Today's gospel was the story of the poor man, Lazarus, and the rich man dressed in purple robes, who stepped over Lazarus every day when he walked outside his home. Lazarus was covered with sores and only the dogs cared enough to tend to him by licking the sores on his body. Lazarus had nothing, and would have been happy to fill himself with even the scraps from the rich man's table. It is a story to remind us of our sins of omission. Jesus said that the poor would always be with us. But, do we see the poor as we go through the daily motions of life?
He is not only speaking of the monetarily poor who need our financial help (more than 56% of the world's population live on less than $2 a day), but He is also referring to the other types of poor we have among us. Do we occasionally take time to talk to the lonely widow down the street? Do we give a ride to the handicapped child who cannot walk all the way to Mass by himself or are we too proud to lower ourselves to do this? Do we teach the faith to someone who does not have access to a catechism?
We will be held accountable one day for the sins of ommission that we commit in our lifetimes. God will remind us that we had the prophets and the Scriptures to teach us these things, yet we chose to make our own rules or let our own comfort get in the way. Are we going to step over Lazarus like the rich man did and one day see Lazarus in heaven from afar as we suffer in eternal fire? Or are we going to serve our brothers here on this earth by stopping at Lazarus' side and assisting him because this is what we heard Jesus say in the gospel? Will we then join Lazarus in eternal bliss with our Lord one day?
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Saturday, September 4, 2010
The Gift of a Ministry
This morning I went to a funeral. The funeral was for Theresa, one of the ladies whom I visited every Sunday at the nursing home, to whom I read the gospel and brought the Eucharist. It was a beautiful funeral because many people were there; people who remembered her in her younger days when she and her husband operated a child care business in their home. It was said that Theresa couldn't have children of her own, so they adopted two sons. And it was told that over the years Theresa and her husband cared for more than 400 children, who called her "Aunt Theresa." Many of those now grown children were in attendance at the funeral, as well as their parents. I saw tears. I saw sadness. I heard stories of a woman who had much love to give and gave it to many. It was beautiful.
I thought back to the past Sunday when I went to Theresa's room to bring her the Eucharist. She had not been in her room the previous week. Her husband, Jim, and one of her sons and two grandsons were in her room. They informed me that since the last time I visited, Theresa had been in the hospital because she had a heart attack. Now she was no longer conscious and was in the last stages of life, just being made comfortable with medications. I saw such sorrow in the eyes of all four of these guys. Her husband, Jim, had been so faithful; visiting her every day at the nursing home, often staying all afternoon with her, taking her outside to see the beauty of nature; sitting with her while she dozed; holding her hand and listening to her sometimes so-confused conversation. She had developed dimentia some five years ago and recently had become extremely disoriented. Yet, she always remembered the Eucharist and loved to hear the gospel read to her.
Her two grandsons each held one of her hands as they spoke to her. One was in his twenties and had traveled from Washington state. The other was a young boy of about ten years old. The little boy periodically said to his dad, "I think she squeezed my hand, dad," with great hope that his grandma was going to open her eyes and come back to life once again. Sorrow was thick in the room. I stroked Theresa's cheek and arm, remembering the times I had conversed with her and the many stories she had told me about her sons and grandsons. I also remembered how in the past few months I had found her crying on more than one occasion, confused and scared about things she couldn't really explain.
I walked out from the nursing home sad that day, as I sometimes do. Sad for a family that would be missing the earthly presence of a dearly loved one; one who had held the family together and been the heart of the family; one they had seen grow dimmer and dimmer with time, until finally the light would be extinguished completely just two days later.
I glanced at those that God had entrusted to me as I walked out of the nursing home that day and told Him a very heartfelt "Thank you, Jesus." For I am thankful to the depths of my being, for this ministry that He opened up to me more than six years ago. He has given me the opportunity to enter into the last years of the lives of some of the most precious people on this earth; some who have been forgotten by the world; some who never see a face other than the nurses and aids who help them get dressed and get to and from the bathroom each day. I have listened to stories and had ninety-year-olds cry on my shoulder because they are lonely or afraid because they know death is imminent and they don't know what to expect. I have had little old ladies or men cry because they want to go back to their homes, yet they don't realize their homes were sold years before and none of their belongings are left.
God gave me the opportunity to hug them, kiss them and love them. He lets me be the human touch He cannot Himself give at these moments. Yet, He passes His love to them through humble me. I am so grateful to be His instrument for this. What an honor to read the Holy Scripture, the very Word itself, to those eager ears. Or to actually place the Body of Christ onto the tongues of these precious ones. I absolutely know that sometimes it is I that God uses to bring them this Holy Communion the last time they ever receive it in this human life because sometimes by the time a priest comes to confer the last sacrament, they are no longer able to consciously receive the Body of Christ. What greater duty could God give me to carry out?
When I entered the church vestibule this morning before the funeral, I hugged Theresa's husband, Jim, and expressed my sympathy. All he said was, "You are such an angel, Liz, such an angel." Yet I knew in my heart that I am not an angel; just one who desires to do the will of God entirely, every moment of every day. I pray for the courage and ability to do this forever.
I plan to carry out this nursing home ministry as long as God wills this for me, and as long as I am able to do it. Thank you, Jesus, for this gift of a ministry.
I thought back to the past Sunday when I went to Theresa's room to bring her the Eucharist. She had not been in her room the previous week. Her husband, Jim, and one of her sons and two grandsons were in her room. They informed me that since the last time I visited, Theresa had been in the hospital because she had a heart attack. Now she was no longer conscious and was in the last stages of life, just being made comfortable with medications. I saw such sorrow in the eyes of all four of these guys. Her husband, Jim, had been so faithful; visiting her every day at the nursing home, often staying all afternoon with her, taking her outside to see the beauty of nature; sitting with her while she dozed; holding her hand and listening to her sometimes so-confused conversation. She had developed dimentia some five years ago and recently had become extremely disoriented. Yet, she always remembered the Eucharist and loved to hear the gospel read to her.
Her two grandsons each held one of her hands as they spoke to her. One was in his twenties and had traveled from Washington state. The other was a young boy of about ten years old. The little boy periodically said to his dad, "I think she squeezed my hand, dad," with great hope that his grandma was going to open her eyes and come back to life once again. Sorrow was thick in the room. I stroked Theresa's cheek and arm, remembering the times I had conversed with her and the many stories she had told me about her sons and grandsons. I also remembered how in the past few months I had found her crying on more than one occasion, confused and scared about things she couldn't really explain.
I walked out from the nursing home sad that day, as I sometimes do. Sad for a family that would be missing the earthly presence of a dearly loved one; one who had held the family together and been the heart of the family; one they had seen grow dimmer and dimmer with time, until finally the light would be extinguished completely just two days later.
I glanced at those that God had entrusted to me as I walked out of the nursing home that day and told Him a very heartfelt "Thank you, Jesus." For I am thankful to the depths of my being, for this ministry that He opened up to me more than six years ago. He has given me the opportunity to enter into the last years of the lives of some of the most precious people on this earth; some who have been forgotten by the world; some who never see a face other than the nurses and aids who help them get dressed and get to and from the bathroom each day. I have listened to stories and had ninety-year-olds cry on my shoulder because they are lonely or afraid because they know death is imminent and they don't know what to expect. I have had little old ladies or men cry because they want to go back to their homes, yet they don't realize their homes were sold years before and none of their belongings are left.
God gave me the opportunity to hug them, kiss them and love them. He lets me be the human touch He cannot Himself give at these moments. Yet, He passes His love to them through humble me. I am so grateful to be His instrument for this. What an honor to read the Holy Scripture, the very Word itself, to those eager ears. Or to actually place the Body of Christ onto the tongues of these precious ones. I absolutely know that sometimes it is I that God uses to bring them this Holy Communion the last time they ever receive it in this human life because sometimes by the time a priest comes to confer the last sacrament, they are no longer able to consciously receive the Body of Christ. What greater duty could God give me to carry out?
When I entered the church vestibule this morning before the funeral, I hugged Theresa's husband, Jim, and expressed my sympathy. All he said was, "You are such an angel, Liz, such an angel." Yet I knew in my heart that I am not an angel; just one who desires to do the will of God entirely, every moment of every day. I pray for the courage and ability to do this forever.
I plan to carry out this nursing home ministry as long as God wills this for me, and as long as I am able to do it. Thank you, Jesus, for this gift of a ministry.
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