The Political Meaning of Christian Caregiving

The suffering of the Messiah is the inauguration of the Kingdom. --John Howard Yoder (1972/1994, p. 51) The interview project concerns hospice caregivers--quiet exemplars tending to patients beyond the restorative limits of medical science. Today's conversation happens in a Manhattan Beach bungalow. Local real estate is expensive, if less exorbitant than neighboring Venice (north) or Rancho Palos Verdes (south). This neighborhood overlooks the prototypical California dream--miles of impeccable beach, palm trees, and meteorological perfection. The exchange involves a registered nurse named Linda. 55 years old, she looks like a graying version of Tina Fey. The similarities run deep, including an East Coast childhood and impishly deadpan sense of humor. Linda is a devout Christian. She tells a compelling conversion story of redemption from alcohol. Thick glasses ride low on her nose. Coupled with a slight downward tilt of the head, Linda evokes a bemused novelist. Her voice is strong and accent characteristically Philadelphia. With candor she mentions that her mother recently died, leaving a considerable inheritance. Like many project interviews, the first segment is light and superficial. Things gradually slip into the coziness of fireside chat. The conversation subsequently makes a hard turn. Three years ago, I had a really young patient. She was 51 with cancer. She had three children, one of them with special needs. He was autistic. He had a hard time understanding what was going on. She was convinced that God was going to heal her. This was her view of the world. It was strong enough that she refused to take any pain medicine. She was in extreme pain. Her husband was caring or her and slowly going insane. She was driving him crazy because she was so uncomfortable. When I first met them she wouldn't let anyone in her room. Eventually I was able to come into her room, but I couldn't touch her or anything like that. For months I would go and talk to her and try to build some type of relationship with her. Quite a few times she would be screaming in pain. It was absolutely heart wrenching. Every time you understood she was suffering Her kids and her husband were seeing all of this. I knew she was declining and got a call from the husband. [long pause] He said, 'she wants to take pain meds, what do I do? What do I give her?' I raced over and we discussed what meds to give and the next day she was still alert but the most peaceful that I'd ever seen her. The husband was just bawling. He couldn't believe it, you know, couldn't believe that she's finally taking pain meds, thank you so much! She died two days later. The kids were able to come home from school and everyone was around her. She was very peaceful when she passed. I still talk to the husband every so often. He always goes back to that day she finally agreed to take pain medicine, that day she was finally peaceful. After you see someone struggle so much, in pain for months, and then you finally see him or her comfortable and able to let go, its really beautiful, it's a beautiful time. [eyes misting] Its a beautiful place to be. So I left, feeling fulfilled and joyful, sad as it was, because she was so young. I was filled with joy that she was finally peaceful. Linda's narrative is powerful, compassionate, and oddly dissonant. Fulfillment and joy come unexpectedly, without reference to eschatological hope. The conviction of the patient is remarkable. Her struggle affirms God's sovereignty over human circumstances, implicating a ruggedly Christian worldview. Yet Linda, herself a committed Christian, does not seek theological engagement regarding clinical options to ameliorate suffering. She makes no integrative effort to parse the deeper meaning of what is happening or how it might impact patient, husband, and extended family. Instead, Linda seeks relationship. Her initiative is persistent and respectful. Despite the agonizing urgency of the situation, she makes no demand of the patient. …