I noticed the bag on my first few visits to the tiny hospital room.   A stitched bag, large and roomy.  Colored squares bound together with thread, and long straps suitable for slinging over a shoulder.  Big enough to hold the things that are necessary for these sorts of stays.  Some books.  A cell phone.  A notepad and pen.  A Bible.  A puzzle magazine.  The purse with necessary identification, bank cards, insurance cards, and all the accoutrements of day-to-day living.  Thrust together quickly into the bag by a friend or relative on the way out the door. 

The bag was never far from her when I would stop by.  Sometimes it would be slumped haphazardly on the small, rolling table that was ever-present at the side of her bed.  Other times it was tucked under her good arm, the one that was purple from where they had repeatedly tried - and failed - to get the pick line into her vein.  But that was the arm with the good shoulder, so she relied on it more.  Sometimes the bag would be lying on the far side of her bed, near the arm with the bad shoulder.  Most of her necessities were scattered already on the small table.  Perhaps the bag only held her wallet at times. 

The bag waited for her return home.  It was that kind of bag.  Not the small, tidy handbag that an elegant woman would choose for going out.  Not the slightly larger and more functional - yet still elegant purse of a life-long teacher and friend to children, ready and filled with unknown goodies to be spilled forth upon a moment's notice.  This was just a bag, and bags are useful and helpful for going out and doing something that needs to be done and then returning home.  Bags have purpose.

The weeks crawled by.  She went home after a month in the hospital.  But a week or so later, she was back again, and so was the bag.  So were the books that her medications made almost impossible for her to read.  So was the notepad that didn't appear to have much recently written in it.  So was the cell phone, which would call me from time to time. 

Thursday, it was used to call and tell me that she was requesting the ceremonies to prepare her for death.

I arrived to give her communion, to absolve her, to give her assurance and comfort in the Word of God.  Her worldly affairs were more or less in order, or at least as in order as they were going to get at this point.  She was concerned with what came next, with having a clean conscience and hope in the promises of her Savior.  My Savior.  There was nothing more that the world could offer her - nothing more that her doctors could do for her.  She had requested to have her medications halted.  The hospital was moving her into palliative care momentarily.  A more comfortable environment for her and for the friends and family that would swell in to visit in the coming hours and days. 

I accompanied her to her new room, walking behind the large, mobile hospital bed that had been her constant environment for nearly two months.  Neither of us thought to grab the bag.  The new room was nice, with faux wood paneling and fancier lighting sconces.  I had the orderlies and nurses position her bed in reverse so that she could look out the narrow window at trees in the distance without straining her neck.  A long-time friend arrived shortly, having gathered the belongings from the other room.  A few Christmas decorations were put up.  Get well cards and drawings were taped to the walls.  Her books rested on a side table. 

But there was no suitable place for the bag.  The closet was too small and filled with other items by this point.  It was a point of worry and consternation for her friend, where best to put the bag.  They rearranged the closet and managed to squish the bag in.  They reported to her with satisfaction where the bag was, in case she wondered.  But she had her eyes closed, mostly.  Within a few hours, her ever-present glasses were resting on the table.  She wouldn't be needing those either.  She didn't acknowledge the new location of the bag.  She wasn't going to be needing any of those things any longer.  Not the cell phone.  Not the address book.  Not the wallet or the books or the magazines.  The identification inside that bag was no longer of use to her.  She would be inheriting a new identity before long. 

What are you preoccupied with, this Christmas?  What's in your bag that you can't live without, that you worry and obsess over?  What purposes fill your attention?  It's a good thing to pause and think about this time of year.  Or any other time of year as well.