Getting Loose

The Clerical Collar

Over here in JOE (Jolly Ole’ England), all denominational clergy wear a clerical collar.  

I knew that before I came over, and I wasn’t sure what I thought about it.  I tend to wear clerical collars only very occasionally—like for a funeral in a funeral home (which they call crematoria over here), or an occasional wedding, or when I have to act  in some official capacity at a public event, or very, very occasionally when I go to the hospital, or when I get my driver’s license picture made.

But to come to JOE, I went ahead and bought 2 additional clergy shirts (one black and one grey--both long sleeved).  Here, I use them exclusively for Sunday service, going to residential homes (i.e., nursing homes), and other sundry activities. 

I’ll have to admit it does tend to make me feel a little more official somehow, like I have on a costume that people recognize the credentials that go with it. 

What will I do when I get back?  I just am not sure.  I like travelling incognito in a lot of ways, yet on the other hand, wearing a clerical collar opens a lot of doors.

I’ll just have to see.

Poor Mary

I was told that she used to be there every time the doors opened.  She tended to the flowers.  There wasn’t anyone who loved her church more than she did.

But now, in her 90’s she is lost in the fog of Alzheimer’s.

Rachel and I went to see her.  She was little sitting in the big chair.  Her glasses appeared as if she had cataracts.  We found her in the corner of the room with some other residents.  Her present home is run by an organization, and the residents are in what appears to be an older multi-story substantial home of years gone by.

We announced our presence and she seemed hardly fazed, like she would do her best to tune us out and perhaps we would disappear.

“Mary!  Hello!  I have brought the pastor to see you.”

Not much response.

“Do you want to say hello to the pastor?”

“Now, now, now, now, now, now, now . . .”

Touching her hand, Rachel said, “Mary, talk to me!”

“Get your hands off of me!”

“Hi, Mary.  I came from America to see you.”

She looked at me.  “That is rubbish!  Now, now, now, now, now, now, now . . .”

“Is there anything |I can do for you?”

“Now, now, now, now, now, now, now!  I want to gow howme!”

“But Mary, you cannot!”

“Now, now, now, now, now, now, now . . .”

“Would you like for me to pray with you?”

“Now, now, now, now, now, now, now.  Get me out of this chair.  I want to gow howme!”

It was sad.  Robbed of her dignity.  This was not the Mary that Rachel knew and loved.  She had deteriorated so much since the last time she saw her.

Going to the head nurse, or her equivalent, the nurse reported that the physician was much pleased with the progress that Mary had made, for she had been immobile, and was at least now up and somewhat ambulatory, and he would not need to see her for at least six months.

Sad.

Time of Rest

I’m better than I used to be. It used to be that I was so caught up in trying to justify my existence, to always discern some kind of measurable progress, that I almost never took a day off.  After all, I reasoned, many of my parishioners don’t, and farmers can’t. Etc. Etc. Etc.

It wasn’t until I was appointed to my 5^th church, that already, before I ever even got to the campus, they had a legacy of being closed on Friday. I was shocked.  I could not believe that.  I thought, well, I’m coming in on Friday anyway, work without air conditioning if I have to, I don’t care what.  I’ll at least work half a day.  That will seem like a day off in part.

But early on at that appointment, when parishioners would catch me at the church they’d say things like, "What are you doing up here? This is supposed to be your day off!" "You need time for your family." Etc., etc., etc. Until finally I began to realize that the expectation was, unless there were some emergency, I, too, was entitled to a five day work week like everyone else.

Now, that’s a pretty difficult thing to swallow when you have spent enormous amounts of energy trying to justify your existence, your pay, show progress for the money and faith that people are investing into you, etc. But over the years, I have come to enjoy my time off. I don’t always do as good as I should, but I certainly do better than I did some 33 years ago!

So, I worked out today, went to Rotary, visited with a parishioner at his house and saw how beautifully it was laid out, took a nap, went out to eat at a neat Mexican restaurant, tried to go see a parishioner in a hospital (with my wife which is highly unusual) and the guy was already checked out, so we walked across the street and strolled through a mall that is gentrifying (which I virtually never do), and in essence had a very relaxing day.

It Never Gets Easier

   I have to pick myself up by the psychological scruff of my neck to do three things. 

   One was back in seminary at SMU.  And that was going to Chapel.  Without fail, I had 20 other things I needed to do other than that.  But I was always glad I went.

   Hospital visits.  They always take a lot of time, and again there are so many irons I have in the fire, that I can always find a reason not to . . . but invariably I am the one who gets the blessing by doing the visiting.  That has happened so often that you'd think I'd learn by now.

   Number three--going to the gymn.  I hate it.  In fact for some reason I woke up at 5:15 this morning and went in order to get it over with.  I usually go late at night sometime after 8 p.m.  But last night I was thoroughly and completely in a state of frustration trying to hook up a new amplifier/tuner I had bought for our home theatre system.  It was enraging not having the logic go the way I thought it should.  At one point things began to work OK, and then like a dew in the morning, it disappeared.  I eventually got it fixed in a fashion by midnight, but I never, never thought it would EVER take THAT long.  All of this is a long-winded way of saying that I missed working out last night (I usually go 3 times a week) . . . but . . .  when I go, I always feel better afterwords.