The part of me that likes to live on automatic will resist sitting with a patient.

Photograph by Jeff Collins

Published in MONROE COUNTY REPORTER, Forsyth, GA. in August 25, 1999

I had the honor of being a hospice volunteer for a year. It is an honor to have an opportunity to share in the gift of giving with the dying. Every time I sit with a patient, I get a hundred-fold back—each person opens me up to love. The feeling is so intense at times tears come to my eyes. It seems when we reach out to another we become channels for God's love.

The part of me that likes to live on automatic will resist sitting with a patient. It is gut wrenching work. I will need to be fully present; phony masks will have to drop away, and my spirit will be naked. But the feelings of apprehension always dissipate like vapor as I stand before the tiny, withered curled up body of a patient to search for small signs of life.

Jane lies in her bed; her limbs are limp and helpless; her face looks almost as pale as her soft white hair. I call her name and she opens her eyes and turns her head towards me. Her smile lights up the room. Stunned, I beam back. Sparks of her soul seem to move into me. She reaches for me and I hold her close for a few minutes. I feel like the luckiest person on the earth. She speaks in short bursts about her family. Her voice is thin. I lean over to dab at her tears with a tissue. This is what life is all about—to share love with one another.

Carl has Parkinson's disease and cannot talk. His limp form is so withered he looks like a small boy. He rolls his eyes towards me—they are amazingly serene.

His breathe quickens and he smacks his lips. He squeezes my hand with his bony fingers, and I feel the loose flesh around his bones. I study his face. His skin is pale and tight against his cheekbones, and he breathes softly, his rib-cage rising and falling, up and down. I stroke, his hair. He rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, exhales and shuts his eyes. I know he is tired.

Carl's body is broken and does not work right but he clings to life. I blink back tears as I think of Mother Teresa's message. "The dying man—is Jesus' distressing disguise;" As Jesus said, "Whatever you do to the least of my brethren, you do to me.'"

I exhale; yes, indeed, Jane and Carl are gifts.