As I was awkwardly hoisting myself out of a full-size metal dumpster this morning, I thought back to a question asked by a friend last night: What do you think this experience is teaching you?
He asked that question before I arrived at my office this morning. As I settled in for a virtual staff meeting, I realized, with a sense of panic, that the box into which I have been packing my personal effects was nowhere to be found. I’m preparing to leave another hospice office. The box contained several items precious to me that have been in my offices for decades:
- an ebony carving I bought in Tanzania, representing their national identity of “Ujamaa” or, roughly translated from Swahili, “Familyhood.”
- the clerical stole my daughter made for me for my last Sunday as a parish minister. Beloved parishioners signed the back of it and the word I preached on that day is embroidered in Hebrew: Hesed. Roughly translated, this means “loving kindness” and is frequently a descriptive term for Yahweh or God.
- a small figurine of a preacher with a broad smile and upraised hands who has accompanied me in my ministry since my mother bought him for me 36 years ago.
- family photographs: an image of my husband singing at my daughter and son-in-law’s wedding; a framed message on my desk since 2007 that my husband gave to each family member, exhorting us to relax, enjoy life and to trust Jesus.
These items mean nothing to anyone else but they mark various stages of my ministry. They remind me of people and places I love. This morning it dawned on me that the box was no longer where I left it. Confirming mentally that it should be in a corner of my office, I realized that it had been placed fairly close to the trash can. Though I was on an obligatory morning call with my team, my mind was racing. Could our nightly custodian have mistakened that open box of mixed items as trash? If so, would it still be in the dumpster? Where is our dumpster? Ensuring that my phone was muted and the camera was off, I ran outside to search for my things.
I saw the dumpster readily, amazed that I had never noticed it before. Rushing over to it, with a pounding heart, I looked in. Much to my relief, at the bottom of a relatively empty bin, I saw my box. It appeared to be intact. I thanked God that the trash had not been collected over the weekend nor had it rained, potentially damaging the stole and other items. It was clear what I needed to do. I looked around the parking lot and evaluated my point of entry. A curb ran along one side, taking five inches off my climb. I pulled myself up and then dropped in. Hastily I collected the items that had fallen out of the box, loaded them in and dropped it on a patch of grass alongside the dumpster. With more effort than it took to climb in, I pulled myself out and jumped to my feet. Brushing myself off politely, I walked purposefully to my car, hoping I exuded a greater sense of decorum than when I was scrambling like a rodent within the 54-inch-high walls of our building’s trash receptacle. Breathing a prayer of gratitude, I stowed my treasures safely in the back of my car. I was shaking.
So, back to the question asked before my dumpster dive: What do you think this experience is teaching you?
The question was posed by a friend after I told him that I had put in my resignation from my third hospice job in just over two years. My first position ended when the new corporate management decided to outsource the bereavement support I offered to family and friends of our patients. Instead of my supportive phone calls and in-person offerings of grief support, a remote staff person would call our clients from a city 500 miles away. It was a way to save a few bucks by eliminating a full-time position with benefits. I suspect they have saved some money but I also know that it is nearly impossible to stay compliant with hospice regulations with this bereavement structure.
I learned of this shift in organizational structure after being tapped on the shoulder during a team meeting last summer. I was invited to gather my things and pack out of my office that day. Suddenly, I felt a kinship with countless individuals who have suffered much more humiliating treatment when being escorted to the door of their workplace. I was thankful that my age and experience prevented me from taking this vocational insult personally. However, it took about 100 days to find another suitable position. I received 42 rejection notices, four offers for jobs I would never accept, and ultimately one offer for part-time hospice work in Lansing. This would require a daily commute of 160 miles. I said “yes” and was warmly welcomed into a compassionate hospice team. After a season of rejection, I was deeply grateful that they appreciated my gifts.
When offered the opportunity to transfer from that branch to the local facility, I leapt at the opportunity. It was a full-time position, still serving in the area of bereavement support. I packed up my box of mementos (I was learning to travel more lightly between hospice offices) and introduced myself to another caring hospice team.
So that sounds like a good landing spot, right? But wait! There’s more! The dark corporate cloud that first outsourced my position followed me! They acquired my new company and began, slowly, to conform us to their organizational structure. When I learned that my colleague in another part of the state had been laid off, I felt the anxiety rise. Unwilling to wait for another tap on the shoulder with a point to the door, I put out some resumes. Within a week I had an offer for a full-time chaplain position with another hospice company. The previous chaplain served for 8 years and left amicably and on his own terms. Long-awaited longevity, perhaps? I accepted the position and tendered my resignation with a team I have grown to greatly appreciate. Of the seven of us in the back-office setting, four are leaving. I’m the only one by choice. The mood has become one of melancholy and mistrust. I’m grateful for my new position.
So again, we turn to the question innocently asked the night before my dumpster dive: What do you think this experience is teaching you?
Since leaving a stable career in parish ministry, this has been a crash course in working for corporate America. I’m not a fan. Money is usually the bottom line. Decisions are made to maximize profits. Hard working employees are asked to shoulder more and more responsibility so that a work-life balance is only a dream. Job performance is continually reviewed and compliance is the god around which organizational decisions are formed. Productivity is worshiped and employees are asked to rise to the ever-changing occasion with little assurance that the faceless corporation cares. I have lived this for less than three years and am aware of folks who have survived a full career under the canopy of Big Business. Certainly there are corporations with a high level of satisfaction from their employees. No doubt my impression has been soured by my victimization to outsourcing. As a whole, my first and primary lesson has been that working for corporate America is tricky and many times frustrating.
I told my friend that I am proud I can still learn new tricks. Since leaving a parish ministry career that spanned three decades, I’ve been in four different medical settings: three in hospice work and one in a mental health hospital. I’ve learned to do my medical charting using three different software programs and have gained an appreciation for how technology facilitates excellent medical care. My husband is agog at times when I show my new computer proficiency. (That’s right—I used “agog” in a sentence!)
What I wish to emphasize is that I have gained a great respect for medical professionals. They work on the weekends. They walk into situations fraught with risk from bacteria or patient aggression. They are called at night to leave their beds to tend to emergencies from patients who are often too sick to appreciate the sacrifice. They display a gentle disposition with dying patients. I have worked alongside several teams of gifted workers whose work is a calling, not just a job. They have welcomed the spiritual dimension I bring to the care team. They have patiently taught me when the learning curve was steep. I am prouder than ever to have a daughter who serves as a compassionate nurse !I have been sad to leave each medical setting because of the colleagues I have grown to love.
My friend meant the question to have a spiritual dimension to it. When I reflect from that foundation to my life, I understand that God has been with me in each of these settings. I don’t believe that God has caused some of the unwanted vocational experiences to teach me a lesson. Amidst very human workplaces, God has taken my challenges and helped me find whatever was next. When I was unemployed, I struggled to find a new use for my ministry gifts. I reminded God often, sometimes with a tinge of irritation, that I was willing to serve but needed direction. I had to be patient in the unknowing. I rejoiced in the extra time that afforded me to clean my baseboards and other ridiculous household chores that never get done. In each new setting, my ministry gifts have been needed. God heard my prayers. I have been honored to accompany many bereavement clients who are vulnerably wading through the choppy waters of grief. Even when they could not see my face or sit with me in person, they entrusted me with their tears.
It has been my privilege to lead memorial services in residential facilities where staff and residents alike are feeling the absence of beloved community members. We read a long list of names of those who have died in the past year. Memories are shared. Tears and laughter comingle. Communion happens over shared cookies and punch.
I have learned what it feels like to have uncertainty about my job. I have offered good work in each setting, always appreciated by my immediate colleagues but never sure that corporate staff noticed. I am aware of how many people labor like this. I have learned to embrace the gifts of today. When I was feeling unsettled in my position several weeks ago, my daughter would text me during the day:
“Do you still have a job, mom?”
“I do,…today,” I would respond.
This morning, as I climbed out of the dumpster and safely deposited treasured items in my car, I realized how they represented different stages to my ministry that have been so rewarding. It was only when I was back in my office that I realized what that potential loss represented. I was angry that the threat of corporate outsourcing, which necessitated my packing, might have inadvertently taken these souvenirs from me. I can assure you that I was in active conversation with God as I raced out the door of the building, scanning the parking lot for a dumpster. “It’s just stuff,” part of my brain argued. But these items represented so much more. I was so very grateful to find them, intact, in the dumpster and to have the agility (sort of…) to climb in and out as I reclaimed them. I was glad that, as far as I know, no soul witnessed my solo dive. Since then, it has been cause for some laughter amongst colleagues.
In our memorial services in residential communities, we share the familiar reading from Ecclesiastes 3 about the rightness of different seasons in our lives. Verses 12 and 13 seem to answer my friend’s question as I prepare to join a new staff of committed hospice workers next week:
“I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God.”
May it be so!
Preaching Life 