Journal of Sacred Work

(Today’s Meditation was written by Karen York, a Vice President at Nashville’s Alive Hospice and a
regular reader who often comments on Journal essays.)

    In times of pain, when the future is too terrifying to
contemplate and the past too painful to remember, I have learned to pay
attention to right now. -Julia Cameron – The Artist’s Way

   As much as I think
I am grateful for my health, I seem to forget about it until I’m not feeling
well. Recently I was under the weather for a few days. It wasn’t anything
serious, but enough to keep me confined to my house, shuffling around in robe
and slippers, tissue boxes at every turn. A large amount of time was spent in my bedroom resting, reading, and
napping. Lying in silence, I became more acutely aware of the world of life
buzzing along around me – in spite of me. Nothing stopped… 

No one (with the exception of my family) seemed
the least inconvenienced at my hibernation. It was then that I thought of all the people at that very moment living
in a hospital room, a nursing facility or a hospice unit, who were once vibrant
and healthy, but now find themselves confined to a small space, dependent on
someone else. I considered how their world view dramatically shifted without
their choosing. So I watched and listened and tried to put myself in their
place for a few hours. It might sound something like this:
   It’s been a gray
day, and the hope of afternoon sun slips away with each tick of the clock. Soon complete darkness will envelope my room
closing me in for the night. When I was healthy, I was a vital part of the
hubbub of living; driving here and there, stopping at Kroger to buy roasted
chicken for dinner; picking up the kids from practice. My life was full. It had
meaning. At least I thought it did. But now, I don’t know anymore. My entire view of the world is limited to what I can see from my window and it
speeds along without any notice of my being sidelined. It speeds along without me.
   I watch as cars
line up at the nearby intersection and I wonder, “where are they all going, and
why in such a hurry?” The thick damp air muffles the sounds of passing trucks,
and I hear the faint voice of the red-clad teenager inside Krystal’s taking
orders from the square-burger faithful.
   Every day I watch
as the hooded man lifts trashcan lids in search of today’s crumbs. Sirens
scream for people to move out of the way and I worry about the child whose
mother is trapped in the crumpled car down the street. The distant train calls my name with each
plaintive moan, “Come away”, “Come awa-a-a-a-y”.
   But, I cannot go,
at least not yet. I’m here, waiting for you. I listen for you in the sound of
the low-flying plane, in the squirrel scampering outside my window, and in the
wind’s sweet breath. I smell your fragrance in the cleaning solution and
bleached towels. I taste you in the perfect biscuit kneaded by expert hands. I
feel you in the tuck of my sheets and the blanket gently draped over my
trembling frame. I wait for your approaching footsteps, hoping just hoping
you’ll stop in my room. I hear you now – your whispers of compassion, your
interest in my family’s stories and your laughter at something I’ve said. 
   You
are my caregivers and are now the center of my world. Thank you for your warm
smile, your gentle hands, your kind eyes. Thank you for calling me by name when
you enter my room and asking me about me. Thank you for answering the
call of caregiving, for it is my voice that is calling you now. Thank you for coming back day after day after
long exhausting day. Because of you, I feel valued and know that I have
purpose, even now in my weakest state.    
   Blessings to
caregivers today, who bring hope and love to people by paying special attention
to their desperate need.

-Karen York, Vice President
Alive Hospice – Nashville