As a public health nurse, I often work with refugees,
dragging my nursing bag into their humble low-income housing. Years ago, I had a
final visit with a family that I had worked with for many months and that experience was one that I will never forget.
I remember shaking the snow off of my nursing clogs as I
entered the very warm apartment. This family had come from a very warm country
and had not yet acclimated to cold Iowa winters and they kept their apartment
as a warm oasis from the winter’s cold bite. I felt the tension the moment that
I walked in the door and noticed the sadness in the eyes of each of the family
members who greeted the interpreter(there to bridge the communication divide)
and I at the door. Emotions were high on this final visit, as the family had
become very attached to me (and I to them). There is a bitter sweetness to final
visits and we were all feeling that-- the joy of the family no longer needing a
nurse and the sadness that our journey together had come to an end. We went
through the familiar motions of our visit; weighing the baby and scheduling
doctors’ visits and talking through any needed education so that the family can live their best
life. And, too soon, the visit was over and our time together had come to an
end.
As I stood to leave, the mother motioned for me to be
silent. She said, through the interpreter, that she would like me to not say
goodbye this time-- it was far too emotional for her and she would like to
think that we would meet again. In fact, she was certain that we would be
together again in the after life.
She motioned for me to come over and stand by her and then
motioned for her children to encircle us. I could tell by the children’s
immediate move into position and the confident smiles on their faces that this
had been practiced before my visit. The children were so excited that they were
teeming with energy, bounding on the balls of their feet as their mother chided
them with a smile, asking them to stand still.
She took my hand in hers, her dark skin contrasting
completely with my blindingly white skin, and told me that we were sisters now.
She said that, in her former country, when someone helps your child that you
are bonded to that person for life, that life could never separate you. At this
point, she began to cry and, even though I was willing myself not to cry, I
could feel the wetness on my cheeks that let me know that I was failing. She
stepped away from me for a moment, attempting to wipe her cheeks
surreptitiously, and came back with an intricate incense burner, which was
reminiscent of the one that had been used in my childhood church.
Her children began to sing a song together-- the words in a
language unknown to me, but somehow known to my heart. She smiled her gratitude
to her children and brought her focus back to me. She began to swing the
incense around me, enveloping me in a cloud of pungent sweetness. She began
speaking quickly over me, the interpreter struggling to keep up with her words.
May you live a life of
peace.
May your children and
your children’s children live a life of peace.
May you live a healthy
life.
May your children and
your children’s children live a life of health.
May you live a life of
abundance.
May your children and
your children’s children live a life of abundance.
The words were spoken over and over again. Incense rising.
Children’s voices singing sweetly. My client, the interpreter and I were wiping
our leaking tears and smiling through them. I could feel the invisible strings that connected us all together in that precious moment.
I felt the intention of each word spoken over me and felt
the words fall around me, as heavy and comforting as a thick blanket on a cold night. I believed with every
atom of my being that she wished so very much for these blessings to be true
that they would be. She had no way of
making sure that these intentions which she spoke over me would come to
fruition and, yet, the words were bursting with the power of dynamic, heartfelt
yearning.
When she was done, I looked around the tiny, shabby
apartment filled to the brim with children. It was so full of love that I
wondered how it could be contained by these cracked walls. I knew in my heart
that I had done many things for this family in the past year, much more than
was in my job description. I knew solidly that they were in a much better place
than when I met them. I also knew that they had taught me much more than I
could have ever reciprocated.
I gathered my nursing bag and headed for the door, quietly
putting my shoes on while continuing to wipe away tears. I would not say
goodbye. I was certain that she was right and our paths would cross again, even
if it was just in the memories passing through are minds. Goodbye was not a
word that would suffice the end of the visit.
Instead I gathered every bit of intention within me and I
said, as I was crossing the doorway echoed by the interpreter behind me-
May you live a life of
peace.
May your children and
your children’s children live a life of peace.
May you live a healthy
life.
May your children and
your children’s children live a life of health.
May you live a life of
abundance.
May your children and
your children’s children live a life of abundance.
