I've always loved the reciprocity of volunteering. I lend a hand and am blessed in the process. It's a selfish form of giving, but it also keeps life in perspective. Lending a hand, without getting any product or paycheck in return, broadens my limited worldview. Volunteering reveals needs I never knew existed, and helps me find the common thread of humanity I so often overlook.
So I volunteered recently to be the performing story-teller at a weekend summer camp, a major event coordinated by a close friend who works for a Hospice Organization. This camp is for children ages 6-15 who have lost a close family member or friend in the past year. I was eager to dig deep, write my first fiction play, and embody the character of a young girl who had recently lost her father. I was anxious about the timing of the weekend, because it fell directly after volunteering for five straight days as a third grade VBS teacher, but this was for a unique cause, and I was prepared to do it all.
Or, I thought I was. That Saturday morning I readied myself alongside the other volunteers but could never anticipate the soul-shattering experience of reading each child's name tag--his or her own name scrawled on top and the person who died written underneath.
So. Many. Dead. Parents.
The tears welled up, and I wanted to go fetal in a dark corner, but I swallowed them down saying "Dacia this is NOT about you." I did what I came to do. I played Zoe, the young girl who lost her father, and I loved the stage. I enjoyed so much of the process, but it was the children and their grief that shook me to my core. I knew nothing of that thick, dark matter. My childhood grief was the fog, the haze, the nebulous loss of humans who were gone but still alive. Theirs was forever gone. Mom, Dad, forever gone.
It was part of their story, their reality, and they played games, stared past me, swore under their breath. One boy who played on the fire trucks and ambulance, which arrived to bring joy, made the long slow sound of a machine which flat-lines while he sat on the bench, legs swinging beneath him. One girl piled high the whipped cream on her ice cream sundae and sat next to me, never making eye contact, never eating past the rainbow sprinkles on top.
There were children who melt down when lettuce touched their sandwiches and children who commanded the attention of everyone in their group with vibrant smiles and bright chatter. By the early afternoon, I recognized my greater role was to sit beside them, make myself available, and observe their grief.
Grief and death command recognition and reverence. Who truly wants to volunteer to observe and participate in grief? In America? Hardly anyone. We love the reciprocity of good neighbors, sharing that weed wacker, and the school P.T.O. raising money for scholarships. We love lending a hand when a friend is moving or baking cookies when someone's anniversary needs to be celebrated. But how many of us love to enter into someone else's grief?
I have a very close friend, her youngest child is my son's bestie, who is slowly saying goodbye to her husband as I type this post. I stopped by this morning to drop off a meal (how easy was that?) and was stunned to see her man's decline. Yes, I wanted to back away. Yes, I told myself it's because she needs privacy right now. But does she really? Or am I uncomfortable. No question mark there. I am uncomfortable. There is no reciprocity in death, unless it's the reciprocity of grief.
We will only expand our hearts to one another in this crazy, messed-up world, if we're willing to volunteer in the bless and in the mess. How horribly church-lady of me to say that, but it's true. We will stumble through it, maybe miss a lot of cues, but it is far better to volunteer for grief than never at all.
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Side note: there is always a shortage of volunteers in Hospice organizations. It can be the most quiet work, simply sitting by a bed, but it's one of the holiest experiences you can have...to be witness to someone's birth into the next life.
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