Blessings<\/strong><\/p>\n

The text was short and clear: \u00a0\u201cAmy, we have an eleventh hour request for the Father.\u201d \u00a0HIPAA laws prevent us from using hospice patients\u2019 names in such communications. \u00a0But \u201cthe Father\u201d was the only identifier you ever needed anyway.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The first time I met you, you glanced up at me from your wheelchair. \u00a0\u201cWhat can I do for you?\u201d you asked. \u00a0\u201cNo, Father. \u00a0I am here for you<\/i>.\u201d \u00a0You paused, entirely confused by my answer and replied, \u201cHow about a blessing then?\u201d \u00a0And you raised your arm robed in burgundy terrycloth (the vestments of the sick rather than those of your lifelong vocation), and you made the sign of the cross at my forehead.<\/p>\n

We danced these same steps weekly for months \u2013 you asking me how you could serve me and me continually befuddling you by replying that I<\/i> was there to serve you<\/i>.<\/p>\n

But one day you paused before raising your hand in blessing. \u00a0That time, you looked into my eyes with your weary watery ones and said, \u201cCould you please pray for me? \u00a0I\u2019m dying of cancer.\u201d \u00a0In that pause, I witnessed you release the role and the identity that you had held for over seven decades \u2013 the role and the identity that had held you<\/i> for over seven decades.<\/p>\n

But you never were able to release the blessings. \u00a0So, as I settled into the recliner by your bed, pulled out my strand of rosewood beads, and began to recite the chaplet of Divine Mercy \u2013 your favorite \u2013 the blessings began again.<\/p>\n

Your nurse kept increasing your medication to \u201ckeep you calm\u201d, to stop the continual movement of your hands. \u00a0Didn\u2019t she see? \u00a0\u00a0How could she not recognize all the blessings? \u00a0The gnarled fingers that had lifted up the communion bread during countless masses, the leukemia-stained purple arms that had held so many babies during baptisms \u2013 they never stopped blessing<\/i>.<\/p>\n

You ripped the tubes out of your nostrils and flung them aside, filled with some heavenly breath and in no need of oxygen tanks. \u00a0When your nurse tried to reinsert the tubes, you blessed her.<\/p>\n

The patient down the hall groaned in agony throughout the night. \u00a0And each time his voice rose, your hand shot up in response.<\/p>\n

You pulled off your pajamas, and the two nuns singing to you grew embarrassed. \u00a0\u201cFather, you need to keep your clothes on<\/i>,\u201d they said. \u00a0They did not know they were witnesses to this personal sacrament, the presentation in the temple called deathbed. \u00a0You heard their scolding, paused . . . and once again came the blessing.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Blessings The text was short and clear: \u00a0\u201cAmy, we have an eleventh hour request for the Father.\u201d \u00a0HIPAA laws prevent us from using hospice patients\u2019 names in such communications. \u00a0But \u201cthe Father\u201d was the only identifier you ever needed anyway. The first time I met you, you glanced up at me from your wheelchair. \u00a0\u201cWhat can I do for you?\u201d you asked. \u00a0\u201cNo, Father. \u00a0I am here for you.\u201d \u00a0You paused, entirely confused by my answer and replied, \u201cHow about a blessing then?\u201d \u00a0And you raised your arm robed in burgundy terrycloth (the vestments of the sick rather than those […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"episode_type":"","audio_file":"","cover_image":"","cover_image_id":"","duration":"","filesize":"","date_recorded":"","explicit":"","block":"","filesize_raw":"","footnotes":""},"yoast_head":"\n