A Song of Mary

The patient was an African–American woman in her sixties. She was “found down” and unresponsive by a friend. The physicians diagnosed her with having an anoxic brain injury. She abused drugs and had tested positive for hepatitis C and HIV. She had a sister and an adult son, with both of whom she shared a strained relationship. Neither knew she was this ill. Her family had been exposed to years of violence, including the son witnessing a homicide of a beloved family member. The sister and son held a firm distrust of the medical community. The son had gone so far to say he didn’t trust the white coats. The sister brought in her Pentecostal pastor to be their spokesperson. The patient was flailing against restraints and it was unclear if her pain was adequately controlled. The attending had requested palliative care come see the patient as no further aggressive measures could benefit this patient. The palliative care team worked to create a relationship with the son and sister but both became further entrenched in “doing everything.” It was a stand–off and the most ill begotten word in medical jargon was flung into the foray—futile.

I was contacted, as the ethicist, to “do something.” I gowned up, entered the room and just stood at the bedside, my hand on the patient’s foot, my heart in my throat as the sister’s pastor read from the book of Psalms. As he finished, I was humming and then I began to sing the Psalm he had just been reading; Psalm 34 “I will bless the Lord at all times.” The pastor stepped back and just looked at me. I finished the song and was met with deafening, disquieting silence. The pastor asked if I knew the sparrow song and I nodded. We began and the sister began to slowly hum with us. The son joined her humming at the final refrain. We continued to sing to the patient who had quieted and calmed. I quietly left the room and headed back to my office. Later, the family decided to move the patient to comfort measures. She passed away shortly thereafter surrounded by her pastor and family. She had said yes to Jesus.

Ten years ago I would never have imagined singing in a patient’s room that wasn’t a member of my own family. Singing “church” music has been a consistent thread in my life’s story. In high school I attended the Youth Theology Institute (now the Youth Theological Initiative) and learned to sing Gospel with a young woman who I’m sure is gracing her church somewhere in the Mississippi Delta. I sat by my grandfather’s, P–Pops, hospital bed and sang every song I knew as his breathing slowed and he made his way to Heaven. In college, I trained under a vocalist who went on to have her own Christian rock group. In graduate school, I traded babysitting for voice lessons from my parish cantor and her pianist husband. I love to sing and I love church stuff but I did not love being pastoral.

When I finished a masters of arts in theology, I told everyone, anyone, loudly and often, that I was never, ever going to do pastoral ministry. I wanted nothing to do with listening to people or talking about religious stuff. Instead, I analyzed data, created maps of healthy/unhealthy areas and service availability. I even ran for political office. When funding for those endeavors ran out, friends and family encouraged me to apply for a mission integration position out–of–state. I reminded them I was about action and intervention; not the immeasurable, non–quantifiable task of integrating mission. My own Dad convinced me I could do all that stuff and encouraged me to apply. In retrospect, I think his convincing was not entirely altruistic and he was engaged in succession planning. I struggled the first few years to find footing and to interpret what mission is/was/does/should do. I tried to quit once but the system vice–president refused to meet with me. I...