Ten-Finger Exercises

retirement

I'm pondering retirement. In fact, I told my boss at the beginning of the year that I'd be ready to do it by, maybe, the end of March. I was committed to helping lead a grief group until then. I also told her I wouldn't leave the other chaplain stuck with no help, that I'd keep on helping out till they found someone else. (Chaplains aren't necessarily easy to find in small towns. There are probably plenty of ministers who'd like to stamp their own brand on the work, but that wouldn't do at all.)

So when March came and went, I told the boss that I'd stay till summer. Well, here it is, and here I am. Why?

For one thing, even though I'm part time, I make more than social security will pay me. For another, Bill isn't at all excited about the idea. He even asked me what I'd like to do instead of hospice, as if he thinks I'd be looking for another job. What it comes down to is this: I'd probably be doing something similar if not the same and not getting paid for it at all.

So why do I wish nearly every day that I'd make up my mind to leave? Several reasons. One is, I'm tired of hearing one particularly tiny, sweet voice of a social worker effusing with sweet, affirming words to everyone, and in a limited vocabulary. She probably uses the word "amazing" thirty times a day, stretching it out like bubble gum, her shining eyes open wide in an attitude of incredulity.

Maybe I'm jealous of all the attention she gets. I have to admit it. But why do people like that act so well? It's beyond me.

More than that, because that is a really shallow reason, I get tired of rejection. It's not even whole-hearted rejection, more a luke-warm tolerance toward anything that smacks of religion. I know I don't play a very important role, hardly ever. Hospice patients and their families are usually either already connected to a church or indifferent. So what do I have to offer? Not much.

I just came from meeting a new patient, and from phone conversations with his wife, I was not expecting much. She said she has her own faith, he does not, and that he sometimes gets very angry at strangers.
It actually worked out fine. He didn't say much, and I felt like I was floundering around, potentially putting my foot in my mouth over and over. I don't like to do all the talking. I started by saying that only a handful of my patients are actually very religious, and a little more than half of the rest believe in God, or in heaven, or both.
He said he fit in that group, but he did not go on and I didn't want to fish.

I asked him to tell me about his life, thinking maybe I'd hear more. It was still like pulling teeth to get at his story, and after a while I thought I'd been at it long enough. I asked him if he knew of anything I could help him with, and he did not, but he said he'd enjoyed the visit and I could come back. (One piece of a story that he told was one his wife said she'd never heard before, about racing his dad's car when he was on an errand.)

I told him one of the things I could offer would be prayer, but I wouldn't push it. He agreed, to his wife's amazement. It stumped him at first when I asked him what I should pray about; then he said he wished his care wasn't so hard on his wife. So we prayed for some help for her. When she walked me to the door, she stepped outside and told me she was really surprised, and pleased, that he'd let me pray.

That's the other reason I haven't retired yet. Occasionally, just occasionally, I'm in the right place at the right time.