Don't Cut the Final Class - Part II

Don’t Cut the Final Class- Part II

Who is it that we allow to reach us, to teach us?  Recently, a woman posted photos of an elementary school class and their teacher online.  She asked, “Does anyone remember this teacher’s name?”  Facebook “friends” knew each other’s names and recognized their cute little faces, but I still haven’t seen someone identify the teacher yet.  And even at their age, she had laid down some really critical groundwork for their futures as lawyers, dental hygienists, landscapers, etc.  She was teaching basics at that level that would be used for years later in the grocery store, at the bank, at a desk in an office somewhere.  And they can’t remember her name.

When I was in high school I had a summer job where I actually worked at the high school organizing the books in the English Department’s stock room.  I created the system whereby teachers could request  books for their classroom, it got recorded on an index card with date and amount of books, and then the order was delivered to them in a timely fashion.  In the course of that summer when friends were at camp or doing nothing at all, I was gainfully employed.  I also became acquainted with the teacher who had hired me.  I had a respect for her as an adult and appreciated her kindness to me.  When I left to go out of state to college, she was diagnosed with cancer. 

Upon my return for school vacation, I asked for permission to go to her house to see her.  Cancer seemed “new” in those days because people in my world didn’t seem to get it as much as they do now.  I brought her a bible.  I recall one of my family members saying to me, “Don’t you think that’s kind of a personal thing to give someone?”  I agreed, but said that now was the time to get personal because she was about to see her Maker. 

She so graciously received it from me.  She said, “Oh, how nice.  I don’t have this translation.  My father was a minister you know.”  I did not know that.  Interesting.  I just knew that she seemed like she needed something encouraging and that was my best gesture I could offer.  She had her head in a turban from lost hair and her little white dog Becky was allowed to actually walk on the kitchen table to be able to give her kisses.  Our conversation was brief.  As a young inexperienced person, I did not know what to say in the face of her sickness; actually, in the face of her death.  But she had a certain tired cheerfulness about her that I still can feel.  I believe that was the final lesson she gave me:  it’s okay to be tired.  And it’s okay to be cheerful even when people are painfully aware of your impending exit.  I don’t think she was even in her 40’s.  Processing this seemed impossible to my mind.

I remember one of my favorite college professors telling us in our Pastoral Guidance class:  “I hope each of you will have the honor of being present at the moment of someone’s death.”  He was a parish priest prior to teaching college, so I imagine he had attended more of his share of those end-moments. 

A few years ago, I sat in a small office of the hospital where I work.  It was off the beaten-path where people who were actually looking for me would have a hard time finding me, so I have no good explanation for what happened that day.  I was feeling sorry for myself that I was doing “office work” and not in full time ministry somewhere.  Or was I?  That night, I was there for some reason after 5pm and this dear woman appeared at my door asking if it was the chaplain’s office.  (The chaplain’s office was closed for the day.)  The lady at my office doorway had a relative who was dying in the Intensive care Unit and wished for some final prayers.  I called the priest on call, but also went in to be with the family before he came.  I led them in a short decade of the Divine Mercy novena prayers.  Just as I finished, the priest came in and cheerfully did his piece of prayers and comfort for the family.  It was a gift to be part of the flow of the grace of God to them.  

The patient, who was dying, unknown to me, gave me a lesson and a gift:  God uses whoever is open at the moment.  If we want to be an instrument of peace, we need just ask.  I do not know if she was a teacher or something else in her younger years, but in her dying moment, she taught me to know that God’s arena is bigger than our official classifications. 

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