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"I have mixed emotions about this," Linda said as her father lay before us on his deathbed. "Everyone thinks my father is such a wonderful, kind man, but they don't know how he really is. I was never physically abused, but words can hurt worse than a beating."

Just a few hours beforehand, I'd been at Mass and unable to go up for communion, because I felt abused by a person who was judging me. It did hurt worse than a beating.

Most of the time, I can forgive a person who refuses to reconcile, but once in a while it gets the better of me. I get angry and it separates me from God. During those bleak times, it is almost impossible to think of anything or anyone else.

I'm a hospice volunteer. I play my harp at the bedside of the sick and dying. I'm no musician, but I think God led me to this. I used to teach Scottish country dancing and wanted to learn more about music and timing. I decided I would learn to play the easiest instrument I could find, as a way to learn about music.

The recorder was my instrument of choice. Off I went to Sandy, the local music teacher. She would always play her harp at the end of the lesson. I would say passionately, "I wish I could play the harp."

"You can," she said.

I decided to try it. It was slow and tedious going, especially for someone 50 years old with no musical training, but eventually I was able to pluck out some tunes.

That was six years ago. I was a lukewarm Presbyterian at the time and, as in many churches with dwindling congregations, the bottom of the barrel is often pressed into service doing things for which they aren't qualified. I was asked to be a deacon.

"It's easy," I was told breezily. "We have one meeting a month where we discuss people in need, and we visit them about once a month. We do Easter lilies, poinsettias at Christmas and some gift baskets."

With a laying on of hands, I was an ordained deacon, having no idea what that really meant. I was in for a surprise when I started my visitations: I had absolutely no idea what to say or do.

The pastor said everyone was different. That didn't help. She gave me a very dry, unhelpful book. I fumbled pitifully with the visits.

In June of that year, a skill-building class came up at St. Mary's parish in Oneonta, on "pastoral care of the sick and dying." It was Catholic, but just what I was looking for. We learned about people's pain and how to actively listen, and most of all, we learned what not to say.

From this class, I came to conversion to Christ and the Catholic Church. Since I wanted to help people, I also became a hospice volunteer, signing up for a bedside healthcare music class.

Combining pastoral skills with music has been a wonderful gift. Music can calm fears, distract from pain, be uplifting and bring back memories. It is an act of being present for others in love.

Often, a patient or caregiver will open up and express deep feelings: bitterness, mixed emotions, hurts and loves. One of my fears on coming into the Catholic Church was confession. What would a priest think of me if I confessed things I have done? Would he stand before the congregation and think, "There is Sally, who did such-and-such?"

I came across an article about an RCIA group (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) whose members asked the priest if he thought differently about people who had confessed to him. He said, "Yes! I love you more."

That was it! I loved Linda more for her bitterness. I felt empathy for her in her pain: for her father, who lay dying and fell short...her daughter, who loved her grandfather and fled while I played because she would break down and cry...her son, who stood by quietly in the adjoining room and thanked me for coming...the memories of her beloved mother, who had died years before...Linda's bitterness against siblings who weren't there to help, a pompous priest and uncaring parishioners.

I pointed to the crucifix over her father's bed, with Christ hanging in pain and suffering with love. Christ is pinned, betrayed, beaten, denied, humiliated and unable to move, in total submission to our dysfunction.

Linda's tears began to flow. I held her like a mother consoles a hurting child. Like true confession, it was the beginning of healing, and we were forever linked.

As I left that hospice room, I said, "Peace be with you." The automatic but heartfelt response from Linda, a beautiful child of God, was, "And with your spirit."

I was full -- full of God, who is love.

(Ms. Scrimshaw attends St. Peter's parish in Delhi.)[[In-content Ad]]

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