[blox_column width=”1/1″][/blox_column][blox_heading title=”I recall a seminary student in a dilemma.” size=”h3″ style=”style5″ animation=”none”][/blox_heading][blox_text animation=”none”]
I was his professor, assigned to oversee his mentoring experience. The student sought my help. His elderly mentor had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and would be unable to “make do” on his commitment. I knew this mentor. He was a good man.
I asked my student a series of questions about the situation. He told me that he had just mowed his mentor’s lawn.
“Did you see your mentor?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “He prefers no visitors. But I did sit and visit with his wife after I finished my chore.”
His head was down as he spoke. Clearly my student was in grief.
The impending loss of someone you respect and admire is excruciating. There are many forms of grief. I care for my mother who has Alzheimer’s, and I experience what is called ambiguous grief. My mother is both here and not here, physically present but psychologically absent. The grief is intense, even though she has not yet died.
My student’s mentor was well psychologically (for he had no dementia). But physically his body was giving way to disease. Although my student’s grief was a different form, it was still hard. Often, grief blinds us to the gifts and lessons to be found in the midst of it. Because I had already lost my sister to suicide and other family members to cancer, I knew it was possible to grow from such experiences. Thus, I suspected that my student’s grief could be his mentor.
“Perhaps this semester, for the hours you are required to spend with your mentor, you should do just what you did. Mow his lawn every week. If you have the opportunity to visit with his wife, do so. Maybe you can do other chores or tasks. This experience will be your mentor.”
This suggestion felt odd to my student. But he took my advice and ran with it. By the end of the semester his mentor died. My student had much to say about what he learned. Eventually he spent time by his mentor’s bedside. There was some thoughtful and helpful dialogue. But it was mostly a time of silence. And the silence was rich with truths to be learned. He also continued to spend time with his mentor’s wife, the primary caregiver.
“I will be a better spouse because of my time with her,” he said.
And now, 6 years later, in the heat of caring for my mother I remember my student’s wise counsel. I have much to give a mentoree and so does my mother. My mother and I are both willing to let others see us fail and succeed as we struggle through this very long disease of Alzheimer’s. There is something to learn just by sheer observation. But others have to be willing to be alongside us as we do so. This is not an easy form of mentoring because it involves the pain of grief. But my student took grief as his mentor. And he grew in ways he never could have imagined.
If you are looking for a mentor, consider the elderly and the one who cares for them. Go and sit alongside. Watch and listen well in that space. Bring what you bring. Don’t make it more than that. Yes, that space might be hard. It might be intense. It might be sad. Yet that space will mentor you, giving you unimaginable gifts.
“The dance of life finds its beginnings in grief…
…Here a completely new way of living is revealed.
It is the way in which pain can be embraced,
not out of a desire to suffer,
but in the knowledge that something new will be born in the pain.”
— Henri Nouwen, in The Dance of Life: Weaving Sorrows and Blessings into One Joyful Step.
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