Here for Each Other

It is late 2021. I listen in stunned silence as my urologist goes over my prostate biopsy results. After years of monitoring my PSA levels had begun climbing, and now I know why: “Grade Group 3 = Gleason 4+3=7” is as cryptic as it gets, but its interpretation— “Intermediate Unfavorable”—is not.

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One of the first things I noted when I began participating in Quaker community 30+ years ago was the openness with which others shared the truly hard parts of their lives—and requested and received support from the community.

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It is 2006. Rosalie, a physician in my Quaker meeting, is bringing a prepared message to our worship, wearing a brightly colored scarf wrapped around her head. She thanks our community for the support she’s received since her breast cancer diagnosis and subsequent mastectomy and chemotherapy.

Then Rosalie unwraps the scarf, revealing her gleaming bald head. Many in worship gasp, and she continues. “I’m the same Rosalie I ever was, but I have now joined an elite group that includes Mitch [a bald member of our meeting] and Yul Brynner.” She continues in a light-hearted tone, and we all breathe more easily, knowing she is back.

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What struck me as Rosalie spoke that day was her transparency, as if to say, “I share this with you because you are my friends, and I want you to know me as I am today, with no mystery and no embarrassment.” (Echoes of John 15:15, the passage from which Friends draw their name: “I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you.”) I decided then that this was someone I wanted to know better.

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It is 2009. Caryl, the first friend I made among Quakers, asks me, Rosalie, and a couple of others to support her during a difficult period at work. We do so, expecting to gather for only a year or two, but Caryl’s work situation remains volatile. Meanwhile, life goes on and we journey through it together. In 2011 Caryl, widowed twenty years earlier, marries Jeff, a more recent widower, and we celebrate a joy that neither anticipated ever experiencing again.

Two years later Caryl shares the hard news that she’s been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, about which is often said “the only thing predictable is unpredictability.” Over the years, as Caryl’s Parkinson’s advances, Jeff begins participating actively in our group. Today, several friends continue to share intimate gatherings in support of Caryl—and Jeff.

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“Anchor committee” is one of several flavors of spiritual care committees, a practice common among (but not limited to) Quakers. The goal of a spiritual care committee “is to provide sustained support, guidance, and accountability throughout the duration of the need.”—exactly what Caryl requested. I love the image of an anchor committee—friends gathered to offer a friend stability and centeredness during a stormy period in life.

In 2013 our meeting made spiritual care committees the focus of our annual all-church retreat, so that we might learn more about how to incorporate these practices into how we care for each other. This transformed the life of our meeting in so many ways, and we continue to facilitate them today. “A Care Committee: A Ministry of Prayer and Learning Devoted to the School of the Spirit" provides helpful guidance in this work, though care committees need not be grounded in religious faith or communities.

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It is 2011. Fred, a long-term member of our Quaker meeting, has been diagnosed with frontal lobe dementia and ALS, which are closely related. Many of us don Fred’s favorite striped shirts for a Walk for ALS along the Portland waterfront, joined by students from Fred’s teaching years. We all watch as, week by week, these diseases break Fred’s body, challenge his spirit, and tear a hole in the heart of his wife, our beloved Peg, a spiritual director. It becomes clear that an upcoming birthday will be his last, and Fred asks for a community birthday party so he can celebrate it with us.

Our friend Mike helps organize the gathering, and asks Fred what he would like. Everyone dressed in striped shirts, and lots of music, especially Beatles. Mike presses Fred for specific songs, and Fred—by now struggling to breathe—sucks in all the wind he can summon and answers, “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road.” And so it comes to pass that a hundred of us gather in striped shirts for an evening of musical celebration of Fred, including a raucous rendition of Fred’s requested song.

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Fred’s birthday party is one of my defining images of what it means to be a caring community of Friends. It is tremendously sad to watch a beloved friend become wasted by disease, and many find it difficult to spend time with a person on the cusp of death, saying a real and final good-bye. But death comes to all of us and it is far worse, I believe, to walk through this alone. When it’s my time, I hope to go like Fred, surrounded by friends like these with whom I have truly shared life’s journey.

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I share my cancer diagnosis with my family and with my Quaker meeting. I get a call from Rosalie. “Greg, it seems you might want a care committee. I’m happy to convene one for you. Who would you like me to invite?” I agree, and my answer includes Caryl, Jeff, and Peg. All agree to serve. My wife Diane is offered the option of joining and she accepts. It’s her journey, too, of course.

I am more accustomed to offering care than receiving it. I find it humbling to share as vulnerably as these friends have shared with me, but my trust in them is complete. In our first meeting Rosalie, no stranger to cancer, asks “Have you given your tumor a name yet?” I pause and reply, “The Beast.” She counters, “That seems like a name you’d share publicly. How do you address it directly?” I wince at being called out—remember that word “accountability”?—but I center and let my emotions rise. “YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!” I bellow. Rosalie smiles and continues, “Now that sounds more authentic. Do others have questions?” We are off and running.

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As a Friends meeting, we have made the commitment to love each other despite our mortality, and to hold each other close, especially when our lives depend on it. While Quaker spirituality provides our context, religion is not essential—my wife’s long-running cooking club has moved increasingly in this direction as its members confront the ravages of aging. What matters most is a group commitment to show up for and love each other, come what may.

It’s never too soon to ask, “Who are these people for me?”

Greg Morgan is a part-time chaplain working in an urban hospital in Portland, OR, where he lives with his wife Diane. Raised Roman Catholic, he has worshipped in the manner of Friends since 1992, and has been a member of West Hills Friends for over 20 years. He blogs about his learning experiences as a chaplain at https://elderchaplain.com/.