I am not a caregiver or a missionary or a priest, but in the past few years I have been called to what I have come to believe is the Compassionate Life.

I suppose some would say this calling was first and best articulated by Jesus Christ, but I am not a Christian or a worshipper of his.

Moving towards the need and the vulnerable, to those who suffer, is neither a natural or instinctive thing to do, in many ways it seems unnatural for me, it was never a part of my life.

I often feel like a freak, it seems the world is going in a different way from me, and I am more outside the tent than ever.

I see that it is a radical call, a painful one sometimes. It can isolate and unnerve.  It is great test of patience and heart.

I’ve seen so much suffering and death the past few years, I wonder if a part of it is preparation for my own mortality.

I’m not conscious of being afraid to die, but that doesn’t mean I’m not. I suppose most of us are.

It began with my hospice work with Izzy and then Red, it grew to include the extremely elderly and then the refugee families and their children, and Bishop Maginn High School, a holy place to me.

Unlike real caregivers, I can come and go, have a life outside of this calling.

When I started doing the hospice work, I was astonished to find that I experienced more joy than I had ever experienced, anywhere.  And more love. And this threw me.

After a while I realized I was drawn to this work because I was afraid and depressed, and the trust of the sick and dying lifted me up.

There was nothing masochistic or depressing about the hospice work or the work that followed it, although every one of my friends told me they could never do it , and couldn’t imagine how and why I did.

I had no answer for them.

Moving towards those who suffer and often die seemed somewhat morbid to me. But I did notice that the people I most admired – Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Francis of Assisi – all wrote of the great joy in their lives, something I had never really experienced.

For most of my life, I never went near an assisted care facility, or a nursing home, or an intensive care unit. I crossed that bridge a while ago, usually with one of my dogs, who helped give me the strength for it. I could hide behind them and use them as shields at first.

I find that I belong in the Compassionate Life, even though I often struggle to be compassionate in the outside world. It is never a problem for me in that life.

I’ve met other people called to this life. Every one of them tells me that they receive as much or more than they give. This is so true of me. A nursing home chaplain told me that people in the Compassionate Life drink from the “cup of sorrows” and the “cup of joys.”

It is disorienting to go from this life into the other one, the one of argument and anxiety and greed and eternal conflict. It is disorienting inside of me and outside.

I’m never sure which life I really am supposed to live in, I feel schizophrenic sometimes. The Compassionate Life is full of moments of great beauty and joy. As when a refugee child of 13 who spent 10 years in a refugee campaign and threw her arms around me and cried for giving her a camera, and I felt great joy.

And the Compassionate Life grounds me in the sometimes hateful world outside of it. I am always shocked when I go from one world to the other.

When an 82-year-old woman estranged from her family asked that Red and I be the ones to sit with her while she died and keep her from dying alone. She died holding my hand in her right hand and Red’s in her left, I felt great joy.

I felt joy when I saw an old man with only slippers to get through the winter and I see him with the warm shoes I got him, I feel great joy. And I am swimming in the gratitude I feel for the others in this life, the people we call the Army Of Good.

Every one of them is drawn to the Compassionate Life.

My life is full outside of this work, I am not paid for it, and am always an outsider, not ever permitted inside of the circles of authority and decision making. At the Mansion, I never know someone has gone or died until I walk past their room and find it empty.

I have always lived outside the circle, this is natural for me.

Like the real caregivers, I am expected to be physically and emotionally present, the people I try to help expect it and demand it. I look to see that the people I care for are fed, comfortable, and clean.

I must never be impatient or judgmental of them, even though I am impatient and judgmental with so many people in my life.

I ask them what they need all the time, and if I can provide it, I do, without questions or discussion.

It took years to get the people I care for to trust me enough to let them help them. In some ways, the refugees are tougher – there are trust, language, and cultural issues that separate us and come between us.

Over time, these barriers break down. But I have to show up.

The Compassionate Life doesn’t really permit much coming and coming. I have to show up all the time, or the work is shallow and easily forgotten.

Most of all, I feel blessed when someone believes that I really want to hear their story, and they decide to tell it to me.

It is through the listener, I’ve found, that people discover they have a story to tell in the first place.

This work goes against the grain for me, but I see now that it is a calling, and I am meant to answer it. I suppose it is something of a vocation, buried deep inside of me for so much of my life. I don’t feel that is wasted time, I was called to this when I was ready to do it. It wouldn’t have worked before.

My many flaws, my anger, and my doubts somehow make that world feel safe to me. I never have to feel the pressure of wanting to be a saint.

And once I learned that I didn’t really need to be good to do good, I could do some good.