Carry On, Wayward Son

Some client journeys can’t be told in neat summaries or polished endings. They happen in cluttered rooms, with neighbors stepping in when family won’t, with the raw smells of a body breaking down, and with music that becomes scripture at the threshold of death. This is the story of a Vietnam veteran I was called to sit with in his final hours — a man who carried the war in his conscience, wondered if heaven would still receive him, and found his permission to let go in the chords of a rock and roll song.

When hospice calls, I always know Who is really sending me.

Many volunteers dont want to go into people’s home. Yet they teach us that that is the place most want to die. I am one of the few. So they call me.

This time, it was to sit with a Vietnam veteran in his last hours. His home was cluttered, the air heavy, the kind of space that outsiders might find unbearable. But for him, it was comfort. He knew where everything was, and it was his. And he didn’t want you to move anything.

He carried not just illness, but the war in his conscience. He wondered aloud if someone like him could still get into heaven after what he had seen and done. That’s the kind of wound veterans often bear — not only trauma, but the fear of unworthiness. After doing what they were told to do, what they were told was righteous and necessary when they were just boys themselves.

Family had fallen away. His sister refused to sit with him or provide help. But neighbors stepped in — one offering steady, loving support, another simply saying, “We are told to love thy neighbor.” Grace has a way of arriving through ordinary people with no agenda, just presence.

His hospice nurse arrived while I was there, fresh from another death call. You could see the weight of it still in her eyes. But she knew him — knew his preferences, knew his humanity. That kind of knowing is its own medicine. We were all very comfortable with each other though some of us had only just met. We knew why we were there. And he knew why we were there during his conscious moments. He consciously chose no treatment except the bare basics.

And then there was the music. He didn’t want hushed tones or whispered prayers. He wanted Elvis at night and oldies rock and roll in the morning. So we sang and danced to songs we all loved. The most striking moment came when Kansas’ Carry On Wayward Son filled the room. Suddenly, the threshold was alive. The lyrics rose like scripture written just for him:

Carry on my wayward son, there’ll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest, don’t you cry no more.

Once I rose above the noise and confusion / Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion.

Though my eyes could see, I still was a blind man / Though my mind could think, I still was a mad man.

Masquerading as a man with a reason / My charade is the event of the season.

The song itself became his parayana, his gospel, his permission to let go. We sang. We swayed a little. I moved energy around his head so he could surrender, while Amma’s touch came through my hands.

The first time I laid my hand on his head, his whole body softened, almost limp. Again and again, as I found the places where he held tight, he released. For those moments, there was no question of war or worthiness. There was only Her grace, flowing through me into him.

Not me, but Her.

That is the heart of threshold-keeping. It’s not about creating a perfect scene. It’s about meeting what is there — the smells, the clutter, the neighbors, the nurse, the music — and holding it all as holy.

God doesn’t only arrive in Sanskrit chants or with holy water and Bible in hand. Sometimes She comes disguised as Kansas on a dying man’s radio.