This week’s guest author is Rev. Ruth Sorenson, Director of Spiritual Care at Lyngblomsten.

One of the unique things about Lyngblomsten is the ceremony that takes place wherever a resident passes away. As the person is taken out of their room for the last time by a funeral director, their body is covered with a purple pall like cloth, a bell is rung throughout the building, and staff and any family or friends who are present gather around the person’s body in the front entryway. Everyone from dietary aids, to administration,  housekeeping, and nursing gathers together to give thanks for the resident, read scripture, pray, and share stories. I had seen this ceremony as a congregational pastor visiting Lyngblomsten, and to this day it is one of the most beautiful rituals I have ever seen in ministry. 

During my first week as Director of Spiritual Care, I was meeting with the Director of Nursing to discuss how our positions interact. I asked about the ceremony and what happens if a family doesn’t want to do the ceremony. “The ceremony isn’t just for the family,” he said, “we do it for us. We have been caring for this person and they have become our family. We pause to pray, say goodbye, and say thank you for the time they were in our care because we need to do that for us as a staff. We belong to each other.” 

Soon after that conversation a long-time resident who didn’t have any family died. The front entryway was so full of staff that they overflowed into the hallway. As staff members shared stories, a light-hearted debate ensued about which neighborhood (unit) this resident belonged to. “She was ours – we loved her so much and she was such a joy to take care of,” a nurse said, while others nodded along. “Actually,” an aide from another neighborhood piped up, “she belonged to us first, remember? Before the remodeling, she lived on our neighborhood and we petitioned to get her back!” Smiles and laughter and tears were shared as staff from those two neighborhoods teased each other good-naturedly about who could rightly claim this dear woman as their own. In the end, it was clear, we all belonged to each other. 

Is there any better way to express what it means to be the body of Christ than this simple sentence? We belong to each other. Our gifts, needs, strengths, heartaches, joys, and sorrows, our winning moments, and our deep disappointments all are lived out as the body of Christ. It is one of the gifts of this life of faith that we can share the fullness of our human experience with one another knowing that we are never alone. Of course, we don’t just belong to each other. We belong to God who claims us, names us, and calls us God’s own. You, me, that person who drives you nuts, and the one you love the most. We all belong. Together. To God. All those staff people who claimed this dear resident knew that she claimed them, too, during her time living at Lyngblomsten. And as we followed her body out the front door we all clung to the promise that all of us belong to God.