Hold on to People, They’re Slipping Away

Click on the arrow above to listen to this post Focus on everything better today
All that I needed I never could say
Hold on to people, they’re slipping away
Hold on to this while it’s slipping away Moby, Slipping Away The cold has arrived and, with it, that quiet introspection which always seems to accompany the gray moodiness of a blustery winter storm. For those who appreciate the crisp edge of the cold and the crunchy sound of snow, Traverse City is lovely right now. On a recent trek to Michigan, we rolled through Fort Wayne, Indiana and took a little side trip. As we exited the interstate, we turned upon a road I had not traveled in years; more specifically, in nearly 25 years. My mind wandered to an early point in my career and a client with whom I worked. His name came back to me: Bernie. I had forgotten him until that moment. A project. A deliverable. A transaction. A moment in time. Bernie was lost to me in the raging river of pursuit: deals, dollars, advancement. One of innumerable relationships centered on the product or service of the moment, lost in the torrent of life’s changing seasons. Progression or regression, it only moves in one direction: forward. From that moment in time, my mind wandered across a wide range of similar moments. Clients. Co-workers. Companies. Communities. People, places, and seasons. Most forgotten in the passing of moments, only to be recalled with a sign of that time taking me back. There was nothing particularly profound about the memory, it was just one in a stream of forgotten moments that conspired to bring me to this one. One man, one period of time, and a whole bunch of lost details. It was here and then it was gone, like so many others. Suspended in that moment, I was left with a sense of the great expanse of life and time and people. A few days before, I had listened as some friends described challenges with their aging parents. In many ways, the concerns reminded me of our role as parents of young children. How do we protect them? How do we keep them healthy? What care or help do they need? But they are not young children, and the conversation turned to that edge where the aging process impacts our daily lives. Somewhere along the way, the children become the parents, and it’s not easy, pleasant, or rewarding. A number of years after Bernie, I found myself working with skilled nursing facilities housing elderly who needed extensive care and support. Another season, another collection of people and places. I remember the acute sadness, and repulsion, I felt whenever I was in one of these facilities. Many of the residents spent their days in beds, falling in and out of consciousness, existing in a state of limbo somewhere between life and death. I remember the sounds, the smells, and the discomfort. But mostly, I remember the chilling sense of loneliness. I cannot speak to the care or compassion these residents received. I’m sure the care was fine and the compassion likely spanned the wide spectrum of our individual capacities for tolerating other human beings in their worst states. As I listened to my friends describe the situation with their aging parents, my heart felt heavy with the sadness of the circumstances and my own brushes with what appeared to be one of the most brutally lonely ends one could fathom for his or her own life. I wondered: what are we called to when it comes to these relationships and the movement toward life’s end? What is enough? We are not made to collect every relationship, retaining it in our possession like a painting or a baseball card. There are not enough she