To See And Be Seen

The two barred owls swooped silently into nadamore this past Sunday evening at dusk. The only marker of their arrival was graceful movement of widespread wings as they landed onto nearby tree branches. One of them landed less than ten feet from the deck where I was sitting, and stared straight at me as the other observed from slightly further away. Their presence was powerful.

I was aware there were owls in the area because Lloyd and I had often heard them hooting from a distance through the woods. But never before had they chosen to land so close to our home. As the one closest to me looked into my soul, I felt seen and strangely comforted. And then, as silently as they had landed, both owls flew away. I’ve anticipated their return the past few evenings, but it appears they are not coming back. The nearby branch remains empty.

 

It scared me slightly to know that some cultures believe owls are an omen of death. Were the owls trying to tell me something? Did they come to forewarn of imminent death? Who, from my circle of family and friends, might die? Was Lloyd going to die? Or me? As I pondered these questions, I felt strangely comforted and knew that everything was going to be alright no matter what happened.

Three days later, I learned that Bruce Buchanan of Des Moines IA, died unexpectedly this past Sunday. It’s been eight years since I last talked with Bruce, but the loss I feel right now is deep and I’m not sure why. Perhaps writing about it will bring some clarity.

Bruce, president and CEO of Compass Clinical Associates in Des Moines, was a licensed social worker and nationally recognized trainer and lecturer in the areas of child and adolescent therapies, reactive attachment disorder, social work ethics, and residential treatment planning. He was a well-respected mental health therapist and leader of the  professional social work community in Des Moines. To me, he was a colleague during my twenty-plus years as a mental health therapist in Des Moines, a fellow-parishioner at Meredith Drive Reformed Church,  a friend, and most of all, an informal confidant as Lloyd and I grappled with some difficult parenting issues. He was full of wisdom and generous with his expertise when we didn’t know where else to turn.

And now he’s gone.

There were others close to me who died before Bruce, and I think his death exacerbated their loss. Like Bruce, all of these people played an important role in my life.  Although every person who enters my life has something to teach me, certain individuals stand out as taller than others, like parents or other grown adults would to a child. There were at least six such individuals:

Mike Bender was my running coach, the person who helped me qualify for my first Boston Marathon in 2003 and for others after that. He taught me most of what I know about running: how to challenge but not overwhelm my body with interval training, hill workouts and long runs, the importance of sleep, nutrition and enough time for recovery between difficult workouts, how to avoid injury as much as possible, how to keep a mental edge when the going gets tough, and most of all, how to enjoy running. He knew exactly how to motivate me. He worked part time at Fitness Sports and was usually the one who helped me buy replacement shoes every 500 miles. He also worked part time as a sports massage therapist and was very skilled at assessing and fixing the root cause of a running injury. My running friends and I knew that sessions with Mike were necessary at times, even though they hurt. We often called his office the torture chamber.  Mike was also a good friend. We met for coffee often, and several times a year, arranged for a trail run together in out-of-the-way nature preserves or parks. Mike died October 2013.

 

Pete Harris was one of my trusted spiritual guides. We met at Mercy Hospice-Johnston where he served as volunteer and I as social worker. Pete was a discerning pastoral presence, a soul friend who, in the Celtic tradition , would have been called my anam cara. Anam is the Gaelic word for soul and cara is the word for friend. Once, at the bedside of a dying woman, he kissed me on the cheek and whispered “leibchen“ a German word for someone dear to me. “Like a daughter”, he later said. We had become family to a woman who had no family. Pete and I shared many special moments: at funerals, at his home or ours, at Badger Creek Recreation area where he once showed me all of his old fishing holes and at the Drake Relays which we both  attended every year. He was full of stories and wisdom. At one point, we discovered we had both been shaped by the writings of Henri Nouwen. No wonder we felt so comfortable with each other! Pete gave me an extra copy of his very favorite Henri book, Life of the Beloved and I have cherished it ever since. When Pete was hospitalized after a stroke, I read portions of this book aloud to him. He was not responsive, but I know he heard and appreciated every single word.  Pete died August 2014.

Joyce Hutchison taught me most of what I know about about caring for dying patients and their families. She was the director of Mercy Hospice-Johnston, a twelve-bed inpatient facility, when it first opened its doors in 2000. I was the social worker at this facility from the time it opened until 2005 when I decided it was increasingly impossible to balance full-time work and be the kind of grandparent I wanted to be. Joyce taught me so much about the healing power of presence, and how important it is to care for dying and their families with no agenda of our own. She also taught me about the healing power of true community in action, what love really looked like. She saw Jesus in everyone, especially in patients that were difficult. Joyce was also an author. She wrote three books on death and dying, the last of which she wrote during her own dying process:

 

 

I was part of a woman’s group with Joyce and five others. We called ourselves the Sophia Seekers and met monthly for over sixteen years. We shared the ups and the downs of our lives with each other and were present to Joyce through her dying process as she was also present to us. We like to think we walked her home.  Joyce died May 2016.

Doris Brock was my hero, a role model, a living example of how to embody love and kindness. I often told her that I wanted to be just like her when I when I grew up. Like Pete, Doris was a Mercy Hospice-Johnston  volunteer during the years I served as social worker at the facility. She, a former registered nurse, was in her 80’s at the time and completely comfortable with direct patient care. She was tender and gracious with everyone she met, especially the more difficult patients and families. Doris and I met regularly on off-hours for coffee or lunch. She wrote poetry on the side and always encouraged my desire to write and create. She shared one of her favorite poems with me years ago. When Doris died December 2016, her dear husband, John, was holding her just as she had hoped:

His Arms–

They are so familiar,

Like my own skin

Holding me together.

They have held me

In comfort

Keeping out despair.

In exuberance and delight

In passion and wonder–

A constant circle

Of security and gentle calm.

They have held me

All these cherished years,

And should I be so blessed

Will hold me

As I slip quietly

Into the waiting arms

Of another.

Harold Kaemingk taught me how to laugh, how to encourage others in their sport and how to be related even though we weren’t. He was our mailman during the seven years we lived in Sioux Center IA when our kids were little. On hot days, the kids and I often offered him cookies and lemonade. One time we surprised him with water balloons:

On colder days, we offered hot cocoa to him instead. Harold loved it all, and when our daughter, Kim, invited him to her 3rd birthday party, his standing as part of the family was solidified. When we moved from Sioux Center to Des Moines in 1992, Harold came to stay with us for the Drake Relay’s and most state high school sports tournaments every year until his health began to fail. Each time he came, he would take our family (plus as many friends as the kids wanted to bring along) out for pizza or to a buffet restaurant.  Harold died December 2017.

Bernie Gottner and I were colleagues and office-mates for the five years I worked at Mercy Hospice-Johnston. His role as Spiritual Care Coordinator interfaced beautifully with mine, as Social Worker. Our work together was seamless, it seemed. Together, with the nursing and other staff at the facility, we worked with literally thousands of patients and families through the dying process. We shared many beautiful poignant moments together in the rooms of dying patients. Bernie was a peaceful soul, who could calm conflict and anxiety by his simple non-anxious presence, and by the prayers he would gently read to patients and families. I learned so much from Bernie, a former Roman Catholic priest, about the interface of organized religion and spirituality. Bernie died April 2019.

I think the death of Bruce Buchanan on Sunday reminded me of the deaths of all these dear people. I felt loved, seen and encouraged by each one of them. Much like the barred owl on Sunday night, each of them looked straight at me. They saw me and I saw them too. This, I believe, is the greatest gift we can ever give ourselves and those we love.

And now, all of these people are gone. They, like the barred owls, exited quietly when the right time came. Meanwhile, I am still here, holding the love and  wisdom they gave me and wondering what to do with it. As I continue to be ushered into the lives of others, I hope that I too, can look into the souls of those who are willing to be seen, and offer them a taste of the same gifts that were given to me.

V.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vicki Vanderkwaak On July 30, 2020   /   A Journey