Being of Service

What does it mean to live a good life? For me, this question is not abstract. Any spirituality worth its salt must embrace the nit and grit of life, even as it lifts us to something higher. A true path has to work in the short term and the long term, helping us through the day while guiding us through the years.

One way to bring our spirituality down to earth is to include some form of service in our practice. For ten years, I was a hospice volunteer. I would sit with people near the end of their lives to show care and let them know they weren’t alone. I noticed that people who knew they were dying didn’t wax on about metaphysical theories. They were concerned with ordinary details:  will I be in pain tonight, can I make it to the bathroom? And, of course, there was the fear of death itself and its great unknowns. But the two strongest emotions I saw among the dying were love and regret.

I remember one patient who lived in a posh part of town. I passed several luxury cars as I drove up the long, circling drive that swept up to the house. I walked through the vaulted entryway and into a front room adorned with expensive furnishings. It was apparent this family lived well. The patient, who was younger than me, was lying in a hospital bed in the living room, slipping in and out of wakefulness. I sat and talked with his wife while their two teenage children attended to him, getting him a drink or adjusting his pillows. The only time I heard him speak was to say words of appreciation and affection to his children. I saw him just that once, he passed a few days later.

Another patient I visited shared a double room in a county nursing home. His only family was an estranged brother, whom he had instructed staff to notify only after he had died. I visited him twice a week for several months, bringing him coffee and treats from his favorite café. We talked a little, but often just sat together watching TV.

One day, out of the blue, he said, “I have something I want to say. When I was a kid, I was abused. I told my parents, but they didn’t believe me.”

We held eye contact. I nodded but did not prod.

“I’ve never told that to anyone.”

He paused, then seemed to be finished. He turned back to the TV, and so did I. He passed later that week.

I volunteered at hospice to be of service to others, but also to learn about death, to bring it close, as the Buddhists say. A practice in Buddhism is to contemplate death as a way of realizing that nothing physical is permanent. Death is an uncomfortable topic for many. That’s understandable, given how our culture glorifies youth and beauty, pretending infirmity and death can be kept at a distance. But I found it tremendously rewarding to be with people during such fragile moments and offer something intangible that might ease their anguish.

Because we will all face death, I believe it’s immensely beneficial to our lives now to contemplate a response to the question, what does it mean to live a good life? No response, of course, is static. A question well-considered will continue to draw answers from us that refine over time. But the act of articulating our thoughts deepens our understanding of ourselves and reduces the distance between us and the core of the question.

My time in hospice was complex, nuanced, often mundane, sometimes profound, always inviting further reflection. Love and regret continue to circle my thoughts as I try to articulate what it means to live a good life and to assess if I’m succeeding.

Where have I moved as an expression of love, and how can that expand? Where have I fallen short, and how can I amend? I ask with curiosity, not recrimination, hoping to learn more about how I can grow into the full person I was meant to be:  mostly love, few regrets, and ready to be of further service.  

Photo by Jon LCE on Unsplash