A Priest, A Rabbi And Two Ministers
Walk Into a Coffee Bar
1 Corinthians 3.16 John 16.7 2 Corinthians 6.2 Deuteronomy 31.8
Nothing unusual at Dorothy’s Grounds For Discourse this morning, not yet. Usual string of regulars queued for their morning infusion of caffeine.
I headed for our table where Father Jake Scanlon’s squint-eye greeting jolted me. “Good grief, Roger. Come, have a seat! You look like something out of the Lord of the Rings.”
“Mmn. Hobbit, elf or orc?”
“Gollum.” He raised his hand, called out, “Dorothy, darlin,’ coffee, if you please. Casualty here!”
I smiled at my friends and sat like I’d dropped a sack of wet sand. “Good to see you folks. Been up since before five. Suicide intervention.”
A glance at the woman sitting solo at a nearby table showed teary eyes, so I thought. Not sure.
A micro-raincloud bloomed over our table. Not unexpected. Happens whenever someone speaks a kid-glove word like suicide. Captain Gentry Hoskins, whom we called ‘our lady of the Salvation Army,’ wide-eyed me. Rabbi Aviv Gold reared back in his seat, a telegraph of concern. Jake gave me a quick and careful look, translated what he saw to the others: a flat-hand palm-down gesture, pushing air: cool it.
“I saw that.”
“Good,” he said. “What’s up. Anything you can talk about?”
“Not really. Spent two hours at the hospital.”
“Patient okay?”
“Yes and no. Where’s my coffee?”
Dorothy, the owner and perennial morning server at Grounds For Discourse set the mug in front of me. With a consoling pat on my shoulder, she said, “Get you anything else, Roger? OJ? Tomato juice? Transfusion?”
“Thank you, no, Dorothy. This will do for now. I must look pretty grim.”
“Ahh, comme ci, comme ça. If you were being cast for a walking dead movie, you might ace the starring role.”
“Thank you, thank you. No need to gild the lily.”
She grinned. Dorothy and I had known each other since forever: elementary school, high school, youth group. Dorothy was the kind of friend who shined her love on folks with gentle teasing. Her coffee shop-diner was the hangout for our interdenominational Friday morning klatch. If she wasn’t busy, she’d sit with us, one of the gang. Didn’t happen that often since Dorothy poured a lot of coffee, sold bushels of killer cinnamon buns.
“Need to talk about it?” Jake’s words were tentative.
I sipped my coffee, scalded my tongue and set the mug down. “I’m still kind of churned up. Interventions will do that, come complete with a ration of anxiety, doubt, and urgency. Ended well, I think. I mean, she’s alive, stabilized. Receiving care.”
The whole issue of suicide resonated among the four of us. As ministers, we were hyper-aware of how our jobs entailed more than preaching on the Sabbath. Comfort and consolation topped our lists. We encourage. We counsel. We walk alongside people who are in the midst of crossing deserts of grief and valleys of loss and oceans of hopelessness. At the right junctures, we speak words of solace or encouragement, hopefully a bit of wisdom. Mostly we pray. One thing we never do is abandon.
Avi said, “Oy gotenu! The Lord help us. So sorry, Roger.”
Jake added, “That’ll put a duck in your skivvies for the rest of the day.”
I snorted a laugh. Before becoming a priest, Jake had done a lengthy tour in the army, topped out as SFC, Sergeant First Class. Not the first time he’d polychromed the air around our table with grunt-speak. His term, not ours.
Gentry asked, “Roger, have you had many interventions? I mean, in ten, twelve years with the Salvation Army, I’ve only had to deal with two. Not that I want more.”
“I don’t keep count, Gen. Since I became the pastor at Harbor of Grace, more than five. Got my first experience with suicide intervention when I was eighteen. It was summer. Between my sophomore and junior year in college, there I was in New York City, minding my own business strolling through Greenwich Village when this woman steps right in front of me, says, If you can’t help me, I’m going to make my way to the George Washington Bridge and jump off.
“That was some years before I became a Christian but I’ve got to tell you, that woman got my attention, like right now! I had no idea what to do, looked around, spotted a church not far off, took her arm and said come with me. Located a receptionist inside whose main purpose seemed to be ignoring us while she talked on the phone and diddled on a memo pad. We stood there without being acknowledged for at least a minute. Finally, I said, excuse me, but we’ve got an urgent situation here. The receptionist gives me the stinkeye, I explain this woman is on the verge of suicide and desperately needs help, is there was someone here who can help her?
“I thought that was a pretty logical question, considering where we were. The receptionist’s answer was a classic, Well, does she have an appointment?
“I confess I lost it. You’ve heard the old expression ‘rant and rave?’ Well, that was me, hollering, unwinding a string of choice names for the receptionist. That brought a junior pastor-type out of the woodwork, what’s the trouble here. I explained what was what, he asked the woman if she’d accompany him to his office. I muttered all the way out the door, if this is Christianity, not for me, thankyouverymuch.
“But that whole episode made me realize I didn’t have the slightest idea of what to do with someone who’s suicidal. I was a psych major in college so I decided it might be a good idea to learn more about suicide intervention. And I’m still learning.”
Gentry wanted to know more. “Avi, what about you?”
“I don’t know how many I’ve done. I just take them as they come, do what I can to get them over the hump.”
Gen’s sip of coffee was a thoughtful one. She put her cup down, shined her smiling eyes at the three of us and asked, “Don’t just sit there, guys. I’m open to suggestions.”
“Years ago,” I said, “when I got the call from a woman who attended our church who was seriously considering suicide, I felt like I was broadsided by helplessness and dread. I think that’s pretty typical. At least I had enough presence of mind to I fire off my panic-prayer: Lord! Help!
“This was a young woman who’d been abruptly dumped by her boyfriend. She came to my office, poured out her story, how they’d been together for a couple of years, he’d found someone else, Pastor, don’t know what to do, can’t live without him, just want to die.
“My first question was, are you thinking about taking your life? She said yes. I asked, do you have a plan, how you’re going to do it? She told me she was planning to close her car in the garage, sit there and let it run until carbon monoxide did the job.
“Then I told her about the state’s legal mandate, how I was required to report anyone with a serious intent to suicide. She wasn’t pleased about that. Anyway, I muddled through a scrambled intervention, got her to agree to treatment. Even drove her to the hospital. Asked her to come see me when she felt better.”
Avi asked, “And did she?”
“She did. I still see her once in a while. She doesn’t live here anymore, but she does come back to visit her sister now and then. Drops in at church to say hi. But that was by no means my last intervention. I’ll tell you, the thing that has helped me the most was an interview I saw on TV about the Guardian of the Golden Gate Bridge.”
Jake said, “Yes! I’ve seen that! California Highway Patrolman. Had the Golden Gate Bridge as part of his route for most of his career, as I recall.”
“Yep. Sergeant Kevin Briggs. Over the years, he dissuaded more than two hundred people from taking the jump.”
Gen picked up her cup, sipped. “Wow! That’s impressive. He must have been pretty persuasive. What did he do? I mean, how did he do that?”
For a moment, my eyes wandered to the woman at the next table. Petite, not thirty anymore but not fifty, either. Mouse-brown hair, narrow chin. Patriotic eyes, red, white and blue. More red than white. Would have been cute as a teen. Didn’t look like her coffee cup had moved. Her cinnamon roll was untouched. I got the sense of a vibrating tuning fork.
Jake said, “It’s never easy. We all know there are times when a person can arrive at such terrible despair, like they’re caught in a whirlwind of hopelessness they see only one way to shut down the storm.”
Avi added, “That level of despair is when making a plan begins, I think. They start taking inventory of what’s available, gun, poison, drug overdose. Whatever.”
Jake said, “I’ve had a fair amount of occasions now where I’ve put what I learned from the Kevin Briggs’ interview into practice. In a couple of instances, I’ve been able to talk a person down in under thirty minutes. Takes persistence, And prayer. Lots of prayer.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Because this is a spiritual problem at its core, I don’t believe anyone can really achieve lasting resolution of the crisis without prayer.”
Jake added, “And that’s just the beginning.”
I lifted my cup, saw that it was empty. Raising it high, I called, “Innkeepah! Might we have more brew, please?”
Dorothy, carafe in hand, came to our table. “Pretty serious talk, this morning, folks. Tough times in Paradise?”
“More than you know, Dotty-dear. Thanks for the fill-up.”
She gave me a sideways glare worthy of one of the crusty old pirates from Treasure Island. “You know, Roger, that ‘dotty’ is a synonym for ‘nutty?’
“Yes, I am aware of that. Also means goofy, daft, cuckoo, loony, batty. Loopy.”
“Zounds! You have found me out … though I must say I find myself in good company. Gentry, a warmup? Anyone?”
Headshakes, yes, please, thanks, all around.
I gazed at my friends, not the least of whom was Dorothy, felt grateful for their
faith, their kind hearts, their joyful humor. “Just thinking about it, I believe the one big thing people on the brink of suicide need to know above all else, is that they matter to someone, that there’s someone in their life who truly cares. The flip side is so often what got them to that place of despair, believing that they have no worth, no value and no one who cares.”
Gentry nodded. “And that, friends, is what we do best, what we’ve all been called to do. Most days, it seems like ninety-nine percent of ministry is just that – caring.”
Avi said, “Amen to that. To tell the truth, I’m not as well-versed in suicide intervention as I’d like to be. Jake, Roger, can you give us some take-home basics?”
I said, “How ‘bout I start with an example. Several years ago, I received a call at two a.m. and if I may use the dreadful cliché, it was a dark and stormy night. The last thing I wanted to do was get out of my warm bed and brave the wind and rain.
“I knew this woman, had known her for many years. She was a regular at church. I’ll call her Winnie. A year or two earlier, she’d had a major stroke that paralyzed her left side. Her left hand and arm were essentially useless, just hung at her side. She struggled to walk, had to use one of those four-pronged canes just to get around. Before the stroke, she loved to sit and chat with friends. Long conversations were her delight. But now, she could only slur her words. Just making herself understood was a trial. Her family was gone, there were only two people she could call friends. That night, her disability overwhelmed her. On the phone, she was able to tell me she couldn’t live like that anymore, said she had purchased a giant-sized bottle of aspirin and a bottle of vodka and was going to end it all.
“Winnie said she called me to say thanks for what little encouragement I had given her and to say goodbye. I knew this was a call for rescue, that she didn’t really want to die. What was clear to me, though, was that she needed help, like right now.
“I told her to wait, said Pauline and I were on our way over. Twenty minutes later, we pulled up at Winnie’s house. She met us at the door.
“We gave her a hug, settled in the living room. I told her before we did anything, I needed to know where the aspirin and the vodka were. She told me and while I was retrieving them and taking them out to lock in the trunk, Pauline sat next to her and invited Winnie to tell her story. It was an awful tale, grim, full of lifelong disappointment, heartbreak and loss. Ocean waves of rejection, frustration and disability had finally pounded her into exhaustion. It didn’t take any imagination to understand why she wanted to end her life.
“We didn’t try to fix her. Didn’t try to Band-Aid her with Bible platitudes, either. We listened to her spool out years of pain at having been marginalized. We empathized. We said we understood, how sorry we were. After a while, we rummaged around in Winnie’s kitchen, Pauline made coffee, I found some cookies. Winnie relaxed a little. Our conversation lightened up. She shared some family stories, childhood tales, managed a few smiles, even laughed a little.
“Pauline engaged Winnie in ways I never could, seemed to empathize with Winnie’s hopelessness, her futility. Pauline, bless her, just poured mercy and kindness into Winnie’s heart. Me, I listened, made comments here and there, but I can’t imagine how it would have gone had Pauline not been there. Mostly, I just gave her encouragement when I could. Mostly I sat there and prayed.
“We stayed with Winnie all night. Come sunrise, we made toast and a fresh pot. Then I got to the hard part. I had to tell Winnie about the mandate to report. She had a few choice words about that, but said she understood. I called, spoke to a crisis manager at the police department, assured him that she was stable, wasn’t at risk. Got an agreement not to send a patrol car, said I would be responsible for seeing that she received appropriate treatment.
“Just the idea of a 5150 72-hour hold freaked Winnie out. I agreed that was over the top. Instead, I suggested a therapist I knew. She agreed. A couple of months later, she showed up at church. She was doing okay. And she thanked me and Pauline for saving her life.”
“So, Roger, what do you think led Winnie out from her despair?”
“Basically, Gentry, We showed her that we cared about her just by being with her, we showed her that she mattered to us so much that we would get out of bed in the middle of the night during the worst storm of the season to come and be with her. We showed her that we loved her.”
Jake said, “I’ve had similar situations. Although you don’t always get the response you want. Back a few years, one of my parishioners, a man I’d been on friendly terms with, was going through an especially hard time. His late-in-life divorce led to estrangement from his family, then he was hit with a forced retirement. I had heard he was struggling but didn’t know how critical things were until I got a call from his sister. She said they had spoken the night before and he said he wanted to ‘end it all.’ She thought I should know. I hung up, drove to his home, knocked on his door.
“There he was in all his glory, bleary-eyed, unshaven, unbathed. I said I understood he had been thinking about ending his life, could I come in, talk about it. He glowered at me but said okay. I told him I cared about him, wasn’t willing that he should die. He said he was done with life and all he wanted was to be in heaven. I said before you make that decision, let me read a couple of verses from First Corinthians to him.”
Gentry said, “Tell me you used First Corinthians 3:16 and 17, ‘don’t you know that you are God’s temple and the home of the Holy Spirit’ passage.”
“That’s the one. Anyway, he said he’d think about it, Then he stood and told me he wanted me to leave. Then came the hard part, the same one Roger had to do. I told him, based on what I knew, I was legally bound to report this. His response was to stonewall me. Ended up filing a report with the police. Didn’t want to, but … you know.
“Long story short, the police came, spoke to him for a while. Apparently he convinced them he was okay. They left without him.”
“Did he end his life?” I asked.
“No. Well, not then. But I don’t know for sure. He died less than a year later. I did the funeral service, but was never certain about the cause.”
We needed to be quiet for a few moments, to let things settle. Talking about suicide will do that.
A sniffle whispered from the nearby table. I glanced, saw the woman dab her eyes with a tissue. Her coffee had gone cold; the cinnamon bun sagged, like some lost thing. My gut fizzed. I felt my anxiety ramp up and I wasn’t sure why.
Aviv leaned forward, elbows pressing the tabletop. “This might be helpful, Gentry. In my experience, the first thing you need to determine is how serious the person is. Ask if they have a plan. I speak frankly, don’t see the need to tiptoe around the issue with euphemisms like ‘do you feel like hurting yourself?’ I get right to it, are you thinking about suicide?”
Father Jake added, “If the answer is yes, first thing you have to do is find out if they have the means. Get the details. Gun? Poison? Razor blade? Jump from a tall building? Intentional car crash? If it’s an immediately accessible item like a gun or poison, ask them to tell you where it is, then go get it, just like Roger did with Winnie’s aspirin and vodka. Tell them you need to keep it for a while.”
Me again. “And that’s the time for listening. Make plenty of room for them to tell their story, help them carve out enough of a cocoon of peace, somewhere they can see light in the midst of darkness. Offer encouragement where it fits. And pray.”
Aviv’s “Khas veshalom!” came from his heart. “Yes! By all means, pray! This is one valley of death we do not walk through alone.”
Gentry’s weighty sigh prefaced what she was about to say. Like homing beacons, the three of us tuned into her. “I appreciate this, guys. All of it. I know it works because this is precisely what helped me. True confession. Not that many years ago, I was in so much despair I couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t pray. Couldn’t even ask for help. Could hardly breathe. Whatever options I had looked like a corridor of closed doors. I felt like I was drowning in darkness. For days, all I could think about was a hot bath and a razor blade.”
Gentry’s whammy was just the beginning. Father Jake’s voice creaked like a bad door hinge when he said, “Mmm. Yeah. Been there, done that.”
I gaped at my friend like a surprised owl. “Jake?”
“Don’t need to do the details. Happened between my discharge from the army and seminary. Managed to drag myself to confession. I knew I had to do something. Didn’t know what else to do. Grateful the priest understood what was going on with me. Helped me. A lot. So yeah, I know very well how crucial it is to have someone who really cares, to take your hand and walk out of the darkness with you.”
At the table next to ours, a mouse-squeak was the most plaintive cry of
anguish any of us had ever heard. As one, our heads turned. Gentry stood, nearly knocking her chair over, knelt next to the woman. She reached and took her hand.
Lips pruned, saucer-eyed, hope and terror struggled across the woman’s brow. Tears pattered her cheeks. She stuttered, “I … I w-w-was listening to you … couldn’t help but hear …”
“Come, sit with us,” said Gentry. “Perhaps we can help.”
I went to the counter, asked, “Dotty, might I have a fresh cup of coffee, please. Seems we have acquired a guest.”
“Man, oh, man. Gotta tell ya, Roger, the four of you are magnets for wounded hearts. Of course.” She poured a cup. “Here. No charge.” I took it back to the table, set it in front of the woman who sat so close to Gentry that you might think they were one person. “Here’s a fresh cup. If you like.”
A small nod of thanks prefaced a double track of tears.
Her story was one we’d all heard it too many times – abandoned by a faithless husband, lost her job, evicted by a too-high rent raise. If that was not enough, her teenaged daughter assaulted her with volleys of anger and blame for daddy’s failure. Bitter frosting on charcoal cake. Small wonder her rope had run out.
We listened. We encouraged her to hang on while we sought ways to help. We prayed.
A week later at our Friday morning klatch, we compared notes. Tuesday, Rabbi Aviv had gotten mother and daughter set up with a counselor. Wednesday, Gentry found them a move-in-ready and affordable living arrangement. Jake recruited some folks to help the woman and her daughter move in. Afternoon of the same day, Father Jake showed up again with a couple from his church and two weeks’ worth of food and connections to a local food bank, and a pre-paid gas card. Me, I knew a man who attended our church who needed a bookkeeper at his business. I wasn’t embarrassed to cajole him into hiring her. Jake christened our success with a line from a dopey movie, “I love it when a plan comes together.”
While we were talking, Dorothy, pot in hand, came to our table, offering refills. “Don’t mean to interrupt, folks. Well, actually, I do. I’ve been chatting with that waif at the counter. I think she might benefit from your help.”
Dorothy’s description, waif, was apt. A too-old-too-soon girl leaned on the counter. Shabby clothes, raggedy hair. I took the stool next to her. “Hi. My name is Roger. Dorothy says you might need some help.”
Brown eyes raccooned with dark shadows blinked, looked away. “You one o’ them church-guys?”
“I am. So are the three other folks at that table over there.”
She looked at the table, back at me.
“How about you join us, tell us what’s going on. Might be able to help.”
“Okay.”
Single tear. Good sign. I liked that her name was Grace.
Copyright © 2023 Peter K. Schipper