My Only Kin

A hospice volunteer learns a lesson in forgiveness

- Ken Fracaro

Marsha seemed like a nice enough lady, 96 years old, surrounded by photos of her family members, wearing a faded pink nightgown. She had a weak heart and only months to live. That’s why I was visiting her at the nursing home. She was glad to hear me read from the Bible, but then all of a sudden, she burst out in inexplicable anger—and not for the first time. “When I get to heaven,” she said, “I’m going to tell God to kick my father out of there. I don’t ever want to see him again.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. My training as a hospice volunteer hadn’t prepared me for this. I tried to distract her. I pointed to different photos, and Marsha rattled off her grand children and great-grand children names and ages. There was nothing wrong with her mind. Just this one topic that she returned to again and again. Her father and what a terrible man he had been.

“I tell you,” she continued, “God should know that my father does not belong in heaven. If he’s there, I will do all I can to get him out.”

Beneath that faded pink nightgown was a red-hot rage. It rattled me. Was it possible to reach the age of 96 and still hold on to such resentment?

I went home, wondering if I would be like Marsha at her age. I had so much to be grateful for. Not just my wife, Kathie, but my career as a manager in the oil business and the ability it gave me to retire early and do volunteering like this. I saw myself as a natural caregiver. I wanted to help. “It sounds as if you need to forgive your father,” I imagined telling Marsha the next time I visited. Yet a louder voice inside me was forcing an uncomfortable question: Isn’t there’s somebody you need to forgive?

Frankly that was something I didn’t want to think about.