Visiting the sick and being the one who is ill

Visiting the sick is one of the ministries that I’ve grown to love here in the parish of Dulce Nombre. 

I would often go to a community on a Sunday morning for a Celebration of the Word with Communion; after the celebration, I would go to visit the sick and the elderly. I tried to visit communities where there was no communion minister.

I have also accompanied the communion ministers in their monthly meetings. 

February 11 is the World Day of the Sick, promoted by the popes, on the feast of Our Lady of Lourdes, whose shrine is a center for healing. 

The month before the pandemic, we had a special activity for the World Day of the Sick in San Agustín. A large group of communion ministers got together and visited the sick there and in a neighboring village, Descombros.

At that time, there was only one communion minister and she visited the many sick, but it was hard for her to attend so many people. At that time, I would come several times and visit the sick.

This was a special occasion. We met for prayer in the church. Several people from San Agustín served as guides and each communion minister visited two or three people. We got together afterwards for a reflection and a lunch together. It was a good experience.

This year, the communion ministers will visit the sick, the elderly, and those confined to their homes on February 11 and 12. I won’t be able to accompany them because I have two pre-marriage interviews on Saturday morning. I’ve had five so far since January 1. These couples want to receive the sacrament of matrimony before Lent! 

Last year, we also visited the sick in San Agustín as well as in other nearby communities.

In the last months of 2022, I didn’t make many visits, partly because of a serious chest cold that took months to get over – even with visits to two doctors.

This year, the day of the sick has special relevance for me, since I have been diagnosed with prostate cancer and hope to begin treatment shortly. 

The words of Pope Francis touch my heart. Pope Francis begins noting the importance of accompanying the sick: 

 Illness is part of our human condition. Yet, if illness is experienced in isolation and abandonment, unaccompanied by care and compassion, it can become inhumane. When we go on a journey with others, it is not unusual for someone to feel sick, to have to stop because of fatigue or of some mishap along the way. It is precisely in such moments that we see how we are walking together: whether we are truly companions on the journey, or merely individuals on the same path, looking after our own interests and leaving others to “make do”. 

 How many of the sick and the elderly live in isolation, with little care by their family and friends.

But I have seen so many of the sick accompanied and cared for by family members. I recall the older woman cared for by her young grandson, the young man who fell and hurt his back who was cared for by his companion, the young man who cared for his future wife after she had a difficult birth, the family that cared for their ill grandfather, and so many more. I have felt so connected with them since I cared for my dad in the last years of his life. I have sometimes shared this with the caregivers, commending them for their care and reminding them that they are the hands of Christ caring for their sick or elderly relative.

I was reluctant to share news of my cancer. But after sharing with a few people, I have been overwhelmed with prayers, offers of support, real solidarity. Some survivors of prostate cancer have told me of their experience.

It’s overwhelming and gives me great consolation and, in some mysterious way, it has given me renewed strength to live my diaconal vocation.

But it is important to face my vulnerability. In his message, Pope Francis wrote:

…it is especially through the experience of vulnerability and illness that we can learn to walk together according to the style of God, which is closeness, compassion, and tenderness.

In the last year or so, I have become more conscious of my vulnerability and weakness; I am, after all, 75 years old.

Now with this cancer, I am experiencing illness, though I have resources that most others here don’t. 

Thanks be to God, this has opened up depths of compassion that I didn’t realize that I had. When I drove to San Pedro Sula last week to meet with the urologist and the oncologist, I had a deep sense of connection and compassion to all the people I saw – especially the poor walking, working, and living at the side of the road. I think of the experience of Thomas Merton at Fourth and Walnut in Louisville, Kentucky, on March 18, 1958, as related in Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, pages 141-142.

In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world, the world of renunciation and supposed holiness. The whole illusion of a separate holy existence is a dream....

We are part of each other. We are all brothers and sisters, as Pope Francis wrote in his last encyclical Fratelli Tutti. Our illness and vulnerability can open us to the sick and vulnerable around us – remembering that Jesus too shares our vulnerability.

Recognizing our vulnerability

A few weeks ago a priest I know put a meme on his Facebook page – Situación post-Pandemia: “volveremos... y seremos más fuertes” The situation after the pandemic: “We will come back – and we will be stronger.” I commented, “Mejor - volveremos más conscientes de nuestra vulnerabilidad”. Better – we will come back, but more conscious of our vulnerability.”

The pandemic, the racism, the derecho in the Mid-West, and more are, I believe, signs of a spiritual crisis.

First of all, we are afraid of our vulnerability. We are afraid that we are not in control. We are afraid because we feel powerless.

This year, even before the pandemic, I was thinking about my vulnerability. I don’t like to think about it. Like some people, I like to think that I’ve got everything under control.

Last year a Guatemalan who was here with his family working in a nearby community began to drop by. His family had lots of needs, including an infant who was sick. I helped as I could. One evening early in January he visited me and told me about his situation. He was planning to go back to Guatemala for medical care for his infant son.. I gave him some Quetzales I had and a few Lempiras.

The next day I wrote this in my diary:

“During Mass, I recognized that I felt powerless in this situation. That is not bad; in fact, it might be the best and most spiritually healthy response. I cannot solve the problem – but I can be with those in desperate straits, commending them and me to God. In my weakness, God can work.”

About two weeks later, on a Thursday morning, someone broke into the sisters’ convent in Dulce Nombre, stole a ciborium, and scattered the consecrated hosts on the ground. I led a prayer in the morning and then, since there was no priest available, I led a Celebration of the Word with Communion in the evening. In my homily I reflected on the vulnerability of Christ in the Eucharist. Nothing is more vulnerable than a small piece of bread, even when this bread is the Body of Christ. And Jesus is God made flesh, God made vulnerable, even unto death.

In the midst of all this I was going through some personal difficulties. I was feeling isolated. I felt that decisions were being made that affected me and no one spoke to me about them. I faced situations where I was not in control.

At the end of the month, the day after I met on Skype with my spiritual director, I came home to a truck load of sand blocking the way to my house. I was frustrated; another case of people doing things that affect others and not saying anything. I remembered what my director had just told me: when you feel frustrated at the injustice you perceive or the lack of consultation, remember the poor – how they suffer and are treated. My vulnerability and lack of control is nothing compared to what the poor suffer every day.

A few days later, at the beginning of March, I was in a meeting where someone in authority spoke for more than an hour and a half, pure stream of consciousness. I recalled what my director had said. I recognized that what I’m experiencing is almost nothing in comparison with what the people suffer. I felt deep compassion with the people in the aldeas.  The oppressive, demeaning approach, the neglect I feel from some authorities is nothing compared to what the poor suffer. As I wrote in my journal, “I’m learning from identifying with the poor.”

This has sustained me and helped me to live in the isolation of the quarantine.

In the midst of vulnerability, I believe, as I wrote on Easter Monday:

We are experiencing the insecurity which the poor suffer all the time.
How will we respond?
How do we respond?
How do the poor respond? – resignation, resentment, organization, solidarity.
Will we isolate ourselves and try to live as secure, separated atoms, or will we build the community of solidarity?

Wearing a mask reminds us that we are vulnerable. I believe that many who refuse to wear masks may be motivated by the fear of looking vulnerable. Isn’t it paradoxical that some of those who refuse to wear masks, which they say reflect fear, carry not only pistols but more powerful weapons. What are they afraid of?

And when people come out in peaceful demonstrations, demanding justice, why do governments respond with massive displays of tear gas and violent force?

A few days ago, some people, fed up with the corruption in the abuse of money meant to aid in the pandemic, came out at night and painted a major highway in Tegucigalpa with the slogan: “¿Dónde está el dinero?” – Where’s the money?

The government reacted. They tried to cover up the slogan and then they tried to blot it out using burnt motor oil. That didn’t work. And people came out and repainted the slogan – in broad daylight.

The seemingly powerful are afraid of their vulnerability.

I wonder if some of those who came out against the Black Lives Matter demonstrations act because they are afraid of their powerlessness, which is not due to any black mobilization but to a government and economy that don’t care for the poor, not matter what race. Pitting the poor against the poor is often a tactic of the powers that be.

(Note, I am speaking about the people who came out to denounce the racism, not any organization.)

Just this week a derecho, a storm with intense winds, devastated Iowa and other parts of the Mid-West. Buildings collapsed, trees fell. Some people have been without electricity for more than three days.

 We are afraid of our vulnerability.

We are afraid that we will be like the poor.

We forget that God’s strength is made perfect in weakness. (Cf. 2 Corinthians 12: 8-10.} And the words of the psalmist make no sense to us: “The helpless entrust themselves to you, for You are the helper of orphans.” (Cf. Psalm 10: 14.)

We have a spiritual crisis – we don’t want to remember that we are human, incomplete, vulnerable. We want to be like gods.

Beware. Beware of thinking that we can go back to the way things were before. Beware of thinking we can come out of this “stronger.”

I fear that if we are not aware of our vulnerability, we are in for some serious problems – personally, socially, and politically.

If we think we can get out of this alone, we are gravely mistaken. 

I learned this just this week. The connection to my battery melted and I was stuck. But someone came out, found a new connector and helped me get the car started - and refused any money! We need more people like this man.

Above all, what we need is solidarity, recognizing that we are in this together. 

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Thanks to two friends inIowa who gave me permission to use their Facebook pictures.