Visiting the Sick
Visiting the sick is part of my task as a pastor. She’s on the “sick list,” but I bend the rules a bit when it comes to this sister. I do visit her regularly, but I tend to stretch out the intervals between visits. Because, you see, she is not really sick. She has a tremendous appetite and travels every three weeks to visit her daughter, a two-hour journey. And yet she’s deemed to be unwell.
The other reason that I expand the intervals between visits is her deafness. I don’t mean that it completely deters me, but it does influence my enthusiasm for visiting her.
You may question my pastoral care, but please don’t judge me prematurely; rather, let me share the details of my latest visit.
Upon arrival at the front door, I inquired, “Is Mother at home?” The reply comes, “Yes, Mother is home.” She has her own room, upstairs, so up I go.
She’s a good soul, eighty years old, tall, solid . . . and hard of hearing—more accurately, she can barely hear a thing. She is deaf. During my visits she bustles about, preparing the coffee and offering an envelope with some money for charity. A few cookies from the jar complete the hospitality.
Starting the conversation is easy. The expected health inquiries are met with comprehension. However, delving into spiritual topics becomes challenging. A small table beside me holds a substantial King James Bible[1], prompting me to remark, “I’m glad that you can still read the Bible.”
“What did you say?” Me, raising my voice: “I’m glad you can still read. I mean, the Bible,” said I while tapping it.
“Yes, yes, feel free to put your cup on it,” she suggests, though I choose not to. Trying a different approach, I shake my head and shout, “No, I mean you can still read the Bible yourself!”
My expressions intensify, as I open the Bible, point to the lines, and gesture towards her eyes.
“No, thankfully my eyes are still fine. A little deaf now and then, that’s all.”
Undeterred, I persist. Shaking my head again, pointing to the open Bible, raising my eyebrows to my hairline, I ask, “Do you read the Bible regularly yourself?”
“You can have it,” she kindly offers, “but you’ll have to wait until I’m dead. Then you’ll have a memory of me.”
Taken aback by her understanding of my intention I am only strengthened in my stubborn resolve to clarify myself. I’m now at the point where I have lost sight of the initial spiritual objective of the original question. I stand up, with a red face, looking, I fear, angry, as I roar in her ear, “Do you read it yourself?”
“Fine,” she concedes, “but first another cup of coffee.”
Dejected and defeated, I sit down again, listening to a tale about her other daughter, who recently stumbled over a broom and is now lying in bed. The joy dissipates, and I swiftly prepare to leave. She senses something; perhaps she thinks I’m a bit disappointed. As she rises, she picks up the Bible and offers it to me, saying, “Oh, you can have it now. I read my little Bible every day.”
I protest, but she fails to grasp my intent. Observing my unhappiness, she nudges me towards the door, Bible in hand. That’s how I ended up walking down the street with a massive King James Bible under my right arm and an uneasy feeling under my left.
They say pastors receive more than they give on some visits. Truer words were never spoken.
“Het Ziekenbezoek.” Peper en Zout, M. E. Voila; tr. George van Popa. 2024.
[1] Staten-Bijbel, or Dort Bible
