Hospice means the end of the line. It’s when someone raises the white flag of surrender, tosses in the towel to declare it’s over, takes the final walk into the sunset.
Which is not true about hospice care!
Except, for me, it is true.
This will be my last weekly Hospice Matters post.
Back in 1989, I had my first hospice encounter with a farm family in Wisconsin. A husband—also a father and grandfather—was dying. I spent time visiting him and his family while they were supported by a local hospice agency. About a month before Christmas, a member of the church I then served asked me to meet with his dying neighbor. My church member and the dying man were dairy farmers, quiet men who had known each other since they were knee high to a grasshopper. I was glad for the opportunity to add to the family’s support. In the years that followed, a few of my sermon stories came from those yuletide trips to their farm. I have also written about the experience.
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