Happy . . . Hanukah ? ?

One of the residents at a facility I visit is always happy to see me. "I love you, I love you," she has told me. She met me when I was her brother's hospice chaplain in the the same facility. I am grateful that she doesn't connect me with her loss or see me as a reminder of her sorrow.

Initially she recognized me by my kipah, now she recognizes me as me. Whenever she sees me, she gives me the appropriate Jewish greeting (or at least the Jewish greeting she knows.) "Happy Hanukah," she says. "Happy Hanukah." I thank her.

I saw her last week, just before Rosh HaShanah. She wished me a "Happy Hanukah."

I couldn't help noticing that the local Chabad has their hanukiya fully lit for their New Year observances. Perhaps she's right: it's always hanukah somewhere.

Elul

One of my favorite things to do at this time of year is take my shofar with me to work. From the beginning of Elul until Yom Kippur, I have it with me. I sound it for my Jewish patients. I let the nursing homes where I work know what it is, why I have it, and that I will visit any Jewish resident so that they can hear the sounds of the shofar. In a nursing home with a younger, more alert, special needs population, the activity department and I schedule a program so that the Jewish residents can prepare for the New Year.

In a job where almost everyday provides the unexpected, I never know what to expect once I take out the shofar. I do a lot of education with staff and residents at this time of year. I never sound the shofar without making sure that everyone around me knows what I'm doing -- especially when I'm on a dementia unit.

Sometimes there are moments of serendipity, of grace. I'm in a nursing home doing a spiritual assessment on a new patient. We're meeting in a corner of the activity / dining room. The activity director, spotting my kipah, comes over to tell me that they are making "cards for the Jewish New Year." I am able to respond not only by coming over to meet the residents and talk about the meaning of the New Year, but by saying, "I have a ram's horn in the trunk of my car. May I go get it so that your residents can hear the sound of the New Year?" And while I have it, a nurse mentions a bed-bound Jewish resident down the hall and I am welcomed into her room so that she can hear the sound of the shofar. "Her family will be so happy when we let them know that you were here."

I'm visiting one of my Jewish patients. We sit in her room and I talk to her about the season. There's no response today, no eye contact, no acknowledgment that I'm present. I take out the shofar and blow it. Her head jerks up, her eyes open, and, for a moment, she's there.

Another patient, another home - my patient is a 100 + year old Holocaust survivor. We visit in front of her room, by the nurses' station where she sits each day. I take out the shofar -- Tekiah -- and the woman sitting next to her in the hallway glares at me and loudly asks, "What are you trying to do - wake the dead?"

Another survivor. Not yet my patient, but when I talk on the phone about hospice with her out-of-state son, he asks that I take in the shofar so that she can hear it. It turns out she's in a different place in her dementia. The shofar scares her. When I greet her in Hebrew or Yiddish she gets agitated and motions me to be silent. She responds to me and converses only when I greet her in Polish. Unfortunately my Polish extends only to "good morning," "how are you," and "thank you," but that doesn't stop her from taking my hand and talking to me - as long as the shofar is not in sight.

Once again it's Elul. This morning I opened my living room cabinet and took out my shofar. I don't know what the next month will bring, but I do know that for my Jewish patients it will include the sounds of the shofar as, together, we prepare to either close the Book of Life or to greet the New Year.

Again with the yarmulke . . .

This was my weekend to be on-call. There are a couple of differences in my on-call "look." Weekends on-call are the only time I wear jeans to work, although in the summer my weekend clothes are closer to my weekday work clothes. The big difference is that on Saturday on-call I don't wear a kipah. It's funny - as easy as it is to forget my kipah when it's on, I'm hyper-aware of its absence when I'm not wearing it. I almost feel as though I'm going to work naked; missing a vital part of my "uniform."

I walked into a facility yesterday to do some on-call visits. I said "hello" to a resident I often talk with on my way in and out. She looked at me and said, "You're not wearing your little . . ." and pointed to my head. "Right," I said, "my yarmulke. Well, I don't wear it when I'm working on the Sabbath." I didn't go into a lot of detail, simply explaining that Jews generally don't work on the Jewish Sabbath, so when I'm making on-call visits on the Sabbath I don't wear it.

I didn't want to get into an entire discussion on marat ayin (how things appear; not wanting to mislead a fellow Jew) and why I leave the kipah off. Although I consider myself an observant Jew, I am not a halachically observant Jew. In addition to working on some Shabbatot, there's the car I drive to the nursing home, the pen and paper I'm using to write up my visit notes, the BlackBerry that I use to check patient details, and the myriad of other non-Shabbasdik things involved in patient visits.

I leave the kipah off on Shabbat because I don't want to be a public Jew on that day. I don't want to advertise my religion. On a Shabbat on-call visit I just want to advertise the hospice presence. Of course, it's on my on-call days with no kipah, working in buildings where we have other chaplains during the week, and with staff who aren't familiar with me that I am most often mistaken for the hospice nurse. This weekend was no exception. "Yes, I think it's alright to skip a PPD on a hospice patient," I say, "but I'm not the nurse, I'm the chaplain. Let me call my nurse and get an answer to your question."

After a day on-call, disguised as "just another chaplain," it's a pleasure to put my kipah back on and enter the new work week as the Jewish chaplain.

"I assume you're a Christian."

I was visiting today with a patient and her daughter (really with the daughter, who's having a hard time facing the loss of her mom.) She was talking to me about her mother's faith; how long it's been since she "accepted the Lord." At that point she looked at me and said: "I assume you're a Christian." "No," I responded. A pause, and then I added, "But I understand the language."

It may seem like a funny response, but I do understand the language. And she's not the first person who has been concerned about my "relationship with Jesus" - I've had that discussion lately with several patients or family members. Today's woman took another look at me and said, "You're Jewish." "Yes." "I could tell from your headcovering." Last week's family member, after I initially missed her question about my salvation in our phone conversation, responded to my letting her know that I am a rabbi by letting me know that it was fine for me to visit her mother and to bless her because, "The Jews are God's chosen people."

Judaism is my spiritual "mother tongue." It is the lens through which I see the world. Most of my patients, however, are not Jewish. So I "translate" my religious language into theirs. I listen for the phrases in their conversations that tell me of their beliefs. I talk with them about this world and about the next (but instead I call it "the afterlife.") I affirm the lives of faith led by their loved ones. I reflect back to them the teachings that provide them comfort as they confront love and loss.

The religious differences may make me a better chaplain. I have to listen. I have to think about what they are saying and the meaning of the religious phrases they use. As I respond, I have to make sure that I have framed my response in the language they speak. I have to recognize my boundaries as well. I can't anoint a patient or absolve them of their sins. I have to reach out to their clergy, if they allow me to do so, or to clergy of their faith if they request it.

Often my kipah proclaims my faith so I don't get the questions I seem to have gotten lately. But whether patients and families know I'm Jewish or just know I'm the chaplain, my job is to let families know that I will listen to their spiritual needs, help them connect with a clergyperson if they wish, and accompany them on this journey.

yarmulke

In addition to the times when wearing a kipah leads to serious discussions or requests for additional support (or "courtesy visits" as one of my fellow chaplains refers to them,) there are the unplanned moments of humor.

• I'm sitting at the nurses' station at an unnamed nursing home working on my visit notes. A patient (not one of mine) comes up to talk with me. The back story, which I find out later, is that she noticed the kipah and asked one of the facility nurses who I was. The nurse told her: "That's the rabbi."    
• Patient: "Oh. You're Jewish." Me: "Yes." Patient: "I thought you just liked to wear doilies on your head."

• I'm visiting a patient in a "memory unit" in an assisted living. A staff member comes up to me and notes that several of the women have noticed my headcovering. They are wondering where I'm from. A quick series of responses runs through my mind. I can't say, "I'm from "We Care For You Hospice" because that would violate HIPPA rules and patient privacy. I don't really want to say, "I'm from the "We Care For You Agency" for similar reasons. (Although I wear a name badge and most of the staff know where I'm from.) I could say, "I'm from 'Hometownville'," but I don't really think that's what they're asking. So I go for what seems to me to be the simplest answer:
• "Just tell them I'm a rabbi." Staff member: "What?" Me: "I'm a rabbi." The staff member walks over to the residents and says: "She's from A-rabb-ia."

To be perfectly fair, in the first case it was a particularly lacy, open crocheted kipah. And wearing a doily is sometimes a fashion choice on the dementia unit.

At the second facility they were playing Christmas music ("O Holy Night" when I walked in) even though it was a hot, late spring day.  I reported to my colleagues afterward that apparently I was only "alert and oriented x 1" that day. Which is to say, I knew my name, but it seemed that I didn't quite know the date (December? May?) or the place ('Happy Dawn Assisted Living'? A-rabb-ia?)

Some days all you can do is laugh.

kipah / yarmulke

I wear a kipah when I'm at work. Some days it's just part of my work wardrobe, like my name badge. Of course, I do like to match it to my clothing or the season. It's been awfully hot lately, so I've been wearing my summer "watermelon" kipah.Whenever I wear it, someone will do a double take and ask "Is that a watermelon?"

That's not the usual response. Usually, at least initially, people say either "Why do you wear that?" or "I didn't know women could wear one of those." To the "why" question I respond that I'm a rabbi (while in my head, I hear Kol B'Seder singing "The Kipah Song" - "Kipah, yarmulke, shows the world you're a Jew.") It may seem like a simplistic answer, but on days when a facility social worker or activity staff member chases me into the elevator or out of the building "Rabbi, can I talk with you a minute," the kipah as identification serves its purpose. They know who I am. They spot me by the brightly colored, crocheted head covering. Whether it's a question about one of my patients or, more typically, a request that I visit a Jewish patient who's not on hospice, or blow shofar, or supply holiday music or readings, the kipah assures that they notice me. "I've been hoping to catch you." "I'm so glad I saw you when you walked by." In the busy nursing home world, the sight of my kipah reminds them that they had a question for me.

The "I didn't know" or the "You must be Jewish" comments lead to theological discussions or educational opportunities. I never know where those discussions will go. The timing isn't always convenient and sometimes the topic doesn't lend itself to a quick answer, but the kipah gives me the chance to have conversations that would otherwise pass by.

There's another reason for the kipah. It reminds me that I'm a rabbi, that I represent the Jewish community - sometimes to people who have never spoken to a Jew. The kipah reminds me to be aware of what I say and what I do. While I certainly don't speak for the Jewish community, a person's encounter with me may form their impression of who a Jew is or what a Jew believes or how a Jew acts. The kipah is my reminder of the responsibility that comes with my title and the work I do.

And then there are the unexpected comments, the unplanned moments, the laughter that sometimes comes my way because of the kipah. But that's another post.