The Cry of Community…

Last week our care community lost another client.

We were a bit stunned by this loss; yes he had been in the hospital since Monday night when he was spitting up blood; yes pneumonia had been observed in his chest x-ray; yes his color was not good – but he had pulled through so many respiratory ‘close-calls’ in the past that I think we assumed that he’d pull through yet another.

There was a caregiver at the hospital with him, non-verbal patients need someone to speak for them even when in a hospital. This caregiver called in tears and said: “___ just died, I need someone to be here with me.”

The cry of community: “I can do this, I just can’t do it alone”. Our director notified the client’s mother and went to the hospital to support our caregiver and wait with the body our client no longer needs.

My wife determined some years ago when she read a book about “Love Languages” that I’m a ‘touch person’.

This particular client was (but is not anymore!) wheelchair bound and non-verbal…he was nearly 50 years old and had never formed a word. That is not to say he was quiet, I don’t think that was ever the case. He vocalized sounds quite loudly at times; sometimes joy, sometimes pain…he had a voice and communicated, but never formed a word. He also never shared eye-contact; many times I placed my face in his line of vision (could he see?), yet his eyes never connected with mine. All of this to say that words were out, sight was out…what was left was touch, and boy could he touch.

My work is all about communicating with words; every day I form words, sentences and paragraphs from thoughts and ideas. This gentle man was taken care of in the same home as our corporate offices; oft-times I would need some minutes away from word-formage and I would take a break to go out and visit this client. He was not involved in a day program like most of our clients due to health issues, therefore he would be at home (near my office) all day.

Sometimes when I visited with him, he would have his hand palm-down on his wheelchair tray, sometimes he would hold his hands in the air next to his body as if taking an oath. When his hands were in the air I could touch his palm and he would curl his fingers to grasp mine, when his hands were on his tray I could place mine on his tray slap his tray lightly near his hand and he would generally grasp my hand with his own.

Sometimes he would simply push my hand away, communicating his preference not to touch or be touched, but most times he would grasp, turn and manipulate my fingers and hand, sometimes in potentially painful directions. The only way that I can describe his hands is to say that they were as soft as a baby’s, as were his feet. Neither his feet nor his hands were ‘full-sized’, they were probably the size of a pudgy ten-year-old’s.

For me this touch was restorative; a few minutes of holding the hand of another guy reminded me why the words, sentences and paragraphs I form matter so very much. At one level I’m a social worker and at another I’m a technical writer.

My simple job is to tell our client’s stories, to listen to them and to our caregivers and to humbly attempt to speak for all. But often I feel more of an observer than a participant, I feel like I’m watching but not participating in something sacred, something sacramental taking place.

These individual stories are a part of the greater story of our care community and all of the ways in which we cry out to one another; be it with words or without. Holding Ed’s hand always reminded me that though my role is mostly to stand back, watch and report; that I too belong, as there are many ways in which we as humans and fellow community members touch one another.

The Cry of Community is a cry of belonging.

It’s all because of some hurt you received…

When we were in a YWAM DTS one of our teachers was named Jim Argue (I kid you not). Mr. Argue stated on Monday morning (all teachers taught for a week) that we were not allowed to ask any questions until Friday. Laurie and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

Sometime later in the morning Mr. Argue stated; “God doesn’t know everything, He only knows what’s knowable.”

The morning session ended, we ate lunch and Laurie and I sat on the couch and talked and decided that we’d not attend any more of Mr. Argue’s teachings. We staged a ’sit-out’. We considered the first condition the most dangerous, the second issue was simply error; but being taught without the ability to question seemed in our minds to be cultic.

I’ll end my little proverb quickly by stating that things became very ugly ‘leadership’-wise and ultimately we left the DTS prior to the ‘outreach’ phase. We look back at this time, about ten years ago, as a learning experience that we’d rather not repeat. The place was a circus of abberant teaching, manipulative and controlling authority and was downright abusive relationally. My favorite YWAM leadership cliche was; “Oh, this (‘this’ being whatever you just said or did) is because of some hurt you received.” It was, as we say in Minnesota; “Ishy”.

From time to time I’ve experienced social environments that remind me of the manipulative and abusive communication and is an echo of YWAM and Mr. Argue. No questions, no disagreement…toe the ‘party line’ if you want to be ’somebody’ and go ’somewhere’.

As my clinical supervisor, pastor and friend would say; “high control, low love”.