This Thursday was mostly defined by a long visit with a palliative patient this morning.
We started off generally chatting about the weather and how things were. About any family visitors etc. After a little while and, in between a nursing visit for medication, he asked if I wanted a cuppa with him. I've built up a relationship with this patient, over a little while now, and so we shared a tea together. Once we'd settled down, he hesitantly asked, “can I ask you something personal?”
Now, as a chaplain I've learnt that this can mean any number of different things, so I said, “Yes, of course” and braced myself for whatever may be said next.
“Would you officiate at my funeral?”
A moment then to choke back the emotional gravitas of the request and to humbly offer myself if at all possible.
“It would be an honour!”
“I can't think of anyone better,” he replied.
Humbling.
And so we talked a little bit about his wishes for the service and we ended up listening together to, Annie's Song, by John Denver.
You fill up my senses like a night in the forest,
like the mountains in springtime, like a walk in the rain,
like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean.
You fill up my senses, come fill me again.
Come let me love you, let me give my life to you,
let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms,
let me lay down beside you, let me always be with you.
Come let me love you, come love me again.
You fill up my senses like a night in the forest,
like the mountains in springtime, like a walk in the rain,
like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean.
You fill up my senses, come fill me again.
I'd wrestled with the spotify playlist for a little bit before finally being able to play the song.
And when it finally came on, after a series of different songs had played, you could feel the peace, the joy, the hope. You could feel him connecting with the emotion. How important it was to him was etched all over his face.
And so we listened together in virtual silence. Experiencing the weight of the moment. The words, not only reaching back in time and speaking into the present, but also expressing a yearning for the future, to be reunited with a dearly departed loved one.
let me die in your arms,
let me lay down beside you,
let me always be with you.
Profoundly impactful.
Simple and special.
How can you measure this? How can you account for this kind of work in the data we collect as chaplains?
I suppose we can just keep telling stories. And being present at bedsides and in boardrooms and in corridors and in coffee shops.
Listening together to the soundtracks that define and shape. To feel deeply.