Divine Hospitality

I keep thinking about bodies lately. My own body- as I pick something I can control, say my kitchen floor, and scrub it furiously, convinced that keeping it clean can fix things, change things, make things better. I think about Nancy’s body- and my presence with it, not only physically but, emotionally and spiritually. I think about Jesus’ body- what it meant that He even had one, that it got all banged up until it was unrecognizable. I think about that unrecognizable-ness while I rub Nancy’s feet, swollen and purple.

I lift a straw to her lips but she cracks a joke, so I wait with the water. I don’t want her to choke.

I’m re-reading Marjorie Thompson’s “Soul Feast” and her words are doing the healing work words can sometimes do. She calls the incarnation, God coming to us wrapped in human skin, “the second great act of divine hospitality”. The first, she states simply, was Creation. In both we are invited into action central to what it means to be human: eating, walking, dressing, conversing. God is hospitable to us by putting on a body and making these boring human-y things somehow, holy. Nancy’s body is currently dressed in a bright orange “Urban Immersion” t-shirt, and to the best of my knowledge, no pants. This, to us and to her, is a dignity upgrade from the starchy, breezy hospital gown. This is home- and at home one wears home clothes.

I watched her body in that orange T-shirt for a long time yesterday. I watched her one good lung heave to inflate, the other lung still enough to place a chess set on. I couldn’t shake the thought that I was watching her disintegrate in slow motion. Last week, the check-out guy at Trader Joe’s asked me how I was doing as I stood there dumbly- $70 worth of smoothie making materials on his counter for someone who could no longer swallow food. “Not great” I replied, and proceeded to detail why. He was surprisingly gracious to me. We fell silent as I watched him scan my items: protein powder, almond milk, chia seeds. I thought of a cheeseburger she ate last month in Mongolia that was so big we took a picture of it. She had to eat it in quarters. Then she ate half of my fries. I opened my mouth to tell him this story, but he was already done and handed me my receipt.

As my body sits next to her body, I appreciate the imagery and language of “divine hospitality”. But these are just words and words cannot fix everything. That is hard for me to admit because I want them to. I love words. I gather them around me like a hoarder, or people who have lots of cats, hoping their very presence will give me what I need. Sadly, words cannot take me where I need to go. My mind cannot ingest enough information, listen to enough sermons, read enough theology; my mind cannot heal a broken body- hers or mine.

Minute by minute this feeling grows stronger. I feel like I want to claw out of my own skin some days. It’s like my body needs to participate in grief in a way that my mind cannot. It’s like my internal world and external world are so incongruent that its making me crazy. I just want to spend all day in bed, or at least on my knees- that would feel more authentic. Instead, I’m shopping at Trader Joe’s and wiping my toddler’s butt and putting gas in my car like everything is normal. I feel like a fraud, and like maybe I might feel better if I could just go to the bank on my knees.

I know that doesn’t make any sense but the words coming out are failing me just as much as the ones going it- which is really disappointing. So instead, I’m making sure I’m early for church- I do not want to miss worship. My body does not want to miss that opportunity to align the inside with the outside. My body wants to be in my garden and rip out weeds with deep, tangled roots. It wants to do long, slow laps in the cold pool. My body finds people it can cry on, with no explanation or qualifiers. My body seeks out Hannah, the one-woman Ministry of Hugs, without which I’m sure our Church would not stand.

And I’m drawn to gratitude, of all things. I’m overwhelmed that Jesus would become one of us- to elevate our smelly, sticky bodies to holy status- to intimacy, to connection, to enjoyment. It feels like gratitude that these basic human tasks, eating, sleeping, urinating, become transformative simply because He did them too. I’m watching my husband and my brother, sister and father-in-law buzz around Nancy’s still frame. They act like caring for her body is the most important thing they could possibly do. They help her eat, and then manage all the variations of what can happen to the food after that. They bathe her, rub her, console her, turn her. A few days ago, Aya changed her abdominal bandage, reverently smoothing the edges of it, and when she thought no one was looking, kissed it gingerly.

Maybe my mind just needs some time to catch up to what my body has known all along- that to rub her, cool her, feed her is my ultimate act of hospitality, not only to her, but to God. When I open myself up to her suffering, I open myself up to Christ, who dwells in her, even as He dwells in me. I receive divine hospitality, when I welcome Christ in any way that He comes to me.

We read Scripture or sing her a song, watching as her struggle softens. Christ in her becoming bigger- taking up even more space than He already did. Pretty soon He will take over completely.

 

22 thoughts on “Divine Hospitality

  1. koboulter says:

    Deeply thoughtful and so normal, I remember the same thoughts when my Dad passed 16 years ago, in a similar way in hospice….as the world revolves around you, you just put one foot in front of the other and remember this is part of our God given life that we really are never prepared for… hang on and pray…. there will be a new normal.
    Your never far from my thoughts and prayers ♡♡♡

  2. Marcie Wall says:

    Allison, thank you for sharing your heart, your thoughts….I’m so grateful for a glimpse into this sacred time …continuing to pray for Nancy and the family. So bittersweet…

  3. Mary Wilson says:

    Thank you for sharing your thoughts with all of us. This time while Nancy is leaving her earthy body to be present with our Lord Jesus Christ is not always as easy as one may think for those who will remain here. I think all you and the rest of her family do for her does show this Hospatility that you are speaking of and the true servant nature that Jesus wants us all to be and do. It was a truly emotional experience for me with my parents as well since at that time we knew they would not be healed but we sought to have them be as comfortable as possible while waiting to go to Heaven. Many who have never had the opportunity to experience this extreme honor (irregardless of how emotional, stressful or difficult it may be in the moment) will now understand what emotions to anticipate should they one day be there to witness their loved one go on to eternity. Praying for all of you as I know this is not easy but on the other hand you would not want to be anywhere else but there for her to be loving, encouraging , helpful, supportive and Hospitable as Nancy goes to meet Jesus for eternity. You are doing a fantastic job. Caring for her.

  4. Kris Green says:

    Alyson, my own experience with the physical death of a parent is still fresh in my mind. I know without doubt what you’re experiencing. These are the hardest days. I’ll spare you the platitudes and just say I love Nancy and thus all the Pryor family. If you ever need anything at all, just holler.

  5. Gae Seal says:

    The Gospel reading Sunday was John 6:51-58 Jesus said, “I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever, and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” Has anyone brought her communion?

    • Alyson says:

      Yes! We did communion in the hospital with all the grand babies- crackers and grape juice. It was wonderful/awful/beautiful. I haven’t been able to write about it yet 😩

  6. Anonymous says:

    You inspire me Allison just as Nancy always has. You too are a “good and faithful” servant and one day you will be honored as Nancy will be soon too! You just keep on being you, you’re doing a great job at it, anything I can do for you guys please let me know. I love all of you very much!!

  7. Angela says:

    Thank you for taking the time to gather your words and express what you are all going through so articulately. Our bodies and souls are much more intertwined than we know. I think when everything is working right we’re actually not as aware of the connection as much as when our body doesn’t work as well.

  8. nancy fitts says:

    Your beautiful words describe my experience of loss so well. My daughter was in hospice for 2 1/2 weeks before she went ahead to heaven. It was an excruciating, glorious, painful but holy time. I am so thankful that I could be with her to her last breath. Keep writing Alyson, your words are blessing many, including me.

  9. Betty Sue says:

    Amen! You express so well the greief of a spouse / a parent / a friend leaving for heaven, and leaving us behind to try to make sense and to re-adjust to life in their absence. God bless you. Continue to share.

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