This week brought my first experience of comforting a grieving family. I stood on the edges while a fleet of medical personnel tried to revive an older man, but eventually they called it. Then nurses cleaned him up and prepared him for the family. 

 

I had no idea how long it would be until relatives arrived, so I found a chair and waited. A nurse took pity on me after half an hour and looked up where the family lived. 

 

"Someone should be here soon."

 

The daughters and grandsons broke the silence of the wee hours with their jostling, and I timidly followed them into the room. 

 

"I am with Spiritual Care, and I just want to support you as you say goodbye."

 

To my astonishment, they welcomed me into their private solace, telling me stories about his firecracker life. They cried. They laughed. I listened. When it seemed right, I took my leave, and they did what families do around death. They remembered. 

 

Another woman who was unable to sleep needed company. Her pain barely let up, as she squeezed the button sending relief into her veins. She talked about the family that did not come to visit, and how much she loved them. Her stories about lavish Christmases together, and beautiful babies, brought still more tears. But those people were not here. I was. In some ways it is a pathetic substitute, a stranger standing in for nephews and brothers who know your history. But she wept when I got ready to go. 

 

"Thank you! I really needed to talk!"

 

Another woman on the floor was not particularly sad, or hurting, but she was lonely. She had bible quotes rolling on the television, and we read them together. Her faith was her companion, and it carried her until the next phone call or visitor. She had a photo album, which she showed me, and gave me reasons to care about each person. Then she seemed like she might be able to sleep, and I slipped away. 

 

The nurses seemed surprised by the lengths of these visits. They who have records to keep, and monitors to check cannot hear the musings of every patient. But I can. Well, some of them. 

 

As I walked back to the office, I puzzled over the paradox of it all. I will never see any of these people again. And yet, the shared minutes mattered. How can I reconcile that with the trajectory of life, which is to nourish relationships at almost any cost? 

 

Then I thought of those transitory joys like a good meal, a sunrise, a bird at the window, a daisy. Those matter too.