A Silent Visit

Contrary to what some think, the most difficult pastoral visitation is not with someone you do not see eye to eye with.  Neither is it a visit with someone who is your antagonist.  Those visits are relatively uncomplicated.

The most difficult pastoral visits are the silent ones--the visits marked by presence and hardly anything else.

What do such visits look like?

Like the one I had today.

Readers of this blog know I am in the process of making weekly visits to Wharton, TX to visit one of my members who is dying of lung cancer.  Last week, he was suffering greatly from pain in his lower back.  Even though it has not been diagnosed, my suspicion (and the suspicion of his wife) is that the cancer has spread and is now causing him major pain.

Fortunately, she took action and asked that he be given stronger pain medication.

I don't know if it was that medication or his losing struggle with cancer or the fact that he was just plumb wore out from therapy, but when I walked in to visit this morning, this gentleman was slumped in his wheelchair dozing.

I placed my hand on his shoulder, and said, "Buddy, how are you doing?"

He opened his eyes, reached for my hand, and mumbled something. 

I asked, "What was that?"

He replied, "I'm glad you're here."

I then asked, "How are you feeling?"

He held up his hand, palm down, and motioned back and forth.  So, so.

"And how is the pain in your back?"

He shook his head and closed his eyes once more.

"Are you worn out from therapy?"

Nods head.

And then silence.

Utter silence broken only by the sounds of a nursing home.  The roommate's television tuned to "Deadliest Catch."  Nurses walking patients up and down the hall taking them to therapy.  Congratulations being offered to someone who had once struggled to walk.  The medicine cart being pushed up and down the hallway as meds are dispensed.

But there is no conversation between my member and me.  He's too fatigued to talk.  I have nothing to say.

Sure, I could preach a sermon.  I could rattle off all kinds of nonsense--a word about the weather outside, how little rain we got in Cat Spring, how much I like driving my new car, how my kids are doing, the news I heard on the radio.  I could fill the void of conversation with all sorts of information, facts, and figures.

But I believe such things lessen the significance of the ministry that is taking place.

The ministry of presence. 

Jesus said, "Where two or three or gathered, I am there." 

Perhaps Jesus is talking to this man as his body weakens and death inches closer.  Perhaps Jesus' Spirit is moving over him in his weariness letting him know about that place God has prepared for him.  Perhaps Jesus' comforting hand is resting on his shoulder offering him a peace that my words could never convey.

Presence.

And it's hard to remain in that presence in the silence.  It's difficult to sit there while my mind is racing thinking of other visits to make, sermons to prepare, and church duties to perform.  I feel the need to be moving; to be doing; to be productive--whatever that means.

But my presence is necessary.

Buddy needs to know God cares, and whether or not I like it or not, I represent God's presence in that room.

Even in the silence.