50. Funerals, Part Two

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

A whole book of funeral related material could be written by any parish pastor who served (survived?) for more than forty years. Been there. Saw that. So, I’m writing the book. 

A shout out to the diggers, the people who actually do the burying. Most are employed by the local cemetery association. I’ve only come across one who does all the digging by hand, pick and shovel carving a seven by three foot hole, six feet deep. The little, tightly arranged plots in West Walworth made it impossible to get a backhoe in most location. Bless Norm’s soul.

Another shout out to the vault people, usually dressed in coveralls waiting at their truck parked nearly out of sight while family and friends gather. Once the hole is ready, they remove the concrete box from their flatbed, using a small crane. A small remote controlled tracked machine delivers the vault to the grave. They assemble a steel frame with rollers and belts above the grave. The vault is slid into place, connected to belts and lowered into the hole. The cover is set aside. Vault people set up the tent, lay boards around the hole, roll fake grace over everything, set up chairs. Hopefully, the weather is accommodating, though, not always. 

Clergy precede the casket into the sanctuary, and out when the funeral is concluded. We ride in the undertaker’s limo that precedes the hearse, leading the processional from funeral parlor or church to the graveyard. 

Shout out to the motorcycle escorts, in fair weather and foul, icy blizzards, pouring rain, and hot sunshine, who zoom ahead to block intersections, ensuring a smooth processional of cars, headlights on, to the cemetery. They are a sturdy bunch. 

The undertaker at the cemetery gives necessary paperwork and checks to the association attendant, wrangles pallbearers and removes the casket from the coach. Clergy lead the procession of pallbearers to the grave. If the corpse is heavy, I’ve seen many straining, gripping, hoping not to fall pallbearers deliver the casket to the straps held by the frame above the grave. Flower arrangements are placed around the casket by the undertaker and their helpers. The family follow, closest relatives given front row seats, everyone else standing in silent tribute to the deceased. 

The undertaker gives me a nod, indicating all have assembled. I step forward, open the prayer book, and begin. At most internments, as it’s known in the business, I wear my Alb and stole directly from the service. If it is really cold, I’ll put on a coat under my liturgical garb. Internments are short; no need to prolong the agony of grief. Just a few prayers, words of assurance, and a benediction. 

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. 

It has been my practice to stand quietly by the side while loved ones place flowers on the casket and say their final goodbyes. When all have left for their cars, the vault people begin their move. 

The casket is lowered into the vault, belts slid clear. The cover is lowered over the top, tongue and groove with an epoxy seal, nearly impossible to open ever again. The frame, tent, fake grass, and chairs are removed, and the digger begins to shovel in the earth. Rarely do family witness these final acts of mercy, but occasionally some do. 

I waited at my father’s grave, and my mother’s. 

—

Laps today were meditative and restful.

“Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God: have mercy on me, a sinner.” Words synchronized with movement gives me serenity and peace. It removes the obligation of exercise to keep my mortal, aging body as healthy as I can be. 

Less rust, like the tin man left in the forest, leave me frozen and stiff. 

A good swim is better than oil.

—

I’ve seen a lot of things buried with a corpse over the years, some intentional, others, not so much. Some are symbols of insider information that only the donor and deceased would share. Some are funny, others are tear jerking sad. 

I buried a bullfrog once. It jumped into the open vault before the casket was lowered. Ironic, but the family had spared no expense and purchased the most expensive model on the lot, with a highly polished stainless steel liner. The frog croaked his tune during the internment. After the family left and the digger and vault people gathered, it was obvious no one was going to volunteer to remove the casket, get in the hole, and rescue the frog. The casket went down, the lid was sealed, and so was the fate of the bullfrog for all eternity. 

I buried more than one beer in my time. A lot of six-packs, pints, and fifths have also been slid into the coffin before it was sealed and locked. A corpse is forever, a beer is only good for twelve ounces, not that any corpse could take advantage of the gift. Bottles and cans have also been left in the cemetery, beside or upon the grave and stone. Usually the undertaker removes them discreetly after the family has left, less neighborhood kids descend. Sometimes it takes death to lead a person to sobriety, an eternal life that is happy, joyous, and free. 

I buried a beautiful mahogany coffin once, with a deep gouge left in it top. The rain and mud caused the hearse and procession to slide down the hill. Everything at the grave was slippery. When the vault people assembled after the family departed, one had his grip slip when he was removing the iron frame. It fell and deeply scared the casket. Being a distant cemetery, unfamiliar workers, and a long drive home ahead of us, the undertaker looked at me, bowed and shook his head. “If these were my guys back home, I’d make them take it out and pay for a new casket.” They weren’t. He didn’t. None were the wiser.

I buried a corpse once tilted on a slope. It had been a multi-day downpour and the ground was swollen with water. As the digger dug, water seeped into the hole. Thinking the cement vault was so heavy, it would sink to the bottom, remaining upright, the vault people lowered it into the partially water filled hole. One side caved in, just before the vault was set in place, leaving it tiled at a forty-five degree list. With no quick fix available and the family driving in the gate, they hoped no one would notice. After all, everyone just wanted to get to the reception, dry, and warm. No one did. The casket slid in, the lid was sealed, eternity on his side. Literally. 

I buried a lot of mother’s tears. It’s always emotional to celebrate the funeral and internment of a child. We think parents should age and go first, but it doesn’t always go that way. One baby had died from SIDS, or so the coroner determined, his tiny casket was easily moved by two pallbearers. The other baby had died in childbirth, the pain too much for either of the parents to attend. I can’t even imagine. Few of us can. 

I’ve buried a lot of photographs, jewelry, teddy bears, and military medals. It is always a solemn moment for the family to depart, the corpse to be cranked down (think like the seat in a car being fully reclined), the lid to be closed and locked with a special key that only an undertaker can own. As a clergyman, I always considered it my duty to watch the casket closed, giving assurance to the family that no theft or funny business took place. 

I buried one person twice. His wife had use his own handgun to dislodge his brains. Before one makes judgment, the bruises left around her neck would acquit her of homicide. The illegal possession of a firearm charge would stand, and she served her due time. Justice, I suppose, in an odd sort of way. I got a call from the undertaker a few weeks after the internment, asking if I would return to the cemetery for a second burial. “Why?” I asked. “The cemetery buried him in the wrong site. So, out came the vault, sealed with coffin inside, transported fifty feet to the new grave, where I said my piece, and the digger went about his work.

I buried a fireman with his working pager. The final call, made by an accommodating 911 dispatcher was the last anyone heard from that pager, batteries obviously now depleted, before being buried next to the corpse of its faithful owner.

I buried a patient of mine, a frequent flyer from my EMS days. A COPD sufferer from emphysema as a result of a lifetime of cigarette smoking. Her intoxicated son found her deceased with a burned down cigarette between her lips, oxygen still flow from her nasal canula. She was cold and dead, blood pooling in her lower extremities. The son made his request for a funeral director from another town. The deputy sheriff didn’t want to hang around, so he left me in possession of the deceased. The undertaker arrived, a good friend of mine. I helped him remove the body, and off she went. Later that day he called and asked if I’d do the funeral. She had no church affiliation. My frequent visits as a medic on the ambulance apparently impressed her son. “Of course,” I responded, “It’s the least I can do.” She received the dignity and respect that was due.

I buried a few former medics in my time. The captain of the squad, who I greatly admired, was buried, as was his son, in the Reformed church where he was a member. Another medic who worked many calls with me was buried because he had no church affiliation. He was a loveable character, who always embarrassed us with foul body order and dirt under his nails. He always just skidded by with a minimal passing grade on his recertifications, but I loved him just the same. He was dedicated, worked hard, and we share the shit together.

I buried two young men who died of drug overdoses. On both occasions the grief was deeply felt by all who loved them. I made it a point in my eulogies to tell the congregation that addiction was a deadly disease, yet, it could be successfully treated and managed, less such grief visit their own families. “Ask for help,” I encouraged. “There are a lot of professionals who will move heaven and earth to get you the treatment you need.”

I buried a COVID victim, though the family did not want it publicized. She died of natural causes, thus avoiding stigma and blame.

I’ve buried a lot of friends and family members, each beloved, each leaving behind a painful absence of life, love, and passions. One heart felt funeral was conducted at the chapel at the United Nations. Talk about pressure.

I’ve buried numerous people, co-celebrated their mass or service with colleagues from many different denominations and traditions. When it comes to death and grief, our difference in theology and polity doesn’t matter anymore. Everyone whose life I celebrated was done so with an attitude of thanksgiving. “Thank you, God, for sharing your beloved child with us.” Every funeral celebrated received Biblical assurance of a loving God, a redeeming Savior, and the promise of eternal life.

Eternity may be on some distant shore, I don’t know the specifics. God has never revealed to me such insider information. I only know that the God of my experience will care for my eternal soul in the same way I have been cared for all my mortal days. Grace. Love. Forgiveness. Salvation. These are the eternal signature of the Divine.

—

Undertakers have an amazing talent for absorbing grief. Those who act with professionalism and grace do well. Those who do not don’t last long in the business. They are the firsthand eyewitnesses of trauma and violence, yet go to extraordinary means to ensure dignity in death. They minister to every conceivable circumstance, children and the aged, spouse and divorced, functional and dysfunctional family members, sinners and saints.

The vast majority of undertakers I’ve been privileged to work with amaze me with their professionalism, dignity, and grace. Like in any profession, there are exceptions. Mostly, they work long hours, earn small margins, cater to the most demanding families, and pay out of their own pockets when a family has no money. I’m so grateful to God for the wonderful undertakers I’ve worked with along the way. 

Clergy have no fees for parish members, though most undertakers insisted on passing though honorariums. For non-church families, the going rate was twenty bucks when I started in the early 1980’s to two-hundred fifty today. It is awkward for many to speak about fees for service, but, I’m not shy. People should be paid for their service. When I add in my professional preparation, experience, one home visit, calling hours, leading the service, conducting the internment, and sometimes saying the grace at the reception, I think I’m worth it. 

One day I will leave this world, leaving behind an aging corpse. Trusted colleagues will celebrate my death and resurrection. In seminary one project was to plan your own funeral. I have repeated this exercise throughout my life and pastoral ministry. The liturgical rubric includes the prayer to live everyday prepared to die.

This, I have tried to do.

49. Funerals for Veterans

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

In the first week at my new parish I celebrated three funerals. Nothing says “welcome” quite like sitting bedside vigil, getting to know families, learning histories, and putting in place plans for special services. Welcome to Walworth! 

The money paid to me by the families was used to purchase a new stole, one with the faces of children woven into the fabric, symbolic, I believed, of one’s mortality replaced by new birth. Families deeply appreciated this simple act of kindness. Every time I wore that stole, I was rewarded with a smile or simple nod of the head acknowledging their loved one, the circle of life, and the community of saints.

Clergy, present company included, tend to consider a funeral as burying a corpse. Of course, I’ve never turned a shovel of earth or lowered the casket into the vault. As cremations became more popular over the years, burials were completed in much smaller holes, or scattered at some place that had been meaningful to the individual and their families. 

The smooth, seamless service for a family was writ large by the experience of the pastor and the cooperation of the funeral director. I was largely blessed with wonderful funeral directors, though there were a few exceptions. Economies of scale eventually forced out single family operations in small town New York. Consolidations and professionalization forced many individual operators to cut margins razor thin. Where this impacted clergy was a $20 honorarium and curt smile instead of the expected fifty bucks, which was the going rate in the late 1990s. “Thank you,” I’d respond back, wondering if the funeral director billed the family for fifty, but only gave me twenty.

I was fast friends with Mike, an undertaker taking over his father’s business. He grew up in the business, washing the hearse and limos as a kid. As his dad aged into retirement, he expanded by buying one funeral home and building another, all three in Western Wayne County. Mike appreciated the attention I gave to every family, even those he sent my way when there was no church affiliation. It was my habit to always visit with the family. 

First, we’d talk about the deceased, their love, passion, and journey through life. Most families would leave out sordid details, which didn’t interest me anyhow. Knowing a person allowed me to better tailor the funeral and eulogy, making it much more a celebration of life than the mourning of a death. 

Secondly, we’d spend time talking about the funeral service itself. It always made sense to me to create the service, within the constraints of The United Methodist Book of Worship, to meet the specific needs of the family. After all, isn’t that the purpose? There is much freedom to incorporate scriptures and hymns that hold special meaning. 

My eulogy always focused on faith; life, death, and eternal life. It is a way to place focus on thanksgiving and praise, for a precious life given to us from Almighty God. Confidence is shared in those sacred moments, that, through life’s ups and downs, good times and periods of pain or discouragement, God is with us every moment of every day, guiding and giving strength. A funeral eulogy often gives laser focus on a living, active God at work for our common good. A good eulogy also gives assurance of God’s promises, so poignantly stated in Psalm 23 and John 14. If you haven’t read these essential passages from the Bible in a while, give them a go!

Family comments at a funeral can be a Pandora’s box of the unexpected. A few techniques learned by experience can reduce the risk of failure, but can’t eliminate risk altogether. Although I don’t make hard and fast rules, the family visit can be used to assert strongly clergy suggestions. 

First, no open mics. “Would anyone like to say a few words?” Is an invitation for some perceived victims of dysfunctional family members, so-called friends, and former business partners to vent their spleen of resentments. I recall one such incident where a former boyfriend talked about their intimacy, going on and on, making the family squirm in their seats. Another came from a drinking buddy who recounted barroom antics and brawls. Not a good look.

Secondly, encourage the family to identify who should speak. This is often received as a honor, as a gift from one grieving loved one to another. 

Thirdly, encourage the speaker to write down their speech. Words have meaning. Chose every word with purpose. Each word is a gift from God and should be used with care. A written statement also can be handed off to another, or myself, in case the speaker becomes overwhelmed with emotion, as a funeral service is apt to occur. Lastly, a written statement limits time at the mic, avoids rambling into deep diving gopher holes, and keeps the service focused on praise and thanks. 

Funerals in the Spring, Summer, and Fall usually can be followed by immediate burial in a local cemetery. Burials in the dead of Winter are at the mercy of the local cemetery association. If digging was done by hand, burials were postponed until the ground thawed, which, those of us in the business called “Spring Planting.”

Sometimes cemetery officials wouldn’t bury in the Winter even though they had a backhoe, simply because they didn’t want ruts left from attendant automobiles. In local cemeteries that conducted Spring Planting, corpses and coffins were stored in an unheated blockhouse on cemetery grounds. Each had a central drain in the floor. Go ahead, use your imagination. 

I loved working with Mike. He was polished, respectful of families, and would go out of the way to honor special requests. He knew of my EMT background, so if he was short of manpower, he would sometimes ask for help for a removal. No problem; I’d just pull my ball cap lower over my eyes and avoided being seen by the family. All for the price of a cup of coffee and swapping of war stories. 

My one church in West Walworth had a cemetery directly across the road from the church. The association was populated by church members. Most of the deceased had been church members. Veterans from every war, from the Revolution to Viet Nam, were buried there. The church bought and placed an American Flag on every Veteran’s grave. 

Each Memorial Day Sunday, we’d complete the service, children from the congregation would carry a potted geranium in solemn procession across the road and disperse to every Veteran’s grave. A youth from church would be volunteered to play taps and I’d read in slow succession every name of every Veteran buried in the cemetery. We always gathered a crowd and boosted worship attendance. The community loved it. 

It was immensely satisfying. 

Then the cemetery association ran out of money. It wasn’t due to mismanagement, it was simply the fact they didn’t charge enough to pay the digger, hand crafted by Norm, who doubled as the code enforcement officer, and the cost of perpetual care.

Lawn mowing and landscaping, often taken for granted, cost real money. Associations across the State were going out of business, passing the stewardship of graveyards over to legally mandated Towns. Problem was, it took years for Towns to get their legal affairs in order to transfer deeds and responsibility to the taxpayer. 

Spring sprung and the grass grew tall. What to do? These were our people, I justified to the church board, layering on a veneer of guilt. We do what churches through the ages have done: we do the right thing. 

I supplied the Igloos and ice. Father’s and sons brought six packs of libations. Everyone brought their own mowers and weed whackers. One church member rode his John Deere lawn tractor two miles to the cemetery to get the wide open spots.

For a small rural cemetery, it took twenty of us a good three hours to cut, trim and whip the cemetery back into shape. We’d finish and tell tall tales over a cold beverage afterwards. We even attracted non-church members from the neighborhood to lend a hand and pitch in. It was community at its best. 

We kept up that beautiful, sacred burial ground for three seasons until the Town of Walworth took it over and sent paid contractors to replace us. We were happy to have the burden of perpetual care removed from our shoulders, but felt like we were losing a shared experience of respect and love. 

Well done, good and faithful servants.

—-

Laps today felt good. I was sporting a new blue spandex suit. Together with rocking my red Crocks, I made a very patriotic entrance from the locker room to the pool.

Or, I was a clown. 

Whatever. 

The chronic fatigue in my arms and legs were wrestled and wrung from tendons and muscles. Sharing a lane the entire swim, my lane mate was accommodating and kind. I tried to reciprocate with splash less strokes, hugging the lane marker. 

Fifteen and out, standing in a hot shower, watching the swirl of water circling the drain. Life in a glideslope felt good.

Entering the final third of life, an airplane’s glideslope is an apt metaphor for retirement. Confronted with the question, “is this all there is?” Has caused me to contemplate the years before me that will eventually end in mortal finality. Will the glideslope be free of crosswinds? Unexpected wind sheer? Free from confliction with another aircraft? To my Navy brothers and sisters, will the glideslope be in the dark of night onto a pitching deck? 

—

It has been a humble privilege to celebrate hundreds of funerals in my ministry, each a celebration of life, love, and legacy. Veteran funerals often stand out. 

Some have been modest. Countless veterans have been buried with only the undertaker and myself in attendance. A lifetime of homelessness or supervised living takes its toll. Addictions and poor choices leave people isolated from family and friends. PTSD and chronic mental health conditions can be devastating. The ninety dollar Veterans Administration provided cardboard casket was the punctuation at the end of life that still brings tears to my eyes. What can be said?

Thank you, God.

That’s what can be said.

Thanks to God should be on every lip at every funeral. For the life of humble service. For service to our country. Sacrifices for our land, community, neighborhood, families, and for our way of life. Thank you for defending a Constitution and its bountiful blessings. Thank you God; this individual gave to our grateful nation the most formative years of their young life. Thank you, God.

Taps is played. Guns are fired. The spend cartridges are lovely tucked in the Tri folded stars and stripes. A crisp salute by the American Legion honor guard. The sound of crushed stones under the tires of the hearse as we drive away. 

Some veteran funerals have been grand.

I’ve had the privilege to celebrate the life of a tanker who fought in the Battle of the Bulge, an ICBM missile commander who held nuclear Armageddon in the palm of his hand, a forward air controller who called in artillery and air strikes to cover American retreats in Korea, an Air Force wrench who spent his entire life in Viet Nam replacing aircraft tires, a sergeant who helped plugged the Fulda gap at the height of the Cold War.  

Every one deserved a flyover. With the missing man formation. 

I had the privilege of filling in for a chaplain at one of local nursing homes while she was out on maternity leave. It was easy to lead Sunday afternoon worship, to make rounds with the residents, lead weekly Bible studies, and to interview new admissions. It is easy to love people who are so grateful for your presence and attention. 

We got a new admission one day, a ninety plus year old veteran who was delighted to meet me. He absolutely beamed at me, seated in his wheelchair. After introductions and filling in the religious affiliation forms, we entered the sacred space called storytelling. 

He was a Korean War veteran, flying F-86 jets, fighting MIGs coming from China and the Soviet Union. After the war, he flew fighters with the local Air Force Reserve unit based in Niagara Falls, just an hour and a half down the road from Rochester. A native of the Finger Lakes region of New York, he was retired from a prosperous engineering firm and led a comfortable life, raising family, vacationing at a lake cottage on Keuka Lake. He was recently widowed and his adult children lived elsewhere. 

“One day,” he began bringing his hands together, “I was on a training flight and had gas to burn.” He could go home, landing heavy with jet fuel, or, he could have a little fun. He told me he banked into the turn, descending to about fifty feet of altitude and commenced a high speed run, South to North, up the center of Keuka Lake. He broke the sound barrier, he confessed with a wink and smile. He beat feet  back to base and went right to the squadron phone, placing a call to his lake cottage neighbor. 

“Hey!” He said into the phone, “anything exciting happening at the lake today?” His neighbor responded with agitation, “Some yahoo Air Force pilot just sonic boomed us!” 

Dang that was funny. His timing retelling the story was perfect. He had me rolling in laughter. 

He died in his sleep that night. 

And to think; he shared his story with me. Wow.

—

A parish pastor is often blessed with a wonderful youth fellowship group. Some led their group with resentment because no one else would step up. I always enjoyed leading youth, helping shape and form them into budding Christians ready to embrace college, military service, or the trades.  

Many have gone one to earn a terminal degree, a journeyman accreditation, or find promotion up the ranks. It is incredible to consider the hard work and long hours spent to make themselves into better versions, rising higher in experience and responsibility. Doctors, lawyers, veterinarians, professors, teachers, optometrist, nurses, firefighters, police officers. I swell with pride the fact that God brought our lives together for a time. You make me feel like a proud grandfather.

One of my former youth was killed in a motorcycle accident. No drugs or alcohol was involved; its thought he simply fell asleep after an all-night ride. To boot, I had recently celebrated the funeral for his father who died from Alzheimer’s. The former member of the youth fellowship was estranged from his wife and living alone. Don’t know. Life happens.

Yet, he had put himself through medical school, joined the Reserve, and became a General Medical Officer, a flight surgeon for the wing. In his free time, he started a not-for-profit free clinic for the large number of homeless veterans in his community. He was known to visit vets living under bridges and in tents out in the bush. 

What a life! And I was privileged to have him in my church and youth group when he was a child. He and the Apostle shared the same first name.

A service had been held in his base chapel, attended by the Governor’s spouse. He got a flyover of C-130s. I can only imagine in my mind’s eye how those huge aircraft performed a missing man flight. His Reserve unit was kind enough to fly his remains home. 

“Could you do his funeral,” his breaking mother asked. 

“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, of course. It would be my honor.” 

We buried his cremains next to his father’s in a sunbaked village cemetery. Taps were played. Rifles were fired. The shell casings were tucked into the folded flag, and it was presented to his mother on behalf of the president and a grateful nation. 

The mixture of gratitude, faith, and grief drained every ounce of energy out of me. I needed time by the railroad tracks; to wait, to watch, to listen. That day, the kingdom of God came close, oh, so close.

And I cried.

48. Honeoye Falls, Walworth, and West Walworth: Zion

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Disability was not a destination. At least, not for me. Not now. It was respite, a temporary pit stop, a time to refresh, renew, refocus, to build back strength. Cynthia and I bought a house on the west side of town, and with the assistance of members of the Palmyra church, fire department, and family, we made the move. It was quite a sight to see my son’s backyard jungle gym on the back of Buddy’s tow truck, making the turn at the four corners. It nearly swiped the stop light.

We settled in. Made a nest. With no pressure, I was free to meet with my care team, get Christian on and off the bus to his pre-K special education program at Roosevelt Children’s Center, and to get Nicholas off to middle school each morning and welcome him home every afternoon. In between moving from Labor and Delivery nursing jobs, Cynthia worked a short time as a school nurse at Roosevelt, where she could take a more active role in Christian’s early childhood education. I’d answer a few ambulance and fire calls, but I began to slowly back away.

I didn’t need to add to the pile of traumatic stress. Over time, the pile needed to shrink.

Respite was found and tapped beside the CSX mainline. Each night, I’d park on the north side of Division Street, far enough away from the village to hear the crickets chirping in the summer, or snow gently falling in the winter. When squinting the ears, one could hear the distant horn and churning of diesel engines, nearly imperceptible at first, yet faintly present, taking time to build like an approaching storm. Watch; try not to blink, less the signal light, suspended by the rusted iron gantry, glow to life, granting engineer and conductor safe passage. In the quiet, I’d watch and wait.

Listening. Patient, actively listening for the still, small voice of God calling my name.

Got a call from one of the Bishop’s district superintendents (who would one day be elected Bishop himself) offering to take me out to lunch. The lunch was nice. His expense account picked up the tab. We didn’t talk about anything profound. He was truly caring about my life, call, health, and progress towards wellness. We parted with a smile and a handshake. Nothing more; nothing less.

Soon thereafter, a call came from the Rochester district superintendent, asking me if I wanted to cover the final three months of the year for a colleague who was out on medical leave. “I heard you were doing much better,” she said to me.

“Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you for the vote of confidence. I feel great.” I paused, thinking about who served in what churches where.

“It’s about a forty-five minute drive. It would be full time. The appointment would only be to fill in until the end of June. You’d be great.”

“I’ll take it!” I felt a wave of relief. God did have a place for me. I had a shot to reestablish my call to pastoral ministry. Within a week the Staff Parish Relations Committee (SPRC) met with the district superintendent and me and the announcement of the Bishop’s appointment was made official. Welcome to Honeoye Falls United Methodist Church.

I found a hurting church. I was on the mend. Together, we made a great team. God began to do great things with us. The family fell right in and we had a new church home. Over the course of those three months my confidence returned. It felt great being a servant, shepherd pastor. Nothing to encumber me, weigh me down, or bring distractions. Just kind, loving people who were just as eager to love me back.

Three days a week I’d spend time in my new church office, staying late for the occasional meeting, working from my laptop and cell phone, both marvels of technology that greatly assisted the work of pastoral ministry, constant companions for the later thirty years of ministry.

One Sunday I made a point of Jesus fishing for men (and women), using my fly fishing rod to whip a tapered line above the heads of the congregation. Toddlers and gray haired old ladies alike loved it. The visual demonstration served to weld into memory the value and importance of fishing for people to bring them into a relationship with Jesus.

The Memorial Day committee made it a point to include me in the Memorial Day parade and service at the cemetery. Prayers were said, the band played, a senior sang our beloved anthem. Prayers were spoken aloud with humble thanksgiving into a portable public address system. With three cracks, seven members of the local Legion fired in tribute to Americans loved and lost during time of war. Less we forget the pain of war, the message was crystal clear, let us always be cautious and reflective before the violence card is unleashed in reckless abandoned.  

“If only I could stay here, serving these lovely people,” I thought to myself.

But, it was not to be.

An aborted attempt was made to drop us into a city parish, one who didn’t like the changing neighborhood and rip tide of crime that was assaulting the region. The city school district was beset with waste and corruption, suffocating under a blanket of poverty. Health care and higher education took up the mantle of a shrinking middle class, even as Kodak, Busch and Lomb, and Xerox were fading away. The gap between the haves and the have nots was widening each year, and in the crevasse left between, crime and poverty filled the vacuum. As we left the meeting of a dying church longing for the energy of yesteryear, Cynthia and I were both in tears.

The district superintendent wasn’t naive. She saw clearly the parish killing dynamics at work. Thankfully, it wasn’t me. God’s grace allowed me to dodge a bullet.

Patience. Wait for the call. Have confidence. God has not let us down in the past. Something was bound to happen the Spirit was primed to move.

___

No pool today.

It isn’t as if I don’t have the time. I just don’t have the energy. It feels familiar like last year’s virus, or like prior fluctuations in blood chemistry, regular adjustments being necessary to keep me from nutritional Armageddon. Having the stomach removed and internal plumbing reconfigured will do that to a guy.

Time to call the doctor.

Growing up in the great depression, mom and dad would only call a doctor if death was imminent. By that time, what’s the point? at least that was my thought in middle age. Now that retirement has come and I’m riding the wave of Medicare, I can’t help but wonder.

Just when is it time to call the doctor?

Perhaps tests and scans fail to reveal the source of malaise? What then? I’m not a fraud, but what would the doctor think? Spend all that money, only to have it result in a shrug of the shoulders and the insincere assurance that “we’ll keep an eye out for any changes?”

The thought of crawling through the water with arms that hang heavy keeps me home with my head in a book. Friday will come, and with it, new medical expenses. With the new Medicare Advantage plan, at least the membership at the pool will be free.

—

We had not even lived in our newly purchased house for two years when we sold it for a loss. It was okay, the new parish had a parsonage, and it was only twenty minutes away.

Walworth and West Walworth: Zion were the answer to our prayers. We were much closer to Rochester than Roosevelt Children’s Center, so Cynthia resumed her Labor and Delivery nursing career at a large city hospital. She also enrolled, thanks to the generosity of her aunt, in a Master’s degree program at the University of Rochester to become a licensed, certified midwife, a mid-level practitioner of women and babies health care. Her call to the ministry of nursing was expanding and growing, opening new doors of possibilities. She was positioned to make a difference in the lives of many new mothers and families, many from the poorest neighborhoods. Nicholas was enrolled in the Wayne Central middle school and Christian continued in his early childhood education at Roosevelt.

Walworth, with the parsonage right next door, was the former Episcopal Methodist Church on the east side of town. West Walworth: Zion was the former Evangelical United Brethren Church on the, you guessed it, west side of town.

Zion had settled immigrant German families into lowland muck farms when America was fresh and new. Services were led in German until the first decade of the twentieth century.

Walworth people saw themselves as the sophisticated, educated members of town, an upper-middle class affluent suburb. West Walworth people reminded me they rode to school on an underpowered school bus during the great depression. East side; white collar. West side; blue collar. It was a town with two church cultures.

I followed a wonderful pastor and family who had served the people of this two-point parish for fourteen years. She did a great job. There was no way I could fill her shoes, so I tried not to.

As in prior parishes, I was blessed with two wonderful lay leaders. Jacque, in Walworth, drove a 1970’s era Lincoln, is a bra burning plank holder in the ERA, was a special education teacher for the Sisters of Mercy, and would, one day, retire from teaching and go the route of serving as a licensed local pastor. She knew where all the bodies were buried and was eager to fill me in on the details if it could further my ministry and the church.

Sharon, in West Walworth: Zion, was a recognized leader in church and community. She was the number two person at the local chapter of the Alzheimer’s Association, well connected in the United Way and Lifespan, and was a killer euchre player. Loyal, with no exceptions, Sharon would fight and die for the rights and wellbeing of others.

Now, that’s what is called amazing grace.

—

It was good to only move a short distance to start serving a new appointment. Neighboring school districts. Same funeral directors. Same hospitals to make calls. Same ecumenical clergy breakfast group. Familiar back roads. The CSX mainline was never far away, the distant crossing horn fading to silence on hot summer nights.

September rolled around. School sales abounded. Life in the parish began to tick up with the start of Sunday school. Worship was planned through New Years around a table that included Jacque, Sharon, and pianist and organ player. The Sunday evening praise band thought it was beneath them to plan. It smothered the Spirit, so they claimed. Perhaps it was the inability to sing on key. I don’t know; just thinking out loud.

Tuesday was crisp and clear. I rode my Yamaha to breakfast at the Yellow Mills Diner with my clergy buddies. As I zipped up my leather jacket to leave I overheard a stranger speaking with the cashier something about an airplane crash in New York.

CNN was leading with the headline of breaking news, showing a live shot of a burning, bellowing World Trade Center building making its last gasp. Reporters with head down and hand covering an ear, each brought a unique perspective to unfolding events.

From the left of the live frame flew another airliner, straight into the other twin tower, banked at a cruel angel, slicing through space and time, shrapnel flying, rolling fire like napalm. Horrifying. Instant death. It was an American trauma, sucking in all to the live broadcasts. Pentagon. Shanksville, PA. Combat air patrol circling above American cities.

“Uncle Todd? What are you calling me for?” my niece asked as soon as she picked up my call. “No time for questions. If you’re in Manhattan, get out now!” “But I’m at an audition for a Broadway play. I can’t leave.” “Run. Please run.” My brother, watching events unfolding in my living, room hung his head and prayed.

News slowly came in. Her uncle David, who taught at Columbia, and suffered from advancing Parkinson’s was last heard from near ground zero. He got out, made every human effort to get away, swept up in the dust covered frantic crowd of New Yorkers fleeing for their lives. He made it. Aunt Esther’s call was a huge relief.

Like most congregations across the land, people were devastated. Many had personal connections with the 9/11 attacks. Others were stranded in airports when airliners were grounded. Nearly everyone wondered: what was the next shoe to drop? And, where would it land?

Is this an act of God? Good? Bad? Evil? Whom should I believe? Whom should I fear. I felt in my bones the need to gather.

That evening we did just that. We came together, two churches as one. We prayed and sang, mourned and cried, recognized there are many more unanswerable questions than there were answers. It felt to me at the time that this would be the moment in history where society would begin a return to roots of faith, anchored deep in family and culture.

There was a surge in worship attendance, for a time. But that time was surprisingly short. In place of reflection, prayer, and discernment the cultural landscape and airwaves were quickly filled with talking heads and war-mongering commentators calling for revenge and  retribution. Instead of a message of love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, the message of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth was demanded by an angry electorate.

Thinking back, what could have the Church done differently leading up to 9/11 and in the days thereafter? So much of the effort in the 1980’s and -90’s was building and deploying programs for church growth, despite the fact that overall worship attendance continued to plummet like a rock.

Something new. Something shinny. Sign up for this program. Sign up for that. Get on board, or get left behind.

Then, boom. One bookend began with the fall of the Soviet Union and the end of the cold war. The other was defined by 9/11. In between was a peace dividend that never was, a nation dividing into rigid, non-compromising  ideologies, and a new definition for “sexual relations.” The world as we knew it came to an end.

Observing the bookends in one’s life is helpful for uncovering meaning, understanding, comprehension. “Ah, yes,” I say to myself. “Now I see.”

It’s time for a pipe.

47. Ordination and Two Women

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

“Hey, Todd. I’d like to talk with you about becoming Ordained. I think I’d like to get Ordained to perform weddings. You know, to be of service.” My friend asked me innocent enough after our group meeting, not knowing the weeks I’d ponder his question and the waves of emotions that would sweep through me. 

“Yes, of course,” I responded with a forced smile. “Anytime.”

My wife looked at me with that puzzled look on her face. “What do I think ordination means to me?” She repeated my question. Silence filled the air as she thought. “Well,” she began.

“I mean,” I interrupted her, “get Ordained just to perform marriages? You can get that online for the price of ten minutes and thirty-five bucks. But what does it mean? If a United Methodist lay person obtains an online certificate of ordination does that renounce their membership?” It remained a mystery to me. 

“In that case,” she resumed, “ordination means nothing more than the ability to conduct a civil ceremony.” Not a church service, not an act of worship, not a recognized ordinate of the Church. Her clarity swept the fog away and revealed the hard reality of today’s Church in American society. 

Online ordination was a certification to conduct a civil ceremony. Nothing more, nothing less. It held no religious or theological weight.

Civil forces are eroding the foundation of the Christian Church. School activities have taken-over time previously dedicated to youth fellowship, Christian education, mission work, and camping. Church softball and basketball leagues have been replaced by intermural sports. Community festivals, complete with carnival rides, beer tents, and marching bands have replaced church picnics, dish-to-pass fellowship dinners, and game nights.

Wedding venues have replaced church weddings and funeral chapels have removed church funerals from the sanctuary table. Civil religion, resplendent with nationalism, has hijacked two thousand years of deep theological thought and practice. Even the term “evangelical” has been corrupted to reflect a political reality, rather than a fervent, passionate desire to bring people into a relationship with Jesus Christ. 

The throne of Christ hasn’t been abdicated, it has been overthrown in an unopposed palace coup. 

The innocent question from my friend, who grew up in the Church, but, in adulthood, walked away from organized religion has caused me to think more deeply the reality of my own ordination, what it means, and why it is important. 

Ordination is Christ centered. The God of my experience and tradition was manifest as the Creator’s son, Jesus Christ. This is not to exclude the experience or tradition of others. I come to The Way in and through Jesus. I follow his teachings and pattern my behavior on him, to the best of my limited ability. Forgiveness, redemption, and salvation, both personal and corporate, are freely given as gifts of grace through Christ from a loving God. 

Ordination is Holy Spirit infused recognition of a call to pastoral ministry. The Holy Spirit first worked internally, in my experience, casting for me the vision of serving as a pastor, a shepherd leader, of communities of faith assigned to me. My call began in childhood, developed and matured in youth, and came to fruition when I was nineteen. 

“Todd, what are you going to do with your life?” The college chaplain asked me with compassion and love in his eye. Over a period of months, words began to form and I confessed to the local parish pastor that I felt called to Ordained Ministry. That got the ball rolling.

The Holy Spirit worked externally, first in my local church and the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee. We talked, thought, prayed. Did they see in me what God was revealing? Would it be a call to parish ministry, or to engineering a new road through town? They must have liked what they saw and responded to the Spirit’s prompt. I was passed on from the local church to a District Committee on Ordained Ministry and assigned a mentor. 

The Holy Spirit was at work in my mentor and the District Committee. We studied together, met multiple times a year to gauge progress and provide guidance, each time assessing if the Spirit was ripening my spiritual fruit, strengthening my vine and branches. Concentric circles of Spirit led affirmation were spreading ever outward. 

By the power and guidance of the Holy Spirit, I survived the required background checks and psychological assessments, earned a bachelor’s degree and completed seminary. The local church and District Committee still met with me on a regular basis, even when I was handed off to the Conference Board of Ordained Ministry.

The Conference Board represented Ordained clergy from across the state. They received my records, visited me in seminary, met with me annually, confirmed my trajectory towards ordination, all the while, being led by the power and direction of the Holy Spirit. Concentric circles of affirmation, like water in a pond disturbed by a falling pebble, began locally and spread globally. Two step ordination assured a successful probationary period of service, coming to completion in two years with full membership and ordination as Elder. The entire Spirit led process took seven years. 

Ordination is humble service. The self is replaced with God at the center. Accomplishments are attributed to God. Thanks goes to God. My life, my soul, my all, is given wholly to God and God’s service. The DNA of servant leadership began with the Apostle Peter, given the keys to the kingdom by Jesus, with the exclusive authority for the good stewardship of the Church. The Ordained are stewards of the office, Episcopal leaders, Diaconal support, and Elders serving as parish pastors. We share stewardship of the efficient, effective, transparent use of money and property wholly for the purpose of Christ and his Kingdom. 

Ordination is stewardship of the Sacraments. Baptism and Eucharist are commands of Jesus, Holy Spirit fueled and led activities that initiate one into Christianity and nourish the faithful, uniting us with Christ and the common vision to complete God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven. Initiation is one and done. Eucharist is ongoing and never ending, mysterious, yet filling. Awesome, always refreshing and filling. Give us today, nourishment sufficient for today’s work.

Ordination is stewardship of The Word. Over centuries the Church has recognized specific writings as sacred, Holy Spirit inspired and empowered texts that are useful for Christian initiation, teaching, guidance, and inspiration. Scripture becomes the foundation for music, instruction, meditations, prayers, lyrics, proclamation. To the Ordained is the charge to proclaim The Gospel, literally meaning “the Truth of Jesus Christ”, to all the world. Uncut. Uncensored. As recorded in the Biblical books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. The proclamation of The Word has been my lifetime of labor, of love, of stewardship, given to me.  

Ordination is stewardship of order. Order must be made out of the chaos of the masses. To the Ordained is given the charge to establish and maintain order, modify order as the Spirit so moves to keep the Church relevant and engaged in culture and society. In the United Methodist tradition, order is codified by The Book of Discipline, approved by a global conference of equal lay and clergy delegates, chaired by a rotation of bishops, held once every four years. The process of change is deliberately slow and intentional, giving space for the Holy Spirit to work through discernment, study, and dialogue. 

Ordination is the union of authority and responsibility for the Church of Jesus Christ. The weight of service is symbolized by the yoke worn around the neck, the stole, often resplendent with colors and symbols of Christian seasons, celebrations, or sacred events. 

The right to wear the yoke is reserved to the few who are called and affirmed, the Ordained, stewards of the Church of Jesus Christ, successors of the Apostle Peter, each and every one of us, prepared to lay down our lives in sacred defense of the faith. 

The Ordained, present company included, are less than perfect. I cannot pretend to be. Thus, the Church on earth is routinely human. This is no excuse for failing to strive for perfection, the completion of Christ’s kingdom on earth as it is perfect in heaven. 

We do our best. I do my best. When I fail, I confess my sins, repent, ask God for forgiveness, make repairs, and start all over again. God has always responded with amazing, abundant grace and love, redemption and salvation. This is The Way of the cross of Jesus Christ. God has never let me down. 

—

I attacked the pool this morning fitted out in a Pentecost red, skin tight, streamlined swim suite. It hid some of the physical defects and signs of aging, but not all. It streamlined my stroke and make forward propulsion more efficient. Lord knows how good it felt not to be dragged down by a baggy suit and ballooning pockets. 

One. One God.

Two. God created Adam and Eve, in the near perfect image of God. 

Three. Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Creator. Redeemer. Sustainer. 

Four. Scripture, tradition, reason, experience; the quadrilateral of Wesleyan based faith. 

Five. Pente, as in Pentecost, or fifty. Fifty days following the resurrection of Jesus, he sent God’s replacement, the Holy Spirit, to guide and sustain us until Christ comes again.

Six. Six points of the Jewish star. 

Seven. The Lord created the heavens and earth in six days, then rested the seventh. Seven is Sabbath. Keep it holy. 

Eight. Hum. The higher the number the more difficult it becomes to keep track of my laps with numbers associated with faith. 

I make it to fifteen, and I’m done. Spent. Breathing hard. Steady myself by reaching and touching the wall. The hot shower felt, oh, so good. So good. 

—

It was a cold, damp, misty Monday morning, one which the Spring’s rain slicken roads and swelled creeks. Trees held the moisture, dripping the excess, under a dark, grey dawn. A young woman prepared for the office, dressed modestly, rolling on her tight stockings that revealed the muscles of youthful legs.

Driving to work on back country Wayne County roads, something cause her to swerve her late model SUV, skidding head on into a bridge abutment, flipping upside down, falling into the swift muddy creek below. Submerged, only the tires remained above the tide. Time ticked by.

The pager startled me to consciousness. “MVA. Car into a creek.” The coveralls slipped on, followed by shoes and car keys. My wife told me to be careful. Out the door I went, headed to the fire station, where our two ambulances silently stood ready, connect to an electrical land line to ensure all batteries were fully charged.

The call was way out at the furthest part of our district, a good 15 minute drive, when the roads were dry and free from traffic. One of our chiefs reported on scene and immediately called for a wrecker with a heavy duty winch. This couldn’t be good.

Safe extraction takes time. Years of training culminated with two brave firefighters dawning wet suits, harness, and ropes. No one knew if the submerged vehicle was occupied. Only the four tires stood sentinel like gravestones above the swirling water. Slowly, deliberately, the two descended the steep bank, a whole line of firefighters holding their tether in belay.

I watched the orchestra from the safety of the bridge. The tow truck backed to the edge, extended it’s crane, and slowly lowered the weighted steel cable over the side. The rescuers in the water knew exactly how to rig the automobile to hard points. When cleared, the winch slowly began to grind lifting the car from the watery grave. When above the rail, the operator, Buddy, a friend of the department, pivoted the boom and swinging, inverted SUV over to the road, water pouring from every compartment. Cable released, and a crowd of beefy firefighters flipped the car onto its wheels.

Equipment was piled on the waiting stretcher and backboard. I rolled it over to the driver’s door and pulled on the handle. It sprung open. Water cascaded out. In the driver’s seat was the woman, head down, looking as if she was taking a nap. I unbuckled the seat belt and we carefully pulled her out, laying her on the backboard.

She was as cold as ice, dark and grey, her long hair splayed around her head. There was no pulse, no respirations, no signs of life. The only anomaly I could see was a mid-thigh tear in her left stocking. A beautiful, young woman, on her way to work, now a corpse before me.

She had been submerged well over an hour, by the time she was found missing from work and people began to search for her. No, we would not start CPR or make any other life saving efforts. We were later informed that the autopsy revealed a mortal closed head injury that was the cause of death. She was dead from the initial impact, before she hit the water.

All that was left was to spread a linen blanket lovingly over her corpse and wait for the medical examiner to arrive.

—

After thirty years, sometimes I wonder why I write about these tragedies. Their memories remain vivid and real, down to the tear in a woman’s stocking. Hundreds of other scenes from my experience will remain unwritten. Only a few, the chosen, have I decided to put words to paper. Anonymity is always a critical element, never wanting to add to another’s grief.

Yet, I write. In doing so redemption fills my soul and brings me healing. Bad things happen, in spite of my will and every effort. Birth. Life. Death. Eternal life. It’s not about me. This is God’s kingdom, not mine. Rather, I’ve come to know the privilege of being present, being the tangible evidence of a loving God, even in the presence of unfathomable tragedy.  

—

It was a mid-summer, hot afternoon, one where the cicadas buzzed in the trees and a cool glass of ice tea on the front porch provided sweet relief. “MVA, route 31, east of town,” my pager tripped then squawked the details of the call.

It was a routine cycle of response, honed by training, tempered by experience. The flashing blue light on my dashboard urged me to go faster, maturity reigned me back. Eagerness and adrenaline is no substitute for physics or adherence to traffic law. The fire house was enroute to the scene, so I parked, ran in and jumped into the passenger seat of the rig.

Vern was my driver. Old. Reliable. Confirmed bachelor, Vern; who had a habit of baptizing the radio and lights and siren console with a cup of black coffee. “Hit it, Vern,” and off we went, entering the cue of responding police cars and fire chiefs also responding to the call.

One day in the near future I would conduct Vern’s funeral. He was found dead in his recliner, pager still working. We closed his casket with Vern dressed in his fireman’s dress uniform, working pager at his side. Hefty firefighters hoisted his casket to the hose bed of the pumper for his final ride to the cemetery. There wasn’t a dry eye in the company.

We pulled up to the scene. Two cars smashed in a head on collision, still smoldering, in the middle of the road, both vehicles crushed by the violent impact, passenger compartments folded tight by torn metal, covered in cubes of safety glass. If ever there was a text book evolution for the Jaws of Life, this was it.

A woman’s arm hung loosely from the driver’s compartment, attached to a crushed body, trapped in unnatural positions. There were no airbags in this era, only seat belts. A lot of good her seatbelt did for her. Her face was towards me, narrow slits in her eyes, just enough for me to believe that she was still alive and straining to peek out.

She had a pulse, weak, as it was. As the firefighters began their extraction with their noisy engine and jaws, I held her hand and placed my other upon her head. “It’s going to be alright,” I lied to her. “We just have to get you out of here.”

We were taught in training to never lie to a patient, to provide promises that couldn’t be kept. But in that moment, I lied. Not to mislead, rather, to bring comfort to a woman in the last moments of life.

Her pulse faded, then stopped. The guys on the jaws were frustrated; there just were not any hard points left on the car from which to spread, wedge, or pry. I would not let go of her hand, no matter how much it ached to maintain the position, no matter how cramp my legs became. Oh, my back ached. Yet, I held on.

It was well over an hour after her last heart beat that the wreck finally gave up it’s driver. Even the coroner arrived on scene and pronounced her dead before we were able to glide the corpse onto the backboard and stretcher. We were not allowed to transport the dead, so we waited for the local undertaker to be paged and dispatched. All we could do was cover the body and wait.

I did not know her name or family, yet I knew the grief that would fall upon them. It was important, at least to me, knowing that she did not die alone; knowing that she had died with someone who loved her, holding her hand. This was the best I could do.

I remember sitting on the back of the rescue truck pouring a cold bottle of water over my head and crying.

Welcome to my life: ordained pastor, volunteer medic, psychiatric assessment officer. This was the crucible of ministry.

46. A Higher Level of Care

~ toddgoddard ~ 1 Comment

The Pitt is a masterful rendition of a fast moving Emergency Department. Like its predecessor, ER, the pace, emotions, and procedures reflect my own experiences in ERs around the region. With my wife, with over 40 years of Labor and Delivery experience, and my experience running EMS and Psychiatric Assessments, we love to watch each episode, call out bull shit when we see it, fill in blank spots in our knowledge. To a large extent, Hollywood gets it right. 

Shout out to ED staffs of doctors, nurses, respiratory therapists, and techs. I loved them all. Some became more than professional acquaintances; friends even. There would be middle of the night calls, when everything was settling down and paperwork was complete, when one would pull up a chair and we’d begin to talk about theology, family, politics, cases. 

It was always a huge relief to transfer care to ER staff, professionals with a higher level of care than my meager Intermediate Life Support Emergency Medical Technician certification allowed. Responsibility for life and limb weighs heavy on every medic. Training only goes so far; it kept me focused in the center of the hurricane, yet, each and every one of us responding to the cry for help from a neighbor remained deeply human. I felt, and cared, deeply for the human hurt and pain I heard and experienced.

—

The man sitting on the gurney opposite from me in the small psychiatric ER room was dressed in uniform. He had just completed his work day, jumped into his pickup truck and drove straight to the ER. He knew he was in trouble, just as serious as if he had crushing chest pains and difficulty breathing. 

Except, he didn’t. 

This soft spoken member of the law enforcement community had been hearing voices recently telling him to kill his wife. He knew they were not real, for he could not locate any source of the voices outside of himself. His experience, he reported to me, was more real than mere fleeting thoughts that could be brushed away by refocusing on a different tasks. He reported to me that he heard these voices plain as day. They began when he woke, continued through the day and into the night. 

He loved his wife, and children. From his world view there was no reason to want to bring harm or violence to his wife or family. Unnerving. Frightening. Terrifying, even. With no history of mental illness, this gentleman came to me desperate for help.

“The voices tell me to shoot her,” he reported. “They are breaking me down, and I’m afraid the only way to make them stop is to do it, even though I don’t want to.” My heart broke for this man, all the while, my brain is franticly searching for cause, treatment, and a path leading to a healthy outcome. He checked the homicidal box, had the means, and desire to carry through on his plan. 

Doing nothing wasn’t an option. He was also armed. 

People who experience homicidal ideation can be very dangerous, not only towards their target, but also to anyone else on the sidelines. Experience and crisis intervention training taught me to establish a non-anxious presence, de-escalate and maintain calm, and compassionately remove the threat. My affect was laid back and empathetic, words were soft and eyes expressed kindness. My brain was praying for God’s mercy to work in and through me. 

My legal pad was full of notes taken, a life spilled into my lap, emotionally flailing in an attempt to find a way out. Even during our interview I could see him wince, blink hard, when he heard his command hallucinations. Maybe he was attempting to block that which was assaulting him. 

“Give me one moment,” I said as I stood and stepped towards the door. “I’ll be right back.” And I left him, sitting in silence, on a hospital gurney, in a small ER room, armed with a gun. 

I went straight to the attending ER doctor, pulled him aside and gave him the brief run down. “And he’s armed,” I told him, driving home the life held by a thread, serious nature of the patient. Fear wasn’t on my radar. Training and experience kept me laser focused. Yes, there was mortal danger, but thinking about that could be postponed to later. Then I could collapse in the staff lounge with a case of the he-be geebies. 

No. He-be geebies cannot be found in the clinical manual of psychiatric disorders. That doesn’t mean they aren’t real. “I’m on it,” doctor Mark told me. “Go back in and keep him calm.” 

So I re-entered the exam room, pen and legal pad in hand. Memory fails regarding what we spoke about, but it must have been effective because he remained calm and quiet. Time passed, as if I could hear every tick of a sweep second hand on the clock. Our conversation was almost casual. There was a knock at the door. 

Turning to stand and open the door, it exploded open and in rushed the A-team. Cops, hospital security, lots of big burley men. I slipped out, unseen. It was over before the patient knew what was happening. He was restrained and disarmed, not of just one handgun, but two. Later, his pickup truck in the parking lot also sported a cache of firearms and ammunition, now secure. Whew!

A tragedy was averted that evening. A story was written that never made the evening news. A tortured mind was made safe, and I can only hope and pray, he was able to find the cause of his hallucinations, to be effectively treated, and to return to a life filled with love and family. 

Why? I wondered. There are many possible causes for such a condition. Medical, chemical, disease, abuse, hereditary, you name it. UTI? Brain tumor? Late onset Schizophrenia? Sometimes it is nearly impossible to nail down a cause, let alone treatment. There but by the grace of God goes any of us. It was by that same grace that I was effective and safe that hot summer evening so long ago in the ER. 

Thank you, Lord. 

—

Every lap in the pool this morning was shared with a fellow traveler on this journey called life. He was kind is offering to share a lane, faster than me – aren’t they all? – completing three laps to my every two. 

Each time we passed I squeezed tight to the lane markers, compensating for the violence of water, splash, and wave. It was as if his displacement pushed against me. It wasn’t intentional, just physics. 

Water has to go somewhere. I reflect on the wet spring we are experiencing, breaking records I hear from the evening weather report. Streams, running chocolate brown, fill their banks full to overflowing. Low dams that used to support mills long since gone have been swept clean of debris, water swift, flowing so fast over the crest it registers as hardly a bump. Low lands, fields, and lawns flood, basements fill, and rain continues to fall. 

Pool water refreshes. River water cleanses. Filtered water nourishes. Baptismal water stakes a claim. 

—

All the classroom training cannot prepare an EMS medic for the full reality of traumatic injury and death. Experience is the only calming effect I know of. Debriefing helps reduce the debilitating effects of post-traumatic stress. But that comes after the fact. This is where having experienced leadership is essential to the effective deployment of an emergency medical services agency. 

We were blessed with Vince and Jean. Retired, but not inactive, a husband and wife duo who had been in on the ground level of emergency medical services in the 1940’s and 50’s, when local undertakers gladly passed responsibility to someone else, anyone else, usually to volunteer fire departments! The ubiquitous black hearse with a gumball light would be replaced with municipally funded, hand crafted ambulances, complete with trained medics and drivers, lights and sirens. Trauma medicine had advanced by leaps and bounds during WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. It was making the leap into every neighborhood and community in the country. 

Vince and Jean, lifelong members of the Reformed church, had seen it and done it all. Some new bucks rebelled against their authority, but quickly were told to toe the line or get out. That’s what the other ambulance service in town was for; our rejects, and it showed, or so we believed. 

Her name escapes me. She was alive when I got to her. Her elderly body trapped by steel and plastic, covered with cubes of broken safety glass, violence now ended, leaving her with exposed bone, blood, and brains. But, she was breathing and had a heartbeat. “Launch Mercy Flight,” I requested in my radio. Standing back, ever the leader and safety officer, Vince agreed and relayed my request to dispatch. 

Our rescue crew fired up the Jaws of Life, its small engine powering a hydraulic set of pincers, coughed and came to life. All I could get at was covering her nose, or what was left of it, with a non-rebreather mask and 16 liters of pure oxygen. A fireman threw a blanked over the two of us, shielding us from shards of glass and flying plastic parts. Her vehicle had been obliterated, engine separated from frame, axels departed, steel twisted, steam hissing, electrical connections severed, one wheel 150 feet down the road resting in a ditch. 

Pulling into the path of a car doing 55 will do that to a vehicle. I know, from personal experience, both as a medic, and, later in life, as a patient. 

Firefighters set up a landing zone a few hundred yards away on a driveway well clear of overhead obstructions. Mercy Flight landed with sound and fury, just as my patient was freed from entrapment. C-collar. Back board. The non-rebreather reservoir inflating and deflating with every breath, until it didn’t. 

Shit. Respiratory arrest, I called out. The Bag-Valve-Mask (BVM) came out and we took over breathing for our unconscious patient. Unbelievable, but she had a pulse. 

The impeccably coifed flight paramedic approached from behind and snarled at me, “what did you call us for? She’s in arrest. We can’t transport a patient in respiratory arrest.” 

“Well, she wasn’t when I called you,” I responded, anger rising. Now he was on the scene, as a paramedic, he was a higher level of care than me, so the ball was in his court. His call. What was he going to do?

First things first. A is for airway. We loaded her temporarily in our ambulance so he could sink an Endo-Tracheal tube. That meant starting an IV and the paramedic pushing drugs that sedated and paralyzed her. We worked like demons with the house on fire. Success meant a possibility, however slim, for life. Failure, and, well. We might just as well call the undertaker and go home. 

Oh. Yeah. There was blood, bone, and brain all over the place. But she still had a heartbeat. 

“We fly,” he decided, as he looked at me and said, “and you’re bagging her all the way to the hospital.” 

My heart jumped. The prospect of flying in a helicopter, a new experience. “Sure,” I smiled, wiping away the sweat dripping into my eyes.

Bagging was made easier because the BVM was connected to the ET tube. We extracted from the ground ambulance, and with the assistance of big, burley firefighters, rolled the gurney to the idling helicopter, helmeted pilot still in his seat. We ducked beneath the blades, and steered clear of the tail rotor, just as instructed in training, ball caps removed and secured under the belt. The backboard slid between the clamshell doors. I entered the starboard side door, of a very small, cramped compartment. As the patient slid into place, I resumed respirations, knees sandwiching her ears, hunched over, head above her belly. The paramedic behind me monitored the EKG, drugs, and IV lines.

I couldn’t move, shift my weight, or adjust my position. Other than my hands squeezing the breath of life into our critical patient, I became one big cramp. If only I could have looked up or out a window.

The flight to Strong Memorial Hospital was all business. We landed with a thump. Only when the patient was slid from beneath me was I able to move, barely. Fortunately, plenty of hospital personnel took over and I was freed to work my aching muscles.

The broken woman delivered to trauma care remains nameless to this day. I don’t know if she lived or died. If she lived, God help her, for her broken body and bones, and lacerated brains, would need something more than the balm of Gilead.

The turn around was fast; much faster than I was used to on a ground ambulance. The roof top helicopter pad needed to be opened as soon as possible. “Let’s go,” the aeromedical paramedic said to me. Up and out we went.

He helped me strap in and dawn a flight helmet, complete with intercom. “Welcome to my bird,” the pilot said to me. “Time to go home.”

“Can you take me back to Palmyra?”

“No can do, buddy. Rules say I have to take the chopper back to base in Canandaigua. Don’t worry, we’ll get you home.”

“Okay, then,” I said, thinking to myself that my little joy ride just made a three hour ambulance call into a six.

“No worry,” the pilot replied. “Rules don’t say I can’t give you a guided tour back home.”

And so we went, flew up and straight south-east, out of the Rochester airspace. Over Mendon, not quite half way, the pilot began to dive and swoop, banking left and right, giving me a joy ride unlike the best rollercoaster anywhere. It was glorious! I laughed until I cried. The views were fantastic.

The pilot straightened up approaching the Canandaigua airport, set the skids down on a wagon slightly bigger than a Radio Flyer, shut down, and a John Deere lawn tractor towed us into the hanger. I wondered how that was done. Now, I knew!

The owner of Mercy Flight, Paul H., met me as I got out of the aircraft. He shook my hand and thanked me for the help. Hey, I was free labor; why wouldn’t he have a smile on his face? Paul was nice and offered me a ride home to Palmyra. “Sure,” I smiled. “Thank you.” We talked EMS and Mercy Flight all the way back.

I was dropped off at the fire station and everyone crowed around, welcoming me home. “How was it?” “Enjoy the ride?” “Did she make it?”

All the while Vince and Jean stood back, arms folded across the chest, waiting, quietly smiling. When the crowd thinned, then dispersed, Vince came over and said to me, “Good job, Todd. You did real good.”

That was all I needed to hear.

Thank you Lord, for great training and the support of a professional team, all volunteers. Thank you, for higher levels of care. Thank you, for Vince and Jean.

45. Jim, Betsey, and the Gift of Silence

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

A good lay leader is such an asset to a congregation and a blessing to the pastor. They can provide a trusted sounding board for the possible, a breath of the Spirit’s guidance, and a faithful confidant. They function as a bridge between the pastor and the parish, serving on all church committees, and are in a position to be an effective communicator with members and friends of the congregation.

“Should I go visit so-and-so?” I’d ask Jim.

“Yeah, that would be a good idea. He is the second cousin of so-and-so, you know.”

Good to know. Vernon Lee, a mentor, saint, and denominational leader had counseled me early on to make it a point to learn the people’s history better than any one person knows it themselves. Jim was always willing and able to help me connect the dots, fill in the blanks.

Jim was an exceptional lay leader when I served the United Methodist Church in Palmyra. He was a confirmed bachelor, who lived with his aging, widowed mother. He did all the shopping, taking her to her doctor appointments, watching over her like a hawk. His car was recognizable where ever he went, a tan Bonneville, I seem to recall. He was also the village mayor, a person whom the general public endowed their stewardship and trust. 

Jim walked everywhere throughout the village. It gave him a feel for the grass roots of the community. He’d wave and greet everyone he met or passed by. Be they a kid on a bike or an elder on the front porch, Jim had the gift of being a good neighbor. He’d stop to talk with anyone on a wide range of topics – can you fix that pot hole at the corner? Or, What’s up with the fire department budget? Or, thank the police chief for bring back my lost cat. Jim was a man about town.

Though he easily exceeded ten thousand steps a day, we’d often walk the village together after dark. We’d be done with church meetings, or, he’d have the village board meeting behind him. We both needed to unwind, to talk out the stress, and wear off some shoe leather. We’d inspect the village water works, streetlights casting long shadows around the parameter. Jim and I would visit the combined village and town gas pumps and check for open doors at the village DPW. We walked the village cemetery, taking notice of fresh graves, straw, and grass seed. 

Sometimes we’d walk along the railroad right of way, pausing when a distant train whistled it’s approach. We’d step behind cover and experience the passing thunder from a safe distance, watch the color lit signals reset and go dark. Our conversations ranged from the informative to the sublime, from humorous to the tragic, from superficial to profound theological questions that plumbed the depths of the human condition. 

Mostly, I appreciated how Jim held a reverential respect for silence, the ebb and flow of sacred space between us, where thoughts freely came and went, or where nothingness became a welcomed familiar. A respected seminary professor once taught us that when you don’t know what to say, “keep your mouth shut.”

Presence speaks louder than words. Showing up; that’s what the Lord expects, laity and Ordained alike. Be the embodied presence of our loving and merciful God.

Silence.
Presence.

Just show up. 

___

We know who we are. Lap swimmers are creatures of habit, predictable, trustworthy, locker room mates of few words. Goggles and towel separate us from our pickleball and weight room cousins. Words would be wasted when an eye and nod of the head will do. I see you. I respect you. 

We look for each other. When absences occur, it is impossible to help but wonder. Are they okay? Did something happen that disrupted their schedule? Are they on the way to some distant vacation? If so, good on them. 

Windows on the south side of the pool give brief glimpses of the larger world when the crawl stroke takes me down the lane. Returning eastbound, I see a familiar, disinterested lifeguard, watching the clock for fifteen minutes to drip down the drain, anticipating relief from another guard rocking flip-flops and the red cross.

Hourly workers tend to watch the clock. 

Yesterday’s blowing snow is replaced this morning by a beautiful sunrise, west Texas orange and red, the cosmic sphere rising in the dawning sky. Spring is in the air, and, boy, does it ever smell good!

Today I ask to share a lane with an unfamiliar face. “Sure,” he smiled. “No problem. Do you prefer a side?”

This give and take is an important social lubricant, under the guise of reducing the risk of collision.

“Naw,” I replied. “I’m slow on both sides of the lane.” We share a smile in the moment. He heads out in front of me. I wait to give him a head start. 

Silence is a beautiful thing.

We are silent partners, sharing a common space and time. Unlike my walks with Jim, we remain obscure and unknown to each other. Is he a person of faith? I wonder. Children? Grandchildren? What did he do for a living? He left before me and vacated the locker room before I finished my shower. Yet, his face and kindness remained, as a whisper of potential for meeting again, perhaps, some day. 

Silence is good. For waiting. For wondering. For dreaming. For praying. Thank you, Lord, for the gift of silence, and for the ability to share your silence with a friend. 

___

Silence isn’t naturally comfortable, at least in my case.

The scenery around the retreat center was Rio Grande brown and flat, wind swept, with few natural trees, bookended with stunning sunrises and sunsets. Our group was a cohort of younger pastors from around the country, each paired with a denominational leader or seminary professor, a mentor who would help shape our life, call, and career.

Chapel was a shared experience, with devotions multiple times a day. Early in this post-graduate program, a worship leader invited each in attendance to enter into five minutes of sitting in silence. One would think a bunch of pastors wouldn’t have any problem sitting in silence.

You’d be wrong.

I sat and stared at my wristwatch. The sweep second hand took forever to work its way around. My weight shifted, from one cheek to the other. There was an itch on my nose. Someone coughed. The pew on which I sat cracked. Thoughts raced though my head. Tangents, snippets, randomness, questions that couldn’t be answered. There is a sound of undisciplined silence, and I discovered it is as deafening as tinnitus.

“Five minutes is up. Let’s talk about what just happened.”

The debrief revealed a shared experience, and it wasn’t good. Distrust. Uncertainty. A space filled with anxiety, anger, and justification. The troubles of the world filled our spiritual containers, yet the drain was clogged and all the flotsam and jetsam overflowed. Like innocent bystanders with mouth agape, watching the train wreck of the soul in slow motion, unable to control, slow, or stop the flow.  

Is it possible to just be? This was uncharted waters.

Put a crimp on thinking. Throttle thoughts and distractions. Breathe; deeply breathe. Listen. Dial in the hearing. Narrow the eyes, just enough to welcome the shadows yet ward off the temptation to sleep.

Become one with the silence.

For me, silence has become God’s gift ready for me to claim.

___

Betsey was a colleague, twenty-five or so years my senior, a contemporary of my father (and his generation). She and Dad were buddies, hanging together at clergy gatherings and conferences. Years later she reported, after the daily session they’d sometimes go out and have a beer. Or two. Or three. This was in spite of his promise to my mother that he’d never drink again.

A resentment arose from me after hearing of Dad’s alcoholic transgressions, but, over time, and with greater understanding of his traumatic younger life, I’ve forgiven his flaws and let go of these harmful thoughts.  

My first encounters with Betsey were not positive. When I visited annual conference, usually supporting camping and retreat ministries, I observed that Betsey was one often at the microphone, asserting her case, advocating for justice, calling out hypocrisy. She was a bra burning, tie dyed, anti-war feminist, Selma marcher of the first kind. She was obviously no friend of the bishop. Yet, neither were they foes. Other female clergy members of conference loved her and often rallied at her side.

Women clergy seemed to have a thing among themselves. It was mysterious; a secret bond, or so it seemed, unknowable to men. It made other male clergy and me jealous.

As a co-chair of the Board of Ordained Ministry, I had to deal with Betsey when I came through the ordination process. When all was said and done but the bishop’s laying on of hands, I got a note in the mail with her return address. It looked like it was written in pencil on a piece of brown paper torn from a grocery bag. The note informed me that, in lieu of the traditional ordination gift from the conference, the Board of Ordained Ministry decided to make a gift to Africa University, in our name. 

Without our permission. Without our input. Gee, thanks for asking. The message I heard was, take it, new guy, and like it. Welcome to the union. And, oh. I wasn’t worthy of a decent piece of paper, or the effort of a typewriter?

Though her loud-and-proud presence repelled me, and the resentments I harbored from the gift I didn’t receive continued to gnaw away at my serenity, there was something more about Betsey that caused me to pause, to wait, to watch and listen for the Spirit to move. God was using Betsey to catch my attention, lassoing her into my sphere of friends with the invitation for us to become friends. 

We two could not be more unlikely friends.

In time, we got to know each other. Social circles began to overlap. I witnessed Betsey weave her means of grace serving as defense counsel to clergy charged in church trials, one in our conference and another in a neighboring conference. Though guilty of dishonoring the office of the Ordained, every defendant deserved competent counsel. And Betsey gave it her best effort. 

Betsey was not afraid to call any bishop on the phone, day or night, and demand an accounting. She’d stop in the conference office un-announced and request the treasurer go over with her the budget and pension numbers for the ensuing year. She served a minimum of one week per summer at one of our camp sites, ensuring kids had a chance to have a personal relationship with a female clergy person. Being a role model was important, and her actions spoke louder than words. 

The church calls forth strong, independent clergy women, and it’s past time for us men to pay attention. I loved it. 

Betsey was a butterfly at annual conference. One clergy, one laity, parity in decision making, gather for three days of annual conference, usually at a regional college or conference center. We worship and learn together, celebrate retirements, honor the dead, conduct ordinations and consecrations, pass resolutions, and debate a proposed budget. Passing a budget means sharing the burden equitably among local churches.

I was Ordained in the former Central NY Conference, centered in the Finger Lakes region. Consolidations over the years led to the North Central NY Conference, and, to the Upper New York Conference (when Western, Troy, and Wyoming conferences were added). Think of it this way: Big meeting, chaired by the bishop, produced by conference staff. It is time to socialize, caucus, and toe the line defined by Robert’s Rules of Order. Attendees grab free pens and tchotchkes from vendor tables, drink bad coffee, and gather for terrible meals.

In later years, I learned to lodge with local clergy colleagues, instead of grabbing a hotel room. This allowed us to show up to conference late in the morning, and leave early in the afternoon. Attend only to be seen. Keep under the radar.

We learned nothing we could say or do would impact the agenda or momentum of legislation, so why bother? For the colleagues and I who ran in the same social circles, annual conference was a three day affair to gather around an evening camp fire, talk about the challenges we overcame the prior year slugging it out in the parish, to catch up on family and friends, and to reminisce with embellishment past escapades of pastoral ministry. Often, cigars and alcohol were involved. Nuff said. 

Over the years Betsey circled into these gatherings for annual conference. We’d meet and stay at the local home of one of our colleagues, or at our family cottage on Bradley Brook. We’d sing. We cried. We shared responsibility for preparing meals. We had some of the finest steaks off the grill. We ate, drank, and smoked until we fell into our respective beds to sleep the night away, waking the next morning to do it all over again. 

We’d sit in silence around a campfire.

When Betsey’s husband died, we all showed up. Nothing need said. We gathered from across the state, just because that’s what we do. She bought the bar that day. By this time, I was living sober (thankfully so).

In her retirement, Betsey was surrounded by a close knit family she loved to take on worldly travels. From Iceland to Antarctica. It was ironic that I received news of her sudden, unexpected death while I was with my family in Alaska, exploring faraway lands, glaciers, and seas. Though unable to attend her funeral on the opposite side of the continent, the silent space between us was powerful, and brought me to tears. It still does.

Silence makes room for the Spirit to fill.

Over the years our numbers diminished. What is left of our dwindling group of clergy colleagues gathered last year for the annual conference memorial service. Betsey was one of many of our colleagues being remembered that day.

Betsey was something more to us. We honored her memory. We are grateful that we shared the journey together. Her name was read, and the bell was rung. We bowed in reverence to the loving God of our experience. In the silence, the pause, the in-between, we whispered “thank you.”

44. Man Down

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

A good EMS call is an adrenaline rush no pharmacological recipe could come close to replicating. After years of training and experience all of us medics were never out of earshot from our portable pagers. They recharged batteries on the bed stand. They hung on our hips as we made our way throughout the day. Pity the poor fool who lost their pager, or worse, were unwitting accomplices to their destruction. 

Driving a pumper on a Thursday training evolution, I parked the water heavy iron monster, set the emergency brake, and bent over to chalk the wheels. Little did I know, my pager slipped off my belt, slid to the ground, and landed right in front of the rear wheels. After training, hanging up my gear, I felt for my pager. It was one of those “Oh, crap!” agonizing moments of frantic searching, all for naught. I lived with a spare replacement and the shame of losing face in front of the other members of my EMS crew and line firefighters. 

The next spring, at the annual banquet, I did the requisite chaplain duty of saying grace and introducing the M.C. for the evening, a well-known local radio personality. Introductions were made of the incoming team of officers. Thanks were extended to the outgoing group. The awards came after steak and deserts. Many in attendance were six or more drinks into the festivities. The chief called me forward.

“Oh, great. Now what did I do?”

He held a wrapped gift and began to make his presentation, pulling slowly on his prepared speech to wring out the maximum drama. He told the story of my lost pager and frantic, unsuccessful attempt to locate it. A lot of cat calls, hooting, and laughter was hitting me like a fire hose. My cheeks burned red with embarrassment. I smiled, forced a thank you, and accepted his gift. 

“Go ahead,” he said. “Unwrap it right now in front of everyone.”

One hundred fifty firefighter, spouses, and distinguished guests shifted forward in their chairs and looked intently at my unenviable position. Gift paper shredded to reveal a homemade plaque, on which was glued thousands of destroyed pieces of my former pager. The chief saw it on the ground after I pulled the chalks and drove off, crushing it beneath the real wheels of my fire truck. He saw the opportunity and seized the day. Good on him. 

It was the only pager I had to replace. 

___

“Man down” was an EMS call we all lived for. The response was always balls to the walls, drop everything, and hit the gas. Calls were generally categorized by type: either medical or traumatic, and, severity: Critical, Unstable, Potentially unstable, and Stable. Training gave us the acronym we used by memory: “Fit to CUPS”. Our department ran “Ya’ll come” calls, as opposed to shift work, like paid and other agencies. The tones dropped, tripping everyone’s pager, and you responded. On EMS calls, some responded to the barn to drive the rig, others of us carried equipment in our personal vehicles and drove directly to the scene. You’d see medics who made a bare minimum of calls per month show up at “man down” calls and try to take over. Talk to the hand, dude. 

Some were funny, despite the fact that a life was dangling by a thread.

“Man down. Not breathing,” the 911 dispatcher told us after dropping our pager tones. As per protocol, an Advanced Life Support paramedic team was dispatched from 20 miles away. The call was a good six miles from our station into our neighboring fire district. I was the Intermediate Life Support medic, so I’d be the first on scene and be able to initiate immediate care. If the paramedic made it there before we left, great; join the party. If not, we were told not to delay transport and head for the hospital. Maybe we could meet enroute, but today, it was unlikely.

The call was to a large farmhouse at the end of a long country lane. “AM-24 on scene,” Vern, my driver, informed dispatch. On the gurney I loaded the medic bag, Oxygen tank, defibrillator, portable radio. The kitchen door opened to my banging. “You call for the ambulance?” I asked the woman who answered the door. She was barely dressed with a toddler on her hip. Another near naked woman with a baby on her hip was cooking bacon on the stove. “He’s in there,” she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. 

Vern and I pushed in to the bedroom. We found a middle aged buck naked male laying face up on the bed. Full Monty. Was there a smile on his face? I don’t know. He wasn’t talking. Or breathing. I called on the radio for more help and pulled him off the bed to the floor and began CPR. Memory fades, but I probably attempted to jump start his heart into a survivable rhythm. In time, more of my crew arrive. They took over the thump and pump while I sunk an E.T. tube, taking control of his respirations. The IV could wait until the back of the ambulance. ALS was still fifteen minutes out. Time to hit the gas and haul ass. 

Stretcher and patient, equipment, and crew pushed out the bedroom, through the kitchen and out to the idling ambulance. Barely pausing to notice, the two mommas and babies continued to go about their business in the kitchen, as if it was another ordinary morning. I paused for a moment, “What is his name?” I asked, the Patient Care Record (PCR) and clip board in hand. One looked at the other; they both look back at me, in unison shrugged their shoulders and said, “I don’t know.” 

—

Most were not. 

Two a.m. Nothing good happens at 2:00 a.m. “Man down.” The address was well known to me, elderly members of my parish, the parents of one of our village cops. In a flurry, I dressed, called in route, and met the wife at the back door. “Bill is in the bathroom,” she cried.

Lots of cardiac arrests take place on the commode. We were taught in training that the same nerves that are used to strain are also the ones that control normal heart rhythms. Push too hard or too long, and that predisposed vessel or electrical pathway just might blow. Poop is often involved. It isn’t pretty and I’ve been at that retching call far too many times.

Problem was, this evening, Bill was wedged unconscious against the bathroom door, preventing it from opening more than a sliver. “Bill!” I shouted. No response. “You awake?” Pushing hard, I could see there wasn’t any movement. Eyes closed, head down, chin buried in his chest. Grace, his wife, sobbed in the background. Still by myself, I got on the radio and called for more help. Shit. I couldn’t get in to get him out. I needed beefy firemen with wrecking tools. Fast. 

Yet, never one to give up easily …

I pushed and pulled with all my might. Leaned my shoulder into everything I had to give. “Sorry, Grace. The door has to go,” I apologized. Seeing this unsolvable puzzle blocking any hope for a successful outcome, she mumbled, “Do what you gotta do, Pastor Todd.” 

BAM! I hit the bathroom door, breaking it off its hinges, knocking Bill completely off the commode. I struggled through the debris and dragged him by his nightshirt, pajama bottoms down around his ankles, into the kitchen. “CPR in progress. Hit our tones again for more help,” I called into my radio. I thumped and pumped all by myself. Five compressions, one breath. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. 

Exhausting. Sweat in the eyes. Where was my crew? Sirens wailed throughout the village. If Bill had any chance, it was with me. His pastor. His medic. From experience, the outlook didn’t look good. Crews began to call on scene. Between compressions, I caught a glimpse of highly polished shoes and a police officer’s cuffs. “Give me a hand, buddy,” I called to the cop talking on his portable. 

He froze. “Come on, dude. I need a hand.” He didn’t move. I continued CPR until I rolled off completely whipped by my arriving crew. “What in the actual …” I was about to cuss just as I caught sight of the frozen police officer. Recognition was immediate. It was Bill’s son. “I can’t,” he cried. “I couldn’t.” 

At the end of the day, it wouldn’t have mattered. Bill had been down and not breathing long enough on the commode nothing could have been done to change the outcome, even though we tried. Minutes matter when brain cells go without oxygen, and they only get oxygen from the blood cells pumped by the heart. The pump stops, the brain dies. That’s all she wrote.

The family recognized our effort and memorial donations came into our Fire Department and the church. I sat in the same kitchen with a cup of coffee with Grace and her son a few months later. “How would you like the memorial money used?” I asked. 

“Bill loved stained glass windows at church. What do you think? Is there any way this could be possible?”

Above the East entrance to the Palmyra (formerly) United Methodist Church there is a stained glass window in memory of Bill. May it long stir fond memories and witness to the benefits of a depth of faith.

—

The lap pool called my name twice this past week, instead of the usual Monday, Wednesday, Friday two-step. The transition weather we are experiencing between winter and spring tends to give wild fluctuations off the beam of emotional stability. Nothing quite like a forecaster’s prediction of snow after a week of mild calm. In a lame excuse to myself, a vigorous walk on the indoor track would have to do.

Laps are reflective, meditative; uninterrupted silence where thoughts tend to invite and invoke critical moments in life. Man down calls invoke memories of my father’s sudden cardiac death over forty years ago, September 30, 1985. He had recently completed a cardiac stress test and received a clean bill of health. He jogged multiple times a week, keeping his weight under control and his inner demons at bay. Newly appointed to a church in Central New York, one morning he fell weak, tired, lost consciousness and died.

On the ambulance, we called it DRT. Dead. Right. There.

Mom had just gotten him in the car to drive to the doctor’s office when his mortal fire was extinguished. The medic on the ambulance who responded? Yeah. Unbeknownst to me, she would become one of my instructors when I went through training and recertifications. It’s a small world, filled with divine agents of God’s amazing grace.

As my arms and shoulders tired, I thought about the anxiety carried forward attributed to my father’s death. He died at age 59, three months, nine days. Translated to my own life, that year was one where I watched the calendar closely. Would I survive the old man? There are thousands of reasons for a heart to stop, which gives pause to downing that greasy hamburger and fries. Was I fated by poor genetic sequencing?  I inquired of my siblings, each expressing relief when they aged one day older than dad.

Last year, visiting my brother, a retired physician, we were talking about dad’s unexpected sudden cardiac arrest. We both outlived our fated genetics, I observed. “What do you mean?” Bryan responded. “It wasn’t genetics that killed dad. It was a virus.”

I blinked once. Twice. Three times. Did I hear what I thought I heard?

Yep. My brother gave me the detailed account of how he insisted on having an autopsy performed after Dad’s unexpected death. The finding? His heart was inflamed by a viral infection and had swelled to over three times it’s normal size. Swelled heart inside a fixed container resulted in a heart that grew progressively inefficient and eventual death. “Moral of the story?” my brother paused for effect. “Always get your vaccines.”

And for all those years of worry? Thankfully, they are all behind me, like the final stroke on my last lap before the showers.

___

Some “man down” calls just made me angry.

Memorial Day. Kids off from school. Big parade planned in the village. High school bands were marching in hot, wool uniforms. A brief service at the village cemetery planned by the American Legion completed the annual ritual. As fire department chaplain and local church pastor, my roll was to provide the invocation and benediction in my fire department dress uniform. As a N.Y. State certified medic, I’d ride shotgun in the ambulance, tucked nicely behind every truck the chief could get on the road. We had both our rigs in the parade, each loaded with a full crew in dress uniforms. Siren jockeys deafened the crowd. Firefighters riding the trucks dressed in bunker gear tossed hard candy to scampering children in the crowd.

In front of our ambulance marched the American Legion color guard. You’ve seen them; guys dressed in spit polished shoes and starched uniforms, toting flags of state and nation, or, sporting rifles used for a twenty-one gun salute in the cemetery. Most had beer bellies hanging over their belt, or long hair and a beard, a far cry from their active duty days. Lots of gray hair were tucked underneath service hats, adorned with pins and patches.

The route was long through the village under a hot sun. Didn’t bother me; I closed the window and turned up the air conditioning. The parade concluded at the cemetery; a right turn, roll under the arches (while fire trucks returned to base), then snaking our way to the veteran’s memorial, on a hill, center rear. Podium and bleachers under beautiful hardwood branches waited for our arrival. Thousands of patriotic neighbors lined the path and crowded in at our destination.

It was a beautiful day for a parade.

I saw him drop. It was called a witnessed arrest. The moment his heart seized to a stop, the Legionnaire 20 feet in front of our ambulance lost consciousness and slumped like a bag of potatoes to the ground. Vern hit the brakes and got on the radio, calling for help. Within 10 seconds half the medics in our department were on our feet, hauling equipment, and rushing to the unconscious veteran’s side. The marching band stopped playing. People surrounding the entry road to the cemetery bunched into a crowd. Hundreds came together like subway riders at rush hour, each straining to see what often isn’t seen by the general public.

We know CRP and put it to practical use nearly on a weekly basis. Basic Life Support (BLS) medics started the thump and pump. My Advanced Life Support (ALS) partner opened the airway kit and prepared to intubate. Another of our crew used trauma scissors to bare the patient down to his shorts and socks. I worked the semi-auto cardiac defibrillator, placing sticky electrode pads on his hairy chest, ankles and wrists.  

“Everybody! Clear!” I ordered. This gave us a clean strip to read, record, and interpret, as well as, healthy separation of my crew from the massive amounts of joules I was prepared to release from the unit’s high-tech batteries. I switched to manual. I wanted full control of the trigger in the right handed paddle. Conductive jell was spread liberally. “Charging to 120.” The internal capacitors filled with the tell-tale whine. I paused to survey the scene.

A pulseless, breathless patient. Everyone on my crew letting go and stepping back. Time slowed. I saw the crowd and squinted, the hot sun in my eyes, humidity as thick as molasses, sweat rolling into my eyes, perspiration soaking my shirt, soon to make me clammy. Spectators, hushed,  watching the drama unfolding before their very eyes, seeing what shouldn’t be seen. A man’s life account being settled, his existence held at the precipice edge, the raging current pulling at his lifeless body.

And there was an idiot with a camcorder. Red LED blinking not 20 feet away.

“Aug!” my inner voice turned rage inside out, “Stop CPR. Clear.” Everyone obeyed. “Shocking 120!” as I depressed the trigger, the patient shuttering as expected. Normal sinus rhythm was nowhere to be found. The tape printed an exotic cardiac rhythm way beyond my pay grade to make hide or hair of its meaning. All I knew was that it remained a shockable rhythm even though there wasn’t a pulse or breath. “Stop CPR. Clear.” The scene remained safe. “Charging to 200. Shocking 200!”

The neanderthal with the camcorder perched on his shoulder squeezed in closer, tighter. The captain of our ambulance stood back, arms crossed, doing his own survey of the scene, taking it all in. “Clear,” I called out a third time. We only got three chances in the field. Someone trained to a higher level of care might have different rules, but I was three shocks and done. CPR stopped a third time and everyone backed off, yet again. “Charging to 360.” I waited for the alerting tone indicating a full charge. “Shocking 360!”

Nothing, damn it. “Resume CPR.” Jimmy would try his ET and IV sticks inside the rig, away from prying eyes. “Let’s load and go,” I yelled. Swinging onto the rig, I looked back for a moment, right into the lens of the camcorder staring me in the face. The brief pause almost irrupted like a volcano of rage, veins in my temple bulging. Lips tightened, less I say something regrettable, the door slammed shut behind me. For a moment I let the anger dissipate before refocusing on the task at hand. All hands were needed. A job needed to be done.

It didn’t come as a surprise. No, the patient did not survive. Few did. What surprised me most, is that the entire Memorial Day parade “man down” call, fully recorded on videotape, did not end up on the evening news. Thank you, God.  

43. Can Humpty Dumpty Be Put Back Together Again?

~ toddgoddard ~ 1 Comment

The answer is “yes,” but it takes a lot of work.

This is a sensitive topic, but, if I am to be rigorously honest, mental health is one that needs to be posted. Mental Health, like it or not, is a taboo, carries with it a stigma, and visions of psych wards staffed by Nurse Cratchet right out of the 1950’s. The self-righteous are known to use it as a weapon, a useful tool for manipulation or blackmail, or justifying superiority. 

Fact is, 46 percent of Americans will have a mental illness sometime in their life. One in five will have a diagnosable mental health condition in any given year. (mental health America dot org)

Talking about one’s personal mental health exposes vulnerabilities, but, in my case, is an opportunity for healing, triumph, and perseverance. Successfully navigating through this mine laden field, one is better educated, is able to employ a tool box of self-care, and has empathetic insight that brings strength to relationships. 

I’m a better pastor because I have walked the valley of the shadow of death.

The day of this writing is Good Friday, the day of crucifixion, blood, scorn, and death writ large on the I-Max screen of life. Redemption is a gift from God, laid at the feet of the cross, ours to claim and benefit. God made the call, Jesus made the sacrifice, humankind benefited. God’s grace is amazing.

My Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Psychiatric Conditions, the DSM-3, in my library is well worn from use from years of providing crisis intervention and psychiatric assessments services at Eastway Community Mental Health (Dayton, OH) and Clifton Springs Hospital and Clinic (Clifton Spring, NY). I’ve interviewed and seen it all: homicidal or suicidal people, depression, bi-polar disorders, schizophrenia, borderline personality, and everything in between. 

On this day, the DSM-3 would be used for me.

I was at the top of my game, or so I thought; a successful parish pastor for ten years, chairing the District Committee on Ordained Ministry and serving on the Conference Board. I was running North of 300 calls a year as a volunteer firefighter/medic, working every third night conducting psychiatric assessments, living on caffeine and peering dangerously at the cliff edge, observing others falling over, smugly thinking to myself that it could never happen to me. Our beloved family dog, Job – named after the Old Testament portrait of suffering, had aged out and we had to have him euthanized. Oh, how I cried. 

Then, our son, Christian was born, given birth through trauma and now diagnosed with pervasive developmental disabilities. Our home had become a revolving door of early intervention professionals. Before Christian had learned to walk, we put Christian on the peanut bus to take him to the regional school for handicapped (I hate that word) children. 

It felt to me like I was on a carousel, the world was spinning past, yet, I was revolving in the opposite direction.

The signs were obvious to others, but my lack of introspective insight left me blind to the dark clouds that were moving in like a Canadian cold front. Weight had always been a challenge to me; I had put on a hundred pounds. Check that box. Mood was depressed, chronically running on empty. Check that box. Situational stressors were off the chart. Check that box, too. 

For the large part, the church leadership team was wonderful, compassionate and accommodating of my community based ministry. All but one. An ultimatum was thrown down, “If you force me to pay our Conference apportionments,” he said, “I’ll quit.” He was a reputable local businessman who was used to getting his own way. 

Ultimatums, I had learned in graduate school, were nuclear bombs in human relationships. The professor had taught us seminarians that ultimatums should always be called out. “I call your bluff, and raise you another twenty.” Never give in to ultimatums. 

I didn’t, and neither did the church Board. If looks could kill.

The next Sunday, prior to worship, during the parish announcements, the treasure stood, swore at the assembled (yes, he used Ralphie’s choice word that got his mouth washed out with soap), threw the church checkbook into the air and loudly informed us that he quit. One well-meaning man from the congregation walked him out. In the church foyer they loudly argued. We all could hear the entire commotion. We feared that the confrontation would break into fisticuffs. The outside door slammed shut, and he was never seen in the church building again. 

I sat in my revered seat in front of the traumatized congregation and cried. Humpty Dumpty broke. 

For the next year and eight months I worked to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. I went on disability leave. We purchased a house in town and a new pastor was appointed to the church. 

The dark clouds of depression overwhelmed me. Blessed are those professional clinicians who gathered as a team to help me stand, learn to walk, and, in time, led me back to health. The inpatient and outpatient help I received was exceptional. Medication and Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT) broke the situational stress that pushed me over the precipice. Once the storm clouds parted, intensive interventions prevented chronic depression from metastasizing. I was given space and time to safely wean off the sedating psychoactive medication. It took more than a year and a half to get back on my feet and feel confident about returning to parish ministry. 

I’ve been depression free for over 25 years.

DBT filled my toolbox with all things necessary to maintain stable mental health. I learned the importance of setting boundaries and sticking to them, of self-assessment (what to watch for and how to ask for additional help if needed), how my relationship with family and loved ones needed repair (and how best to work on it), and how to restore professional self-confidence. 

I was called by God to be a parish pastor, and nothing in heaven or hell was going to change this fact. A few insights:

First, I lost some friends and colleagues. Too bad, so sad. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass as you leave. I don’t know if they couldn’t handle the stigma, or if my circumstances led them to wonder about their own vulnerabilities. Perhaps they thought life was just easier to not know, to remain ignorant, to deny the possibility. It is just easier to go along and get along, than to have someone have a mental health crisis that you have to deal with. I don’t know, neither did I feel the need to investigate further. Exit interviews are not necessary, nor my cup of tea. Those individuals who meant the most stuck to me, visited me, prayed with me, gave encouragement, and endorsed my progress. These cheerleaders were true angels, gifts of grace from God. 

Thank you. You know who you are. 

Secondly, my fall and healing were hard on my wife and family. They sacrificed much to accommodate my resurrection. God’s love brought us together, and it was God’s love that saw us through. Every day brings new revelations, opportunities, insights. Maintaining good mental health is all about being made new. It isn’t taken for granted; it is to be practiced with gratitude. 

Thirdly, I’m grateful to the United Methodist Church for providing leave and disability support for clergy like me. Yes, it is a Conference expense item. In this era of cuts and declining support, this benefit should be aggressively maintained and strengthened. The Church is a means of God’s redemption and healing. The shepherd leaders are in need of this grace, as well as the laity. We don’t shoot our wounded; we pick them up, dress their wounds, and take them to the inn to recuperate. This is who we are, who we are called to be. 

Lastly, work with my psychiatrist helped me identify priorities. This changed and energized my parish ministry. I culled all work on denominational boards and committees, tempered my participation in conference politics, and brought focus to the communities I served. I ditched the fire department, quit my part time job at Clifton Springs, and slept peacefully through the night. I got my weight under control, for the time being, and my physical health improved.

—

I plunged beneath the lane lines and waded to the open lane. Cold; bone chilling cold. Like being plunged into baptismal waters. But, once wet, acclimation comes quickly, exposing a resilient character trait that keeps me coming back.

“Stay with me, remain here with me, watch and pray, watch and pray.” (1991 Les Presses de Taizé, GIA Publications, Inc.) This beautiful Taizé worship chant rolls my synapse, reminds me of the prior evening’s Maundy Thursday service, focuses my meditation this Good Friday, as I pull myself back and forth, keeping to my swimming lane. Reach. Plunge. Pull. Breathe.

Stay with me. It is as if these were words of Jesus spoken to his drowsy disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane. Remain here with me almost sounds like a plea.

How many laps had passed by?

Watch. Be on the lookout for God to do something cosmically awesome right before our eyes. And pray. Open the channel of communication between God and the self.

Pull and breathe.

Time has passed. 15 laps had to be completed, “don’t you think?” my inner voice inquires my own conscience. Stay with me. Remain here with me. Watch and pray.

Stay. Remain. Watch. Pray.

___

Prioritization in life didn’t happen overnight. It took years of hard work, coaching, networking, discernment, and prayer. The payoff has been life changing. Some of these changes took over a decade to implement.

Discovered and honed values identified these main concerns:

1. Disability & Theology.

Christian received early intervention service through Wayne ARC at Roosevelt Children’s Center, so I found my way onto the Board of Directors. Twelve (or so) members of the board wielded a $65m budget, serving thousands of people, staff, and families. My voice at the table was welcomed and appreciated, much more so than in the denomination (where 800 gathered annually to debate a $4m budget). An added benefit was that I learned how non-profit organizations operated. Finance. Human Relations. Publicity. Quality Assurance and Improvement. Corporate compliance. It was a brave new world. 

2. Compassionate Eldercare.

In time, my mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and began a long good-bye of more than twenty years. I found my way onto the Rochester Presbyterian Home (RPH) Board of Directors. It was an expansive, multi-campus of homes for the elderly. The RPH was known to be a world leader in dementia care. Though separated from my mother in geography, we connected with a compassion for seniors and their care. I chaired the capital campaign to expand to an additional campus. The depth and breadth of my not-for-profit experience was growing.

3. Addictions, Mental Health, and Rehabilitation.

A family member had suffered from alcoholism for decades, destroying family, jobs, and relationships. He crashed his car and live to tell about it. He asked me for help, and I did my best to rescue him from the quicksand of addictions. One night he called me from jail and asked if I could bail him out. He had been arrested at a DWI roadblock. He lost his license, and I became his personal driver. He attended out-patient rehab through FLACRA (Finger Lake Addiction, Counseling, and Resource Agency), which helped to save his life. He is over twenty years sober, and I could not be more proud of him. 

Over the years, I had led countless parishioners to FLACRA and Alcoholic’s Anonymous.

I joined the FLACRA Board. Today, I’m completing my second stint as Board Chair and have been blessed with more than two decades of service. We are a $35m organization that provides wrap around in-patient, out-patient counseling, supportive living, and employment services, employing nearly 600 staff. FLACRA does amazing, lifesaving work. We are blessed with an exceptional CEO and executive staff. 

4. Campus Ministries.

Lastly, I joined the Board of Genesee Area Campus Ministries (GACM). It was a campus chaplain who looked me in the eye in my Freshman year of college and asked me where I was going in my life; a real wake up call. I’ve been paying it back with my service on GACM for the past twenty plus years, providing a chaplain and ministry to students at the University of Rochester and Rochester Institute of Technology. 

Wow! How did I ever become so blessed? A major depressive episode turned into personal growth and strength and community service. Priorities led me to compassionate efforts in the areas of developmental disabilities, aging, addiction, and campus ministries.

God’s healing favors descended on me, not because of what I said or did, but solely, wholly by God’s amazing grace. Humpty Dumpty had been put back together again. Thank you, Lord.

42. Don’t Look Under the Tarp & Be Careful For What You Pray For

~ toddgoddard ~ 1 Comment

There is a reason police, fire rescue, and EMS people cover up a corpse. There is a dignity angle to it. A dignified conclusion to life should highlight the positive aspects of a person’s legacy. Final memories should be of love, warmth, butterflies, and licking puppy dogs. Covering a corpse protects a person’s dignity.

There is a modesty angle, too. Sometimes private parts of the body are exposed by the violence of injury or the circumstances of intervention. Avert the eyes, shield the view of others. Use a blanket, sheet, or tarp. If ever there is a time to be serious, this is it. Be the professional. 

There is a respect angle to be considered. Those old bones and brains propelled a person through life, the good and the bad, down valleys filled with the shadow of death, and back up to mountain peaks. Those arms held newborn babies. Those eyes witnessed a thousand sunsets. That butt occupied chairs in countless classrooms. Those feet completed marathons or took romantic strolls in the park. Props to God’s creation for the gift of cells and sinew, teeth and bones.  

For the Christians in the room, there is a theological angle to be considered. We are Jesus people, resurrection believers. The soul has left the body and now resides with God. No need to watch flesh decay to dust. Close the casket and celebrate the greatness of our God who forgives and saves! 

Yes, rubberneckers slow and stare, hoping to sneak a peek, as if some mystery is being withheld, as if some conspiracy is unfolding. Maybe, if I rush home I’ll see it on the local news.

The tarp, tent, or blanket is there for other reasons, too. I have covered the deceased to stop the trauma, to limit the shock to a minimum few, and to preserve the mental health of everyone involved. 

Such occasions are not for the squeamish. The topic isn’t covered in training, leaving first responders to default to instincts, experience, or a gut feeling. Some are blessed with more insight, others, less. Many are the rookie responders who get one look or whiff of a traumatic scene, drop everything, and quit on a dime. It is a shame that we invest a lot of time and money into training, but when it comes to prevention and preservation of mental health, first responds are often met with the sounds of crickets. 

Old school responders might play the “time to get tough, kid” card.

We shouldn’t shoot our wounded. Jesus told a story of how a mixed race immigrant found a beaten man by the side of the road, bound his wounds, and took him to an inn to rest and heal up. He even paid the bill before it came due. So should we. There is a lesson here.

Wise veterans of shock trauma have to protect ourselves. One look is all it takes. “Okay, everybody out.” Evacuate the scene, establish a perimeter, work with police to use tarps or tents. Look once, but again only if necessary. No need to burn that memory into your own synapse so completely it takes years of therapy to break up and get it out of your system. I learned the hard way.

Mature, first responder leadership will also take into account the composition of responding crews. Does an eighteen year old rookie need to look for body parts, or would they better be posted at the intersection detouring traffic? Some are more psychologically vulnerable than others. The big mouth, tall-tale master of exaggeration might better monitor the pump panel or stay at the base monitoring the radio. The parent of many children probably shouldn’t be eager to volunteer to troll the bottom of the canal with grappling hooks in search of a drowned child (especially, if other first responders are available). Leaders need to know their crews. 

Take care of your first responders. For the rest of us, mind our own business and go about our day. Don’t stare. Refrain from gossip. Discipline engagement on social media. If television reporters show up, step back, count to ten, talk it over privately with trusted others (professionals, if available), then, and only then, should one consent to carefully engage with media. First responders should always seek the advice of command. 

Unfortunately, someone has to clean up. Sometimes that person was me. The coroner needed assistance, an undertaker needed a helping hand, the hose line needed someone on point to dilute and dissipate blood, an officer seeks a pastor to assist with a notification. Here I am, Lord; take me.

Each time it happened I tried to answer the call with eyes wide open, knowing full well that I was taking a bullet so someone else didn’t have to. I knew beforehand that I would need follow up care and was risking a lifetime of therapy. My mental and emotional health is good today, only because a community of professionals have invested in me best practices to manage stress and limit the impact of trauma. 

Education has been really important for my wellbeing. Taking part in a county-wide Critical Incident Stress Debriefing (CISD) Team, resourced by recognized leaders in in trauma, has been instrumental for my own healing, as well as the healing of others. Furthermore, I’ve been blessed with a good psychiatrist for nearly thirty years; we’ve been through the shit together.  

Even the strongest have our limits. I take myself with a grain of salt.

—

Monday morning and it is back in the pool. No fuss. No muss. Just 15 hard fought laps. Not even a flesh wound to someone going through Seal training or preparing for an Olympic medal.

I’m just a little known, retired clergyman, trying my best to stay healthy and limber.

As I pull through the water, I think of my latest book, written about the Krupp dynasty in Germany. This family of industrialists made the arms and weapons of war, from – the first Kaiser and the Franco-Prussian war, when steel overcame brass canons, through the first world war, to the National Socialist Party (led by the Evil One who shall not be named) of the second world war, – to the modern era. Politics, fortunes, and racism brought about mass slaughter and atrocities that shocked the world. Millions died in anonymity. Disappeared. Simply vanished.

“Please, Lord,” I petition, “wash my sins away, the sins of my generation and those who came before me. Create in us a pure heart, to navigate your ways of peace and justice, of love and grace, that such evil may be extinguished and never appear again.”

Fifteen and done.

The shower is hot and restorative.   

—

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray thee Lord, my soul to keep. God bless Mom and Dad, and please send me a baby brother.” My son had been making his nighttime petition to God for nearly ten years. It wasn’t like he was dissatisfied with Cynthia or me; he just observed other kids in the neighborhood, church, and school who did have brothers or sisters, and he wanted one, too. 

Specifically, he wanted a brother. 

Circumstances of life and health made the probability of another pregnancy highly unlikely. We didn’t want to bust his bubble, but we also wanted to parent with honesty and love. After all, who was I to suggest that God couldn’t perform the miraculous? I’m an Ordained pastor, after all. We are in the business of miracles (at least God is), so, what’s so wrong with giving in and allowing our son to pray for a miracle brother? 

I’m not saying Christian, our second born son, is the result of an immaculate conception, but the hand of God was somehow involved. An angel, lightning bolt, or seductive dream? I don’t know. One day the rabbit died. All three of us were thrilled with the prospects of a second child. An ultrasound confirmed my wife’s suspicions. The water in the pool of Siloam rustled and the Holy Spirit breathed new life into our family. 

Throughout my life I’ve witnessed prayer answered so frequently I wonder how anyone can remain an atheist. Prayer is often answered differently than what was asked for or expected. But, answered, none-the-less. God’s ways are not our ways, and they certainly are not mine.

When the Lord heard my nine year old son’s nightly petition for a baby brother, eventually something had to give. Nicholas wouldn’t let up. He wouldn’t cave in. My wife is a career labor and delivery nurse. Experience taught us to temper our enthusiasm. Too many things can go wrong. So, let’s put off telling others for as long as possible, so we thought. Her gynecologist was as surprised as any of us. Given her history, she didn’t think it was possible. 

Everything held fast. Eventually we informed family, church, and friends. We made prenatal appointments and I attended birthing classes once again. At this point in our lives, we were both in our late 30’s; old, but not really old. Nicholas was filled with excited anticipation. By golly, he asked and God answered! From his perspective, he was responsible for my wife’s conception. 

Delivery was planned with the Midwifery practice where Cynthia worked. She knew all of the providers and was comfortable with their care. They had just opened a state of the art, free standing birthing center. We were given a due date. The women in our life threw baby showers. Everything seemed like the trains were running on time.

The day arrived, but the baby just refused to budge. Stop the presses! The midwife made a sudden change of plans. We’d have to travel the ten city blocks to the hospital for delivery, if necessary, by cesarian section. Who doesn’t like driving through one of the most dangerous urban sections of town in the middle of the night with your wife in labor?

Christian was born with great difficulty. He made his appearance in this world as white as 20-pound Georga Pacific copy paper. He made no attempt to breath. White quickly turned to blue. Alarms sounded, crash carts appeared, and highly energetic clinicians gloved up and dived in. Blood splattered on the ceiling. Our newborn son was whisked away faster than I could process what was happening. “Come with us,” a member of the perinatal resuscitation team invited. 

Stay with my wife? Or go with our baby? I had never faced such a dilemma. With Cynthia’s post-partum nod, I followed my newborn son to the intensive care nursery, while cardio-pulmonary resuscitation was taking place. 

Christian survived, thankfully so. During his discharge, he experienced what was thought to be a seizure, so, instead of home, he was rushed by ambulance to the highest level of care, a pediatric intensive care unit across town. For days specialists ran tests and continuous EEG’s. In the day of analog paper records, Christian did his part to clear the rain forest. 

Finding nothing, he was discharged to home a week or so later. Cynthia, Nicholas, and I were thrilled. Family and church celebrations ensued. Everyone and everything was progressing according to plan. Christian was baptized by his beaming grandfather Irving and we all enjoyed a big pot roast meal after church. 

Every baby who goes through the NICU has a follow on assessment at six months. Just the policy, I assume. Cynthia was back to work, so I packed up baby, stroller, and diaper bag and went to the Kirsch Center for what I thought would be a routine appointment. 

A parade of Medical Doctors and PhDs made their examinations, often with a gaggle of interns, residents, and post docs in tow. People smiled but didn’t say much. Hush whispers made the whole hospital floor seem more like a monastery than a highly specialized regional medical center. I thought to myself, “we aren’t in Kansas anymore.” I was in over my head and out of my league. 

The final assessment was conducted by a developmental neurologist, a brain doctor without knives for infants and children. After his evaluation, he picked up his clipboard and began to fill in the paperwork. Check boxes were labeled “Normal” and “Abnormal.” Christian got a perfect score. Every abnormal check box was checked with a deliberate stroke of the pencil and a verbal confirmation.

It was like an anvil being pounded without mercy. “Abnormal. Abnormal. Abnormal.” Page two. Three. Four. The walls started to breathe and I broke out in sweats. I grabbed Christian in my arms and hurried out the exam room and made haste to the closest men’s room. As soon as the stall door closed, I broke out in sobs. 

The universe tore, and it felt like I was falling through the crack. 

On the way home I called my brother, a primary care physician, who lived and practiced on the other side of the state. It was a first generation cell phone, the size and weight of a brick, with a rigid foot long antenna sticking out the top. Cell phones were so new there wasn’t any stigma about talking on the phone while driving. My brother must have been between seeing patients because he immediately took my call. I cried on the phone. I relayed what was taking place, fighting static and distorted sound.

“Todd,” he said to me, “take a deep breath. It’s going to be alright. Just breath. Everything is in God’s hands.” He assured me that our hospital had some of the best in the world specialists in developmental medicine. He had heard of the developmental pediatrician assigned to us, even had attended her lectures. This was the major leagues. 

I pulled into the parsonage and parked the car, next to a car that didn’t look familiar. I got Christian out of the car seat, grabbed all his gear and made our way to the door. 

On the porch was a woman waiting for us. “Hi, my name is Rosemary,” she greeted me. “I’m from the county health service. I was told that you are just returning from the hospital and had received bad news. I’m here to help.”

I was floored. Overwhelmed. Swamped by God’s amazing grace. 

God was working though science and technology, medicine and communication, to activate a network previously unknown and unseen, of therapists, specialists, educators and providers – angels, every one – who would become a part of our lives and family. Each worked to maximize Christian’s developmental potential, the thought being, early intervention leads to lifelong benefits. 

Cynthia and I recall each name with fondness: Maida, Diane, Kathy, Eric, Rosemary, Dr. Hyman, Annie, Sue C., and Sue M. Occupational therapists, physical therapists, speech therapists. Craniosacral therapy; brushing Christian’s entire body, head to toes. Early child intervention. Our front door became a revolving door of specialists coming and going. By twelve months of age, Christian was on the peanut bus to a specialty school operated by Wayne County ARC (Roosevelt Children’s Center) that offered the exact early child intervention he needed.

No one had a name for it beyond the DSM catchall: “pervasive developmental delays, or PDD for short.” No one could predict what the outcome would be. Could he grow to be a doctor or lawyer, or a plumber or electrician? Would he be in a group home or confined to a wheel chair? No one knew, and false hopes and speculation was discouraged. 

“Just enjoy your baby,” Doctor Hyman told us, “and make certain Christian makes all the appointments with the services I prescribe.” “Will do,” Cynthia and I promised, outwardly confident of God’s amazing grace, inwardly scared as chickens being chased by a fox in a hen house. 

We were entering a brave new world. And neither of us felt especially brave.

41. Are You Thinking of Harming Yourself or Someone Else?

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

No textbooks were involved in this reflection. These pastoral observations come from lived experience and the blessings of a fulfilling apprenticeship in the learned art of psychiatric assessments. The reader is welcome to take from my musing; what works, what doesn’t, and discard the rest.

“Are you thinking of harming yourself or someone else?” This seems like such a simple question. If it is so simple, try asking it of someone else.

“How dare you?” “It’s none of your business.” “Don’t you know who I am?” Strap in for the expected whiplash reaction. Because an anticipated response has the potential to damage or harm a relationships. It can be far easier to avoid the issue. Don’t talk about the elephant in the room, and, maybe, it will go away. Other than lawyers, who wants confrontation, anyways?

If you don’t know; ask.

Your curiosity didn’t come out of nowhere. You wonder about a person’s safety for a reason. It might be the way they look, suspicious behavior, or sudden changes in life status. In my experience, faith suggest that these moments of questions are intersections between God and consciousness; or, God moments, using common language. Could it be that God wants you to know? Could it be that God has already been priming the pump? Could it be that God chose you to be the one who prevents a tragedy?  

When asked respectfully and compassionately, most people who have experienced homicidal or suicidal thoughts will honestly respond. Why? Because they’ve come to believe that you care. Most desire to be rid of such hideous, unrelenting thoughts. Telling someone else can ease the burden. Don’t we all want to be made whole?

Keep a box of tissues close at hand.

It is as if thoughts of homicide or suicide are signs of weakness. When connected to one’s mental health, thoughts of self-harm or harming others arise from more complicated processes. In my experience conducting psychiatric assessments some of those sources may be childhood sexual abuse, trauma, a manipulative religious experience, alcohol or substance abuse, sudden onset of situational stress, disease and neurological chemical imbalances, and, drawing an unlucky hand, simple genetics.

Abused children grow up to be messed up adults. Those adults are at risk of sharing the pain with others, the consequences infecting successive generations, thus perpetuating the original sin. Prisons, psychiatric hospitals, and therapist chairs are overflowing with adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse. Responsible adults are good and faithful stewards of the community’s children, blood relative, or not. Responsible people look after one another. Thank you, Lord, for highly trained, committed professionals who are able to intervene and break the cycle of child abuse, and provide effective treatment methods that lead to healing.

Trauma is a can of whoop-ass, when unleashed. Trauma gets burned into the neuronal pathways of the brain. Traumatic memories don’t seem to fade, like other, less significant memories, like the color of the most recent car that pulled into the neighbor’s driveway.

Traumatic memories tend to bloom and grow over time, if left untreated. Traumatic impacted imagination tends to fill in missing details, causing  memory to become more vivid or realistic, some memories based in reality, others, not so much. Those protein encrusted electrical pathways from brain cell to brain cell remain active day and night, often abruptly interrupting sleep with nightmares, or interfering pleasant experience with intrusive, disturbing thoughts. Trauma is a specialty in mental health unto itself, requiring far smarter and more experienced people than me to walk with people in a journey toward wellness.

Yep, bad religious experiences can make people crazy enough to take a life, their own or someone else. Bad theology can lead to guilt, depression, a pervasive sense of failure. Charismatic, manipulative religious leaders can take advantage of people’s weakness or lack of self-esteem. Inflexible doctrine, fundamentalist polity, judgment, fear, and manipulation are tools of religious extremists, at either end of the theological spectrum. This can contribute to an erosion of mental health. When in doubt, erring on the side of grace and love always works for me. Or, perhaps, a graceful approach allows God to work through me.

Drugs and alcohol, really, both two sides of the same coin, can make people homicidal or suicidal. What first is a means to feel better, when misused over a period of time, can lead some people to frantic, unrelenting obsessions for more, and more, and more. The research community is far better equipped to find safer, more effective means of symptomatic relief or diseases altering qualities, than I am. Self-medication is a bad strategy for living a healthy, fulfilling life, especially in this day and age with access to a wide array of effective, therapeutic treatments.

Sudden stress can make people snap. I’ve seen it happen far too often. Lose a job; jump in front of a train. A sudden death of a child; take a high dive off a bridge. Devastating diagnosis; go find your revolver. Caught in a crime; find a piece of rope. Intervention of a loved one, pastor, or professional clinician is essential to heading off deadly behavior in these, or similar, unfortunate circumstances.  

Brain chemistry can become unsettled, leading to pervasive thoughts of wanting to hurt self or others. General medical conditions, such as urinary tract infections, thyroid disease, poly pharmacy (taking a mixture of medications with troublesome  side effects), malnutrition, and others … can all lead one to the crazy train bound for destruction.

Chronic mental diseases, such as untreated (or undertreated) bipolar disorder and schizophrenia will often include delusional mortal thoughts. A thorough physical exam by a professional clinician is absolutely required of everyone who finds themselves thinking about harming themselves or others.

Get thee to your primary care physician – immediately! – if thinking of hurting yourself or others. Speak candidly with your doctor. Suppress fear or guilt and lay it all out there for their evaluation. They can’t be your best doctor if they don’t have all the information.

Whole libraries have been written about each of these contributing factors for malignant ideation. If interested, dig deeper. Explore. Read. Take a class. Work on a degree. Just as important: be kind, tolerant, understanding. Listen. Be curious. Build trust. Recognize your limits and set boundaries. Be humble enough to bring people to a competent mental health professional.

Have compassion for those hurt or broken, either by their own bad choices or just the circumstances of nature. Ask to be a channel of God’s love to a world full of hurt and harm.

Be the balm of Gilead that heals the wounded soul.

…

Laps at the pool the other day flew by as if a flash. My thoughts were filled with gratitude, with a focus on my learning to swim.

Dad had operated a learn to swim program for the American Red Cross at the new Jamestown High School pool in the early 1960’s. He and my older brother, Steve, even had a program to teach individuals with Down Syndrome how to swim, one of the first of its kind in the nation, or so I was told.

I was taught to hold my breath, put my face in the water, and blow bubbles. Once accomplished, I was shown how to dog paddle. Before I knew it, I was navigating around the shallow end of the pool. Later, I began to mimic the strokes of more advanced swimmers, learning rhythmic breathing, the crawl stroke, the back and side strokes.

The water gave me a freedom to maneuver, to go where I wanted to, to explore, and meet other people. Learning to dive to the bottom instilled a sense of freedom in three dimensions. My sister, Cindy, was a member of the synchronized swim team. She moved with beauty, grace, and efficiency through the water. Steve on the diving board gave me the confidence to enter the water head first. If he could do it, so could I. Learning to swim built self-confidence.

Swimming is a gift that I don’t take for granted. It can save a life. It is good for the soul. Fifteen laps ticked by; before I knew it, I was under a hot shower afterwards feeling the warmth of God’s love and the gratitude for a wonderful family.

—

The not-so-obvious follow up question to a positive response addresses lethality. “What are your plans?”

A lethal homicidal or suicidal individual most often will have thought through elaborate plans and set in place necessary means to complete their deed. Multiple prior attempts increases the risk. Less lethal is the person who may have had thoughts, but who haven’t thoroughly thought through their plan.

For a psychiatric assessment officer such as myself, experience and collaboration with other clinical professionals will conduct a risk assessment. Risk cannot be truly eliminated, but it can be appropriately managed. It is the art of balancing risk and reward. Only those who are assessed to be actively lethal and have a plan to carry it out are appropriate for involuntary commitment to a secure psychiatric hospital. Even then, the confinement is for a short period of time, with periodic re-assessment such that an individual’s civil rights are not violated.

The goal is immediate treatment, stabilization, and release with immediate, intensive out-patient follow-up care. Medication balances the playing field; counseling provides insight, education, support, and healing.

“What brings you to the hospital this evening?” I asked the ten year old girl sitting on the gurney before me.

“The police brought me here,” she replied. Her mother and siblings were waiting in tears in the emergency room waiting room just down the hallway.

“Can you tell me why the police brought you here?”

“I pushed my friend in front of a school bus,” she replied.

“What made you do that?”

“She is a bully and she is trying to steal my boyfriend,” I seem to recall her answer.

Thereupon the table was set to uncover all the key motives and factors that led up to this near tragic encounter. She was amazingly candid with me. I was truly curious about her experience. I got the sense that she was measured, calculated, and logical in her thinking. At that moment, she intended to kill.

“Do you plan to try to kill her again?” I asked.

“Yep. At the very next chance I get.”

That sealed the deal. I finished the interview, thanked her for being honest and truthful with me, and departed to set into motion an intervention that I hoped and prayed would reduce her lethality, stabilize her mental health, and start her on the long journey of healing and recovery.

Psychiatric assessments are team work. We are cautious, never punitive, always acting in the best interests of the patient and family. A sad reality, in that day and age, New York State was resource poor in the treatment of pediatric and adolescent psychiatric patients. The demand far exceeded the supply. I ran my report past the E.R. doctor and got his signature. I consulted with the on call psychiatrist. She agreed.

I updated her mother that we were admitting her daughter to involuntary in-patient psychiatric care. This took time. A lot of tears flowed. Guilt and regret. One can only imagine. Her emotional support took time and greatly drained me. “Sit tight,” I finally got around to saying, “and I’ll get back to you when I find your daughter a place.”

But where is there an open bed?

The University of Rochester, only 45 minutes away, was at capacity. The next nearest hospital was in Hornell, a good hour and a half. Nothing. I called the children’s unit in Buffalo. No dice. The Mohawk Valley. Nope. I was striking out left and right. I finally found an open bed in the lower Hudson River valley, over four hours away. I had no choice. “I’ll take it.”

I arranged for the doctor to doctor transfer, the nurse to nurse coordination, and for the local ambulance crew to make the transport. Paperwork was faxed back and forth. No medic likes a long transport of an involuntary psychiatric patient, let alone a child.

“Oh, the poor mother,” I thought to myself. The long distance separation would make the necessary family therapy a real challenge. Hopefully, stabilization would be quick and discharge to a local out-patient setting could ease the family stress.

And so it went. I wished her well and smiled as I closed the door on the ambulance. There was nothing more than I could do at that point than to deliver her over to the grace of God.

In that time and place, homicide didn’t happen. Neither did I hear anything later. And that, beloved, is a blessing.