My dad was what we’d call today a family medicine practitioner, a “Marcus Welby” type of doctor. He had patients of all ages and made house calls when they were ill or had chronic conditions. Once a month, he went down the lane to see an elderly neighbor, Mrs. Daugherty. One day, when I was still a youngster, I went with him. Dad listened to Mrs. Daugherty’s heart with his stethoscope and took her blood pressure. Then, at her invitation, we stayed for tea. My dad didn’t care for tea, and as we walked home, I asked him about that part of the visit. “Oh, dear one,” he said, “I learn more about Mrs. Daugherty over tea than I do from any of my instruments.”
Fast forward about 30 years, when I worked as a chaplain for a hospice in the Midwestern U.S. I had driven an hour to see Matthew, a man with an illness expected to end his life within six months. My charge was to complete “an initial spiritual assessment” so it could be appropriately charted. Matthew greeted me at the door and said, rather gruffly, “You can come in, but don’t talk about death and don’t talk about God.”
Fortunately, memories of my dad’s care for Mrs. Daugherty and the promptings of the Holy Spirit rose to the surface. Instead of focusing on my agenda, I asked Matthew to show me his farm. He warmed to the task and took me to see his land, his crops and the many beloved animals he tended. Then, he said, “Let’s watch the birds.”
As we sat at his feeders, Matthew told me about each bird as it came our way and what he learned from all of them. Then, slowly but surely, he began to tell me about his life, including the blessings and challenges he had faced. We “watched the birds” for the months that Matthew remained well enough. Story after story came forth, as eventually did his questions and concerns about death and God. It was precious time indeed, and yes, that required assessment did get completed, but much, much more happened.
I was fortunate to have the opportunity at Mayo Clinic to build on what I had learned from my dad, Matthew and so many patients through the years. With a team of researchers, I led a pilot study called “Hear My Voice.” The intervention included time for patients with advanced illnesses to review their lives from a spiritual perspective, with a chaplain.
Chaplains asked patients (individually) to describe their spiritual backgrounds, including their spiritual mentors and their most valued spiritual practices, readings or songs. They asked patients what they were most proud of, what challenges they had faced, how they were affected by them, and what wisdom or guidance they would like to share with others. From this interview, together they developed a spiritual legacy document which was professionally printed and up to 25 copies were given to them to use as they wished.
We did not shy away from those who were compromised or complex. All were welcome. One person described the effects of his brain tumor as “a weed patch” and needed his wife to help him recall important spiritual memories. One person’s speech was challenging to understand, and her husband became the interpreter as we developed her spiritual legacy. One person spoke English as his second language. His daughter translated his spiritual legacy into his native tongue so others in his home country could appreciate it. Another stated that he was “a bona fide atheist.” We adjusted some of our questions so they suited him and focused on his values of integrity and love for family and community. We met with some in their homes, some in nursing homes, some in the chemo suite and some in our office. We believed that each person held a treasure, and our goal was to find a way to hear and preserve it.
Our research surveys suggested that patients benefited from this process, and we were happy about this outcome. The smiles and expressions of gratitude from patients and their loved ones confirmed what the statistics indicated — and brought us joy. One patient, disabled from birth, only wanted one copy of his spiritual legacy document at the outset. But later, he returned to our office asking for “five more” and “five more” and yet another “10 more.” Each time, he beamed saying, “People love my story!”
As investigators, we benefited, too. Chaplains said they felt that they had learned to listen more deeply to others in their care. Medical students stated that they’d be better doctors because of their involvement. Editors described feelings of being inspired by the stories they had worked with and expressed gratitude for the gift of being able to use their skills to help others in this profound way. A friend of one of our participants who was given a copy of her spiritual legacy wrote, “Oftentimes the stories of saints are far removed from us. Truthfully, there are saints among us.”
And what did I learn? Simple things, really: Show up around “the teapot” or “bird feeder,” wherever welcomed. Suspend agenda items. Listen and linger patiently and with interest. Respect each person and what is shared, including joys and sorrows. Believe that people are made in God’s image and that they are “saints among us.” Realize that God’s voice is woven into all stories, with a message for us, too. Trust in a person’s timing to bring a spiritual legacy to completion. Live all this again and again and encourage others to do the same!
Hear My Voice leaves us with “mustard seeds” to plant and harvest. The Examen can be a sort of template. In the Examen, we review a day or week or month and ponder God’s gifts to us, our response, and our need for grace going forward. Hear My Voice invites us to do something similar with an entire life. And so, what stirs in you? Is there a niggle nudging you to have tea with our loving God or watch the birds in each other’s company while you explore possibilities? Of course, that is the best way to begin. Be honest. Listen well. You will hear God’s voice guiding you forward.
