The Hospice Christmas Gift

The most wonderful time of the year? Not for some . . .

This is a difficult season for someone whose doctor has announced, “I think you should consider hospice.”

Silent night, holy night!

All is calm, all is bright.

This is a difficult season when caring for a dying loved one. Or being the one cared for.

Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child.

Holy infant so tender and mild,

This is a difficult season if it’s the first holidays without a beloved child or spouse or parent.

Sleep in heavenly peace,

Sleep in heavenly peace.

In my neighborhood, lights twinkle along the darkening streets. Santas and snowmen and manger scenes sprawl across lawns. Families gather around tables. Colleagues join for parties at work. Children tremble with excitement and parents weary of telling the kids to be good. In cathedral’s large and sanctuary’s small, millions will meet on Christmas Eve, singing the familiar carols.

But your world is crushed.

Dying has replaced living.

Death has barged into a home.

Grief stalks you wherever you go.

As a retired pastor, I know this is the most special season for many Christians. Though Easter has greater theological importance, the cultural obligations of gift-giving have transformed Christmas into the high point of the year. Be nice! Don’t be naughty! Hark, the herald angels sing and there’s only a few shopping days left! Don’t forget to request time off from work. And please, can everyone—whether your belief—please head home early on Christmas Eve?

This season’s commercialism and expectations impact all faith traditions. In the United States, no one avoids encounters with Baby Jesus. St. Nick and his elfish minions rule the stores. The soundtrack of December is a barrage of cheery songs.

Though the story recounted in Matthew’s Gospel had the wise men from the east arriving when Jesus could’ve already had several birthdays, we hurry them into the manger scenes with the infant. They offer their gifts while Joseph, Mary and the babe are still huddled inside the stable. As a Christian pastor that worked in hospice, I understand these gifts as symbolic. Gold symbolized royalty, or Jesus as future “king.” Frankincense, a resin used for creating a fragrance in religious ceremonies, anticipated Jesus as the one to become a “priest” to his followers. But what of myrrh, the hard to spell (and sometimes hard to remember) third gift?

Back then, myrrh was used to prepare and preserve the body after death.

Death would be part of Jesus’ life.

Odd these gifts; odd how they, like it or not, eventually inspired Black Fridays and Cyber Mondays. Odd, also, regardless of your fervent faith in any religion or your scorn of faith for all religions, that one of the three gifts is a hospice gift.

Whether or not we are prepared—and we never are—dying, death, and grief means that we receive the symbolic myrrh. Inspired by the Magi, I offer three “gifts” in this season of joy that for some feels like a season of hurt and heartache.

First from Rumi, the Islamic philosopher out of the Sufi tradition:

“But listen to me. For one moment
quit being sad.

Hear blessings
dropping their blossoms
around you.”

From the Buddhist, Thich Nhat Hanh:

“Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness. If, in our heart, we still cling to anything - anger, anxiety, or possessions - we cannot be free.”

And from Christian Frederick Buechner:

“The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn't have been complete without you.”

Will these mere word gifts matter? A Christian, I listen to and learn from other traditions. With Rumi, I hope even in these worst of hours, you take moments to recall the blessings given to you by the one who is dying or the ones who are caring for you. With Thich Nhat Hanh, may each of us, the dying and the living, seek to release the feelings that entrap us, that keep us clinging to the past or unfairly comparing ourselves to others. With Frederick Buechner, how I long for everyone to remember, or to know for the first time, that they are precious and lovely.

Is Christmas a season of mirth? I hope so, for many.

But I have worked in hospice. For some, this is the season of myrrh. But still, for all, I wish you glad tidings. You are precious and lovely.

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My book, A Companion for the Hospice Journey, is available at Amazon.

Photo: Adoration of the Magi, Stephen Adam (1848-1910); 1877 - Parish Church of Scotland; Allloway, Ayrshire. Photograph by David Lewis