Since I moved to Michigan I’ve been doing hospice volunteering. Every week, I go to people’s homes and sit with patients for an hour or two, usually just to let their caregivers buy groceries, or go to the doctor, or ride around in the car for a while — be somewhere other than that close, hot room with its hospital bed or reclining chair.
I’ve also been tutoring for a local literacy group. Mondays, I go to a library branch to meet an adult student. We read passages from an exercise book slowly, word-by-word. The student brings little stories they’ve written about their week, and we talk about grammar and spelling. We don’t make much progress. In between bursts of reading, they tell me about their life and ask about mine.
I’m being intentionally very vague about the identity of these people, even to the point of obscuring their genders. I wouldn’t want anyone to accidentally find themselves on the internet. But it is on my mind tonight, so I will write on, treading carefully.
Lately, it’s all been feeling a bit pointless. The patients are non-verbal; I’m not even sure they know I’m there. The student could make equal progress with anyone else. It really is just sitting with someone while they read. I’ve wondered if I should quit both and find something more useful to do.
Last night, though, Don came home with a story about a woodchuck. This (as you might expect) did not seem to relate to anything at the time. But (as you will see in a few paragraphs) it helped me make some better sense of things tonight.
It seems he had gone out for a bike ride just before dusk. A white sedan whizzed by him. In its wake was a woodchuck on its back in the road, spinning from the impact of the car tire. Don slowed, then got off the bicycle and wheeled it over to the animal. Its eyes were wide open, and its two front teeth, like little curved toothpicks, hung from its open mouth. It panted wildly.
Don knelt beside it. “Hey buddy,” he said. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. I know it hurts. I hope you’re going to be all right. I want you to know that Jesus loves you, and if you’re not all right, you’ll get to be with him very soon.”
At this point, I looked incredulously at my husband, who claimed for six months that he didn’t like *dogs*, and said, “WHAT?”
He said, “I know! but it’s what I did!”
Then, apparently, he said a little prayer, upon which the woodchuck shook itself, and tried to roll over. Don shoved the wheel of his bicycle under its back to help him. Once on its feet, it looked around dazed for a second or two, then trotted off into the brush by the roadside.
“Don. Did you faith-heal a woodchuck?”
“I don’t KNOW,” he said. “It was just…that’s just what happened.”
And I loved that so much. Even in the moment, when the story seemed to relate to nothing at all, I loved that I was married to a man who would stop for some mute and suffering part of our mute and suffering earth, and say, “Hey, there. I’m so sorry that happened to you. I’m here. You’re loved.”
Tonight, I went to visit a patient who cannot speak in any way that makes sense. I don’t know that they know I’m there. But when I came in the door, they smiled and said a string of unconnected words.
“You like her, don’t you!” said the caregiver.
Does they? I don’t know. It’s hard to say. But I thought about Don’s woodchuck and thought that there were worse ways to spend a Thursday night.
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