So what is your reaction to the spiritual practice of washing feet?  My friend Jan says she runs as fast as she can when she hears the term.  For myself, there have been very positive experiences and a couple not so great.  It actually can be an amazing and intimate spiritual opportunity, and I use it occasionally with nursing home and hospice patients I know well.  A simple question?  Do you run, or do you engage in foot washing?  Perhaps these words will be a special blessing to you today.  I truly hope so.   Would You Mind if I Wash Your Feet? By Macrina Wiederkehr (Seasons of Your Heart:  Prayer and Reflections) If Christ should suddenly stand before me with a towel thrown over his shoulder and a pan of water in his hands, would I have the humility to take off my shoes and really let him wash

Most mornings between 6:30 and 7 am I am reminded by the pawing and whining of the dog that it is time for the morning walk. For our dog Millie, a sweet eight-ish-year-old pup of indeterminate mix and origin (we tell people she is an American Black/Brown Dog) whom we brought home from the pound, it is one of her favorite parts of the day. The rush and urgency of getting the walk done as a task to be completed before getting ready for work in a pre-pandemic world is now a more leisurely stroll or amble through North Clintonville and the area around the original site of the Columbus Zoo. A chance to enjoy nature. See the animals, hear the chirping birds, watch the deer eating carefully planted flowers in the neighbors front yards, oblivious to the plight of man. Reflect and ruminate. Sometimes without a phone, off the

“What is this world coming to?  Again.” The President announcing his latest strategy for solving an “asian problem,” social strife rushing across the nation, fear of family members, college students evacuated from their rapidly closed campuses to avoid further deaths, a governor insisting, “We are going to eradicate the problem. We’re not going to treat the symptoms.” Flag-waving right-wing groups protesting. All that is from 1970.   Fifty years ago this week, specifically, looked a lot like today. On Thursday April 30, 1970, President Nixon on prime time announced that U.S. and Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) forces had crossed from South Vietnam into Cambodia to find and destroy major command centers and staging areas of the North Vietnam Army and Viet Cong communist guerrillas. The already long-unpopular war had fueled protests and demonstrations and this expansion, labeled here as an invasion of Cambodia, was gasoline on hot coals. 

I thought I’d use this month’s mid-week blog to answer the prompts from the Daily Connector series.  If you haven’t done so already (or even if you have) you can sign-up to write your own reflection HERE.  There are still plenty of open slots for the end of May.  +  What is something you have lost and something you have gained during this coronavirus era? One major thing I lost is a trip to Disney that was supposed to happen back in March.  My husband loves Disney, and we were planning to celebrate his 40th birthday by helping him feel like a kid again (as if he ever stopped).  There are moments when it seems trite to be so sad about this loss while so many people are suffering in far worse ways, but I try to remind myself that we all need space to grieve no matter how big

As a palliative care physician, I recognized quickly that the pandemic would present unique challenges for our work in the hospital.  I knew we’d be treating patients with a new disease process, there would be a steep learning curve with rapid changes, and that our volume of dying patients would increase.  What I did not anticipate was the very great loss I would experience with the inability to empathize and connect with my patients.  Because our patients are some of the most medically fragile patients, we have socially distanced ourselves from our patients to keep them from contracting COVID.  Visitors are not allowed in the hospital so all of our conversations, including about end-of-life decision-making occur with families by phone.  We wear masks in the hospital and only touch our patients to examine them when it is absolutely necessary.  So much of my work involves the “art” of medicine.  When