligently learning the name of every staff member and resident. She knows all about our families, our love lives, and our dreams for the future. She lectures everyone to wear jackets in the cold and kisses my cheek every night when I go into her room to say goodbye.

I love her. I cannot help it. I appreciate her thoughtfulness and how she tries to take care of everyone. She reminds me of my mother and my grandmother, and she in turn has introduced me to people as her grandchild. I love her and I cannot help it even though I know that she is dying. Even though every day brings us one breath closer to goodbye. Her presence feeds my spirit and I delight in her. I cannot stop loving her and that makes each day harder. Rounds of chemo have made her voice raspy and her body weak. She tells me that she is tired for no reason and I feel my heart drop because I know the fatigue is a sign of her worsening health. Her independent nature is now reduced by unsteady footsteps and frequent bouts of shortness of breath. She is dying and it is breaking my heart.

Yet in the midst of everything Mama is experiencing she still is thinking of others. One afternoon I sat side by side with her on her bed in our normal style. We were holding hands and laughing at our own jokes. She then patted my hands and said, "No matter what, honey, don't you ever forget that you help keep me alive. You save my life."

When I explain to people what I do, many ask how I can do such difficult work and not become depressed. They say that they could never do it. I wish I could tell them stories like this, how the weight of my sorrow is made bearable and even greatly diminished by the sweetness of being in relationship. I wish I could save Mama. I would carry the cancer in my own body if it would give her even one more year with her beloved grandsons. But, man, how awesome is it that for this brief time I get to revel in her love? How fortunate that I get to learn from her what it really means to love in a way that is selfless and unconditional. I will never forget.

Unexpected Lessons

I am learning how to measure life in breaths.
Early morning breaths on the way to work that have to ease into the shock of winter winds.
Joyous, deep, homecoming breaths as my feet carry me like a feather up the stairs of Joseph's House.
Breaths coming in the rippling, uncontrollable peals of laughter around the dinner table.
Easy breaths as pillow talk sinks into sleep.

These are my daily breaths.

I am learning how to measure life in breaths.
The short, anxious gasps before a resident collapses.
The round, full breaths as conversation increases with health.
Sweet, sweet breaths,
sweeter for the immense effort they take,
with my fingers intertwined with older fingers 
and a sweet, sweet head
falls asleep on my shoulder.

These are my daily breaths. 

I am learning how to measure life in breaths.
The breath that was carrying me out the door
until my exhale caught in my throat in a way that told me
to go back and say
goodbye.
A breath held and savored
as I feel the spirit of someone I still love 
touch me as I walk past his favorite chair,
even though his breaths ceased months ago.
The shifting of breaths as I hold vigil by the bedside
that tells me that time is running short.

These are my daily breaths.

I sit on the bus amongst strangers 
and by listening to their breaths,
just listening,
I know their lives.
I feel their sadness, excitement, pain, 
their hopes.
And I almost turn to apologize,
to say that I only know because my life is intricately tied 
to the breaths of five people 
who also were once strangers.
That I have slowly come to learn how to listen 
to the silences between the breaths.
How I never knew that I would be able to tell you,
by just listening,
when someone is going to die.
I never knew.

I am learning how to measure life in breaths.

A Lenten Offering

January was hard. My work schedule was busy, my intentional living community was in transition, and I had to face what sometimes feels like a looming future. Added to that was, of course, the very natural grief and joy of every day living at Joseph's House. There were many, many feelings that pulled and stretched my spirit. I felt vulnerable and ridiculously young. Homesick and yet realizing that this may be my true home. So I did what my inner shy child likes to do when I am unsure: I withdrew. I did not share my life on this blog. 

Though a blog is a really cool, hip form of expression, it can and has been for me a way of sharing intimacy with people I normally do not allow into my sacred space. Writing in such a public forum is scary. This year is vastly different from any other time in my life, though, and I wanted to grow in every aspect of my life. I know and understand why I did not write in January (either blogging, journaling, etc.), but I also know that it kept my spirit from deepening. By not allowing you into my experience, I crippled myself.

So in honor of Lent, as Christians around the world walk in somber humility alongside a Messiah who sacrificed everything for us, I have decided to do a vulnerability fast if you will. This is partially because I love food and would really prefer not to have to give it up, but also because blogging every day is going to be a sacrifice of time, honesty, and privacy that will be much more challenging and meaningful for me than giving up chocolate. You may get sick of it in a few days, but I ask for your grace in this. I am trying to live out a faith that does justice and I am young and growing. Maybe, though, this will bless the both of us. That would be great.

  

O Come, O Come Emmanuel

During this season of corny holiday tunes, I always listen for "O Come, O Come Emmanuel." I think that Emmanuel, God with us, is my favorite name of God. For me it captures both the sheer, infinite nature of the Divine and His loving closeness to us. How amazing that a being so majestic is with and for us, is with and for me. "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" is incredibly fitting for the Advent season of waiting. It is a people's deep petition to be rescued from a world of loneliness, mourning, and darkness. "Rejoice! Rejoice!" the song tells us. For "Emmanuel shall come." Advent creates a space to remember what it feels like to hope for a salvation greater than anything we can imagine and to wait in great expectation once again for God to come to us. Emmanuel is coming.

As a student of Jesuit education, and now a volunteer in the same line, I have spent the past four and a half years learning to find God in all things. In my interactions with friends, in the beauty of nature, in my own personal growth. Though I usually do not remember to notice God in the moment, when I do look for the holiness in the midst of ordinary life I always seem to find it. I have always believed that Emmanuel is here. God is with us. 

One of the residents at Joseph's House passed away this week, a man whose presence had been a source of joy and laughter for everyone. He had been estranged from his wife for years, but their friendship was strong, and in the last two weeks of his life she came and fulfilled her marital vow to love and to hold in sickness and in health so beautifully that she earned the respect of everyone around her. Though my resident had hurt her in ways that prevented them from living with one another, her compassion and gentleness with her husband in his last days was a powerful example of forgiveness. In the days I spent beside her showing her how to care for her husband in his illness, she taught me how to love even when you carry scars. Emmanuel was with us.

It is easy to find God in all things when those things are good, but on Friday it was like trying to find Waldo. The funeral was on Friday and it brought with it the pain of family members and friends who lashed out at one another in response to their grief. I sat behind my resident's wife with my co-workers, grieving not for the husband, but for the woman he had loved and the undeserved hostility being directed at her. I resolved to live my life in such a way that no one will be able to throw such hateful words at my family while they try to celebrate my life at my funeral. Where is God amongst people who do not respect the dead enough to let old grievances go in order to recognize that everyone is hurting?

Later that day, as I and a co-worker drove another resident back to Joseph's House after a trip to the cemetery to visit the gravesite of her parents, we heard about the school shooting in Connecticut for the first time. My roommate, Marlena, is from Connecticut and has a brother in kindergarten. When news about the shooting first started coming out, Marlena spent hours in miserable waiting. Where was the shooting? Was Nino there? Was he okay? 

Nino's okay. The shooting was in a town far away from their home. Marlena and I both instinctively said, "Thank, God" as relief filled the room, but we almost as quickly were filled with guilt. Nino was happy and safe, completely unaware of the horror that happened at Sandy Hook Elementary. But 20 precious first-graders were not and neither were the seven adults who died alongside them or the hundreds of individuals, young and older, who will be affected for years to come. As I read more about the tragedy in the newspaper today, I could not stop the tears that accompanied my heartache. Forget the sudden call for legislation and gun control. Never mind if we should blame this on those crazy, liberal hippies or on those crazy, conservative evangelicals. All I could think was that these children were babies. They were in what should have been a safe place. How my heart breaks for the families who are now missing a significant member of their lives at a time that should be filled with joy. How saddened am I too that this young shooter slipped through the cracks until he reached a point where he felt this was the only way to make an impact.

At Joseph's House we walk alongside death every day. We know that every person who comes through the door is on the path to dying and we willingly step in to make the journey gentler. But the deaths of those in Connecticut were accompanied by a violence that makes me feel faint with sorrow. How can God be found in this? Emmanuel, why were you not with us when we needed you? Why were you not here to save these children and the adults committed to their growth?

Once again, just as in the time of the songwriter of "O Come, O Come Emmanuel," the world finds itself weak from the burden of human brokenness that creates systems of loneliness, mourning, and darkness. Just as in those times, we are realizing that something has gone horribly wrong. Once again, society finds itself looking for salvation. I am still processing this nightmare and trying to form my opinion. There are so many questions as I try to find the truth in the midst of travesty. I am pretty certain of some things. I know that this is not the time for political bickering, and I am disgusted by those who are making this a divisive event. This is a tragedy for all. Stop trying to make some kind of profit. I know that mental health played a part in this tragedy and I feel even more motivated to pursue a career in psychology. But more importantly, I know that Emmanuel is here. I know that God is with us. God was with that young principal who wanted learning to be academic and fun. God was with the teacher who told her students how much she loved them, because she thought that would be the last thing they heard, and that was the most important thing she wanted to teach them. God was with the other teacher who hid her students and when there was no room left for her, stepped into the hallway and sacrificed herself. I see the Divine in those moments. I am looking for it elsewhere. In the meantime, I will mourn this great loss, work for a more just future, and wait for the moment when we can all finally rejoice without loneliness, mourning, or darkness to taint the celebration.

O come, O come Emmanuel.