Uncategorized – Page 26 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

“Six Things That Matter Most” — A List for All Seasons

There often comes a time when a family is told their loved one has just a few hours or days left before dying. It can be an agonizing time of not knowing what to do other than wait. The loved one may still be able to communicate or, more often, is sleeping much of time. What do you do when “there’s nothing more to be done”?

Ira Byock, a leading physician in contemporary hospice and palliative medicine, came up with a helpful resource for such times. He would take his prescription notepad and write four phrases: “Please forgive me. I forgive you. I love you. Thank you.” He would give that to a family member and invite them to consider if any of those statements would be appropriate to say. He wrote an influential book on the transformative and healing experiences he witnessed arising from people using these simple statements. As the book became popular, two more were added: “Goodbye” and “I am proud of you.”

The values represented in these statements — forgiveness, love, gratitude, and acknowledging the cycles of life — are universally present in the great spiritual traditions.

When I was at Hospice of Santa Barbara, we took those six statements and had them printed on business cards. Our staff and volunteers could then give them to families when appropriate. I began to carry some in my wallet, a practice I’ve continued for more than a decade.

I was grateful to have the card when my father was dying.

He was in his last days at a nursing home. My two sisters and I used the list as a prompt for talking to him. He was no longer responsive, but it felt like the right thing to do. Maybe he heard us or maybe not. Maybe he could sense what we meant through tone or feeling. Or maybe it was just for us.

“Dad, please forgive me for the sleepless nights I gave you as a teenager.”

“There were times when I was growing up I was afraid of your anger. I knew you were under a lot of pressure and loved us, but it was still scary. I forgive you.”

“Thank you for providing for us, encouraging us and believing in us.”

“For the way you worked so hard to honor mom and provide for us, for the integrity and honesty with which you lived your life, and for your service to our country during the war – we are proud of you.”

Dad wasn’t from a generation when many men would say “I love you.” But we knew he loved us. It was easy to say, “I love you, Dad.”

The “Goodbye” statement can be tricky. It can be tempting to say it to have some closure, but it may be too early. (I remember one family had asked a harpist to play in the room; the patient woke up and said, “Get that music out of here…I’m not ready for the angels yet!”) But if, say, a family member is leaving town or death is clearly imminent, then “Goodbye” can be fitting.

As I did presentations on hospice in the community, I would pass these cards out. People would later tell me how helpful they were.

But I also knew what everyone who works in hospice knows…the work is not just about the dying, but also about the living. Whether dad was fully aware of what we were saying, it gave us closure.

The list can also be helpful after a death when we didn’t have an opportunity to speak the words in person. We can write a letter to the person using the list as possible prompts. We can then save the letter just for ourselves. Or we can take it to a place we associate with the person, including a gravesite, and read it. When it’s served its purpose, we can keep it or create a simple ritual and burn it.

“Six Things” can also be valuable when death is not on the horizon. Roughly half of Americans die with some form of hospice care, which means there may be time for meaningful bedside moments. It also means the other half of us will die without such an opportunity – heart attacks, strokes, accidents, etc. If these are the six things that matter most, why wait for a moment that we may never have? Why not use them when we are alive and well?

Once, I was doing a daylong retreat on this theme. I gave the background and handed out the cards. Then I said, “But let’s not wait. I encourage us all to think if there is anyone we want to say any of these statements to now.” I gave everyone 45 minutes. I’d brought stationery and envelopes if people wanted to write letters, and also encouraged people to make a phone call, send an email or text a message.

When we regathered, I asked for people to share experiences. One woman said she had called her daughter. The call went to voicemail and mom left a message, “I just want to say I love you!” The daughter called back a few minutes later sounding frantic: “What’s wrong mom?! Are you OK??” Mom laughed and reassured her she was fine, but was doing this as part of a retreat. So, giving a little background can help when we are conveying such deep feelings.

As time went on, I’ve found the “Six Things” a good way to take inventory from time to time in my own life on occasions like anniversaries and birthdays. Is there someone I want to say these words to now, since there’s no guarantee I’ll have a chance in the future? Why not just do it? Once we do, there is a sense of freedom.

Six simple statements, loaded with healing power.

Here’s Looking at You

This week I want to share a personal reflection on art, motivated by a recent article in the New Yorker.

Take a minute to look at – and into – this person’s eyes. He died 351 years ago.What do you see?

(Seriously. Take a minute. It’s worth it.)

First, a little personal background.

I did not want to take the required art appreciation course in college. I grew up in San Bernardino, a town whose claim to fame was not its art galleries or general sophistication but being the birthplace of the Hell’s Angels and McDonalds. When I got to college, I had the experience of people saying they could “see” things in a poem or a novel or an artwork, but try as I might, I couldn’t see what they claimed to see. This made me feel ignorant, self-conscious and defensive.

That’s the attitude I carried into the initial art history class. But as that course unfolded, I was intrigued, then fascinated, then transfixed. I traded potential embarrassment for lifelong curiosity.

Some years later I was drawn to Rembrandt, particularly by his portrayal of Biblical scenes. These weren’t fancy, perfectly coiffed characters. They were ordinary people. They looked real. But he brought depth and presence to them. You could sense their soul.

Let’s turn to his “Self-Portrait of 1658”. It was one of many paintings mentioned in the February 15 issue of the New Yorker by the art critic Peter Schjeldahl.* His focus is a new book, “The Sleeve Should Be Illegal: & Other Reflections on Art at the Frick,” in which a broad range of people give personal reactions to many of the art works at this unique museum in New York. The “Self-Portrait of 1658” merits comments from Schjedldahl, the actress Diana Rigg, and the cartoonist Roz Chast.

First, I’ll share my impressions and thoughts as I took time to look. It’s always an interesting exercise to just see what comes to mind.

I notice he seems to be looking just over my left shoulder.
Next, I notice the double chin. That leads me to think of how my own double chin has been emerging this last year, made more obvious thanks to Zoom; it appalls me. But he paints his without apology. He is capturing his real life at this point in time. I then think, “He must have a sense of dignity that is deeper than mine.”
A little later I notice he dressed himself up in fancy clothes, a favorite technique of his. Do the clothes suggest vanity after all? Or are they an effective contrast with the aging face?
I look back into his eyes now, rather than just at them. I sense he is not looking at me but letting me look at him. Looking deeply, I feel we are suddenly connected. It reminds me of Star Trek: Mr. Spock was capable of performing the “Vulcan Mind Meld” by placing his fingers on someone’s head and going into a trance, then tapping directly into the person’s psyche, bonding with a hidden pain, memory or secret.
Accepting his invitation to look into his eyes, I sense he is strong, assured, confident. At peace. Also, generous, in that he let me take as much time as I want to make the connection across 350 years of time. He never knew me, but he let me – and all of us –gaze into his soul.
I sense the particularity of the person he was. It reminds me of the particularity of each one of us. You see it in the eyes of a newborn. Or a family member or friend when you take a moment. Sometimes in a stranger, who then no longer is as strange.

These are some of my initial impressions.

Let’s turn now to Schjedldahl’s description:

Another matter is the best painting in the museum, if not the world: Rembrandt’s fathomlessly self-aware “Self-Portrait” of 1658, made when he was fifty-two and sorely beset by personal and professional woes. He knows that he’s the leading painter in Amsterdam, but he seems to wonder if that’s worth anything. It does nothing for his tiredness. A shadow falls across his eyes. I’m loath to argue with the five contributors who single the work out. It becomes part of each viewer’s life: a talisman…

And then these two comments.

The late Diana Rigg recalls thinking, when she first saw the picture, “That is how I want to act!”

And this:

Roz Chast recounts an existential encounter. She writes, “I felt as if he were saying to me: Once I was alive, like you. Sometimes I suffered. Sometimes things seemed funny, or maybe absurd, especially myself. I was a man. I was an artist. I was a great artist. My name was Rembrandt Harmensz van Rijn. I painted this painting. I lived. I died. Yet here I am. There you are. We are looking at each other.”

It’s a mystical experience to look deeply into the eyes of another being in the present moment and across time. I’m grateful for all the artists who make that happen, and skilled guides like Peter Schjedldahl.

If you gaze at him again, what do you see? Where do those thoughts lead? I invite you to add any of your observations in the “Leave a Comment” space below so we can make this a shared experience.

Truly a spacious mystery, this thing called life.

*https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2021/02/15/when-a-museum-feels-like-home

Your Purpose Is More Important Than Your Plan

It seems some people follow a straight, well-planned path in life: they set goals and expectations day after day, year after year — and achieve them. But for most of us, events can disrupt our plans. It could be something affecting only me, or something like COVID that impacts everyone. We can be left with feelings of loss, discouragement and confusion. What can I expect in life? Isn’t there some divine plan that is designed to make me happy? Or was the plan to make me suffer? Or is there no plan at all?

Over the centuries, these are questions that have been pondered and debated by countless people in many spiritual traditions. Today I’m offering my personal perspective by focusing on a fascinating story from the Jesus tradition as exists in the Gospel of Mark, Chapter 5.

As we pick up the story, Jesus has become increasingly popular due, in large part, to his healing power. The day begins when a local leader, Jairus, comes to him and begs him to come to his house and heal his daughter, who is close to dying. Jesus agrees.

On the way, a woman who has been suffering from hemorrhages for 12 years comes up behind him. Her condition makes her “unclean” in the culture of that time, so she can’t seek him out publicly like Jairus. But, she hopes, if she can just sneak up behind him and touch his cloak, she might be healed. She carefully approaches, touches the cloak and immediately senses in her body that she is healed.

At that moment, Jesus also has a visceral, somatic experience – “power had gone forth from him.” Taken by surprise, he turns and asks who touched him. The disciples reply: with so many people close by, how can they know? The woman reluctantly steps forth “in fear and trembling” and confesses. He does not condemn her. Instead, he says “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace…” He then resumes his walk to Jairus’ house, where he takes the little girl by the hand and brings her out of her coma.

The story is rich in implications. As the philosopher Paul Ricœur put it, great spiritual texts (like lasting works of art) have a “surplus of meaning” – more than just one point. For today’s question, I will focus on consciousness and decision making.

Imagine if we can “get inside” Jesus’ consciousness as he started that day. What did he know, and when did he know it? When he woke up, did he know Jairus would come to him? Did he anticipate the act of the woman?

Jesus has been described as a “Spirit Man,” one of those people who has a much deeper level of awareness than most. People in the Gospels find it uncanny the way he can “read them” and know what they are thinking. I’ve known a few people in my life who have had that ability, so I believe it exists. And I’m guessing he had it in spades.

However, I think if we take the story at face value, his encounter with the bleeding woman is written in a way to suggest Jesus did not anticipate it — he’s surprised and taken off guard. If he had a “plan” for his day, this encounter was not part of it. Or, to put it another way, if he started out with a plan for the day, he had to adapt the plan to fit real events. Some years ago, it struck me: he had to change his plans, but he did not have to change his purpose. His purpose was to exhibit divine justice, grace and compassion. The woman unexpectedly touching his cloak became not a cause of frustration, but a new opportunity to express his purpose. He could fulfill his purpose regardless of unanticipated events that came his way, presented to him by the choices other people make.

This has been a liberating insight. My day may go “all according to plan.” Or it may be interrupted by all kinds of events — some positive, some not. Living a spiritual life does not mean we have to assume we are to follow a preordained script. Rather, it means we try to keep clarity about what is most important to us and others in moments of unexpected events and decisions; we assume we need to be creative in adapting to the ups and downs that come our way.

The divine presence never leaves us and is always ready to help us improvise in a way that stays true to those deeper purposes. Remember that when events – big or small – interrupt our plans.

When Compassion Isn’t Enough

As part of my work at Hospice of Santa Barbara, a group of us attended a week-long retreat at the Metta Institute in Marin County. The theme was “Cultivating Presence” and led by Frank Ostateski, an accomplished teacher of both Zen meditation and hospice care.

In one of his talks, Frank focused on the traditional greeting in parts of Asia – “Namaste.” You clasp your hands palm-to-palm in front of your chin and sometimes follow with a slight bow. It had become well-known in the West through its frequent use as a way to close a yoga class and was often said to symbolize “I bow to the sacred in you.” Frank had closed his classes with the familiar gesture, and as students we returned the blessing.

At one session, Frank focused on a deeper meaning “Namaste” can have. One hand can represent the virtue of compassion and the other hand wisdom. He went on to describe the importance of the two virtues always being combined. We may feel great compassion for someone and feel the impulse to take an action. However, actions arising from a genuine motive may have unintended consequences. Therefore, it is critical to evaluate the compassionate urge with patient and practical wisdom if we want to make the best choices.

I thought this was very helpful and began to share this concept when I was doing the initial training session for hospice volunteers. Many are led into hospice service out of a compassion for those who are dying, but it is critical we always seek to place that emotion in the presence of wisdom from trained staff and veteran volunteers. I often used the following story as an illustration.

Once we had a very caring volunteer assigned to a low-income family where the father had died. The volunteer had spent time with the young son in the afternoon and when he dropped the boy off back at home, realized the family had very little food. Moved by compassion and wanting to make a difference, he and a friend went to Costco and bought several hundred dollars’ worth of food for the family and dropped it off at the house. Soon after, one of the family members called our staff member responsible for the case. They noted how appreciative they were but said they did not have sufficient refrigerated storage to keep so much food and were embarrassed it would be going to waste. If the volunteer had run his idea by our trained staff member, he would have been affirmed for the impulse, but guided into an action that would better fit the situation. The compassionate value needed to be matched by wisdom.

I was reminded of the charge Jesus gives his disciples when he sends them out in pairs for the first time: “… so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.” (Matthew 10:16). The serpent was seen a very subtle and clever creature (it was not always identified as evil as it became in later tradition.) Doves were seen as pure and often symbols for the divine spirit. Jesus is saying: be open and trusting, but also be smart and strategic.

I have thought of this many times in my life and career, which I have spent in religious and nonprofit communities. It was always natural for me to approach any challenging situation with compassion and tact. Many times, those values led to outcomes I felt good about. But as time went on and my responsibilities grew, I encountered more complex situations where compassion and “innocence” alone were not enough. I benefited from practical wisdom from others who understood the complexity of organizational challenges and the need to make unpopular decisions that could be perceived as uncaring. When I was able to incorporate that wisdom, outcomes improved.

Anyone who has been involved in 12-step programs knows this well. If someone you care about is struggling with addiction and they beg you for money or help, it is a natural reaction to meet their requests. But that can often make the situation worse. You need the accumulated wisdom of the support group and the program to make the best choices.

Caring, empathy, love and compassion are prized virtues. But the best outcomes arise when they are blended with voices of experience and wisdom. Namaste!

What Jonas Salk Learned from Spilled Milk

Years ago, after a junior high teacher in my congregation returned from an education conference, I asked if she’d learned anything memorable. She responded with a story she’d heard about Jonas Salk, the legendary scientist who created the polio vaccine. As the story goes, someone asked Salk what helped him become successful. He gave credit to his parents, saying that when he was growing up, he wasn’t scolded if he spilled milk. Instead, his father would ask him, “What did you learn from that?” This made him unafraid to fail in his work – which happened in one experiment after another. But, unencumbered by negative self-judgment, he persevered and eventually developed the vaccine.

It’s a question I’ve found very useful over the years.

If I say or do something I regret, it’s easy to get angry with myself. My adrenaline rises along with feelings of self-doubt, and I can get entangled in an emotional thicket. But if I pause, take a breath, and say to myself, “What did I learn from that?” – the adrenaline isn’t summoned. Instead, I try to call forth a curious, inquiring mind. If I take time for reflection, I may recognize patterns of behavior that were present and bring them to light. That, in turn, may help me truly learn something useful from a painful experience.

It is a key concept in Buddhist mindfulness practice…we observe and accept the feelings we are experiencing but don’t identify or become attached to them. We try to cultivate a calm, non-judgmental perspective.

It also resonates with Jesus’ teachings. His followers were encouraged to embrace forgiveness freely. That didn’t mean they were to evade personal responsibility. Instead, they could look at themselves through the lens of the limitless love of God, which can liberate us from destructive self-judgment and the ever-present temptation to judge others.

“What did I learn from that?” can be useful in many situations.

I’ve found it is a useful question in parenting. If we are dealing with a decision one of my children made that has not turned out well, and the mood is right, I like to ask them, “What did you learn from that?” and listen with respect and curiosity.

In my role as a leader, I’ve found it’s an excellent question to ask an employee who has made a mistake, and to ask myself when something has not gone the way I had expected. It’s also effective if the organization has been through a difficult time to pose the question for the staff: “What did we learn from that?”

Our country went through great turmoil in 2020. What did we learn from that?

And COVID has exposed many vulnerabilities in our globalized lifestyle and systems. Will we learn the many lessons it’s offering us?

I invite you to keep this simple question close at hand as you go through your day and your week. If a situation warrants it, try using it.

We can’t get the milk back in the glass, but we can always be learning.

What to do with a prize salmon?

What to do with a prize salmon? The second congregation I served was in Wapato, Washington – a town of 3,000 with an 85% poverty rate. George Palmer was retired and drove an older white pick-up truck. An experienced tradesman, he liked to go around town and do household repairs for people who could not afford to have things fixed. He took delight in his small white poodle, Taffy, and had built a special car seat for Taffy so that she could sit next to him and see where they were going. George and Taffy would often stop by my office to visit.

He told me once about being a child at World Series time. Radio broadcasts had not reached rural Washington yet, so everyone who wanted to follow the game would gather in downtown Yakima in front of the offices of the local newspaper, the Yakima Herald. There was a scoreboard with a baseball field painted on it, and as the office would get updates, an attendant would move figures around the field to show and post the scores. He said it was exciting every time an update came, and the crowd would stand in the street to follow the games for hours.

George was also an accomplished fisherman, particularly for salmon. One time we were talking about fishing and I asked him what the biggest fish was he ever caught. He told he had been fishing with friends on the Columbia River, and he hooked what was clearly a huge salmon. It took him some time to get it close enough that he could net it. He said when it was within arms reach, he realized it was the most impressive fish he had ever seen.

I said, “So what did you do with it?
“Steve,” he said with a smile, “It was so beautiful I just had to let it go.”

So much of our culture is about gaining control over things and making them our possession. In that moment, I realized that perhaps the best thing we can do is to give thanks for a shining moment, and then let it go.

Siddhartha Visits a Nursing Home

As a pastor, hospice worker, and someone who was involved in the long-term care of my father and mother-in-law, I have walked through the door of nursing homes many times. At one point I realized the thoughts and feelings I (and many people) experience are something we share with that of Siddhartha Gautama before he became the Buddha, as is recounted in the story of the “Four Passing Sights.”

There are different versions of the story goes, but one captures for me the connection with nursing homes.

Siddhartha was born into a royal family. His father wanted to protect him from the harsh realities of life and become a great king, and so had him live within a walled palace. Within the palace, he never saw anyone suffer.

But at age 29, he felt a need to venture outside the walls in his chariot, taking with him his charioteer Channa. On the road he encountered four people.

The first was an old person, bent over and struggling to walk. This confused and disturbed Siddhartha. Channa explained that aging was a natural stage of life.

The second was a person who was sick. Channa had to explain that our physical life does not last, and we are all subject to disease.

The third was a corpse, decomposing by the road. Channa had to explain to him that our lives will come to an end, and our dust will return to the dust of the earth.

These three sights deeply disturbed his sense of well-being. He wondered what kind of life this really is if we can become sick, old and dead.

He then saw a fourth person walking in the same path in the presence of the same three people. But this person was not avoiding the three, but seemed to be seeking to understand and live with clarity about these realities. The fourth person was an ascetic, and Siddhartha became intensely curious as to what the ascetic was finding.

Siddhartha decided to leave his life of comfort and privilege and become an earnest spiritual seeker. Seven years later, sitting under the Bo tree, he experienced enlightenment and became the Buddha.

Our culture spends a great deal of energy blocking out the realities of sickness, aging and death. But when we walk into a nursing home, those realities are inescapable. There are people there who are sick. There are people who are too infirm to live on their own. And there are people who are dying.

When I see, smell and encounter these sights, my first reaction is fear and resistance, as my ego is faced with these truths. But I am reminded that these patients were once healthy. And I am reminded that if I don’t die suddenly, these realities will be mine as well. I try to hold space, as we say, for the feelings of fear and flight, but then focus on the spiritual importance of love, compassion and wisdom.

“Why me?”

The first congregation I served was one in which seven families had all experienced the death of a young son. Just a few years before I arrived, the pastor’s son had been hiking with his best friend in the backcountry and accidentally fell to his death from a cliff. Not long after, the friend was in a motorcycle accident and was in a coma for more than a year before he died. The boy’s mother once told me that during much of that time, she was haunted by the question, “Why me?” She could follow that question down many paths: how could something so devastating happen in a family that had been so close and so loving? What sense does it make for a promising young life to be cut short because of a slight misjudgment on a curve in the highway?

The sense of life’s unfairness compounded the pain of her grief and intensified the sense of isolation. Then one day she was alone and in prayer, and new words came to her: “Why not me?” The slight change in the phrase transformed the way she understood her suffering. She began realizing how many people have lost loved ones for reasons that make little sense. It didn’t solve the riddle of life’s tragedies, but it did release her from her isolation. Now she felt a bond with countless people.

I’ve thought about her epiphany many times over the last 35 years, and in countless situations. If you find yourself asking “Why me?” consider adding an extra word: “Why not me?”