She was sitting in the waiting area. It wasn’t really a waiting room, just some chairs and a sofa arranged around a couple of end tables, in a corner of the hallway near the elevators. Jack sat in a chair near but not next to her. Her hair was messy, short, dyed blonde, a weary look on her face matched her rumpled clothes. There was enough disguise to maker her age hard to discern, but when she spoke to me, or rather spoke at me, her voice was low, her eyes averting direct contact, she sounded like a frightened forty-something, waiting in the not-a-real-waiting-room for God only knows how long or for what reason. “Hi Father”, she called out as I punched the elevator button to head out of this place and on to my next visit.
Jack, it turns out, is a Protestant.
She is Catholic, she tells me. And today I happen to be wearing a tab collar. I like the tabs most week days, easy to pull the tab out and be more comfortable when doing office work and to insert it back when out in public or meeting with people. This helps especially as my neck size for some reason continues to grow, straining my shirt collar button.
“Hi Father,” she says again, “do you do last rites? I am Catholic,” she reminds me, “are you?”, as I checked the status of the elevator. “No, I am Episcopal,” I offer with a shrug and a smile. “Jack is Protestant, I am Catholic”. Three times she has staked her denominational identity firmly in the ground before me, leaving poor Jack to some generic state of uncommitted, and probably unapproved, reformation bastard child of religion.
“Do you do last rites?”, she asks again. Evidently my non-Catholic state does not deter her one bit. I cuss the slowness of the elevator, recognizing this must be a very important question for her, while my mind projects my immediate to-do list – hospital visit across town, vestry meeting tonight to prepare for, a curve ball thrown at our stewardship program. I turn my back on the elevator, grimacing slightly as it pings its arrival, and walk toward this Catholic-Protestant couple, one of whom has last rites on her mind. I am of course drawn towards this question floating between us, posed by a complete stranger who, after all, is waiting. In a hospital.
It is about a dozen steps from the elevator lobby to where they have camped out. Plenty of time to think about the best way to respond. I note the scattering of books, styrofoam coffee cups, snack food, a sweater draped on the back of the chair she occupies. They’ve been here a while. Two steps in I am formulating an opening sentence, something like “well, we don’t really do ‘last rites’ and I don’t think the Catholics actually officially call it that any more. We do offer unction – prayers for the sick and anointing with oil.” Perhaps she is wondering about unction, or even “extreme” unction, for her loved one but only knows the traditional term. Last rites encompasses several things, typically, and I have done them for quite a few people who were near death or facing serious surgery. Confession and absolution, receiving communion (which can be challenging for the very ill, but we have ways around that. I have even given crumbs of bread and a bit of wine through a feeding tube for a twelve year old who had been in a non-responsive state for ten years), and unction are important rites for many and appropriate at such challenging times. All together they can make up “last rites”, important sacramental and pastoral acts, wrapped in prayer. I have done this for the comatose as well as the very conscious. So I assume this is what she is asking about, for someone she is close to, someone she will camp out in a corner of a hospital hall for, and now she sees an official of the church, a paid Christian, someone who might offer these comforting acts for her loved one. I feel a bit of shame that I had hoped to escape without interacting with her, and quickly ask God to forgive me. This takes two more steps.
As I cover the remaining ground between us, she begins to stand to greet me, hand outstretched, “thank you Father,” she offers even though I haven’t done a thing for her yet. I introduce myself, taking her hand. She nods toward her companion, “this is Jack” and I chuckle to myself as my mind says “he’s Protestant” at the same time she repeats the line. “I’m Doris.” I wait for her to tell me she’s Catholic, but perhaps she finally feels she has gotten that point across. I motion for her to sit while I think, “she doesn’t look like a Doris.”
It’s been a last rites, angel of death kind of year. Twice in the last six months I have walked into a parishioner’s room – one at home and one in hospice – to be present as they drew their last breath on this earth. In both cases I had been visiting more frequently as the time was obviously near, but still, walking into the room just as the last exhale was taking place was both startling and spirit filled. In both cases as the loved ones present grasped what had just happened and an attentive nurse confirmed with a stethoscope what they already knew in their hearts, they noticed me standing there, next to them. As we prayed for the soul just departed, they each had asked me, “who called you – how did you get here so fast?” And of course in each case no one had called, I just had a feeling I needed to go. In fact for one of these dear people I had moved up a visit by a few hours only because another appointment had been canceled.
God’s timing I suppose. Meanwhile, good ole Catholic Doris needs an answer to her question. Being the brilliant pastoral presence that I am, I quickly deduce a deep theological or sacramental explanation is not what she needs. “Yes, I do last rites. Tell me what’s going on. Who are you here with?”
I am a tad surprised by her answer. “My father is in room 312. He’s been her two weeks, congestive heart failure. But he’s doing a lot better, they think he will go home tomorrow.” “Better?” I ask, confused. “Yes, much better. They said he could go back to work in a week.”
Puzzled I ask, “so why last rites for him?” “Oh” she says with a chuckle, “they are not for him. They are for me.”

to be continued