Where is God and How do we Know?

Today I met a man in the ER who rolled his car, but was going to be OK- banged up but no broken bones. My job among other things is to catalog a patient's belongings. On his laptop case was a Bible. It was important enough to carry as he commuted to work, and to his appointments among the Amish farming community. In spite of his miraculously being spared any injuries that would have admitted him and caused anguish, when I asked him if he wanted me to offer prayer for thanksgiving, he said no- because he was OK.
Later in the morning I visited a man who has some undiagnosed intestinal problem. He is homeless and suffers from mental distress. He eagerly accepted a visit and shared with me his faith, and pictures of his cat, a stray who found him. Though he occasionally was a little disordered, and his faith was labeled as a "religious preoccupation" by nursing, it was hard to see that this man's faith was just about mental illness. He asked me to pray, he held the Bible and knew it's stories. He told me that I was the first person to visit him. He chided me that Jesus conmmanded that we remember the poor, hungry and homeless. He challenged me as to whether I would stay and listen to him or would I call him crazy. He insisted I look at his blackened toenails- his concern of the day.
He thanked me for listening and for praying.
During our visit, he sat in a chair, as did I. At one point in the visit, a batik cloth he had draped on the foot of the bedrail, spontaneously slid off. I caught it and he professed this as proof of the Holy spirit in the room, and of my being someone open to the Spirit.
It mught be easy to lump him together with other "crazy" people. But I wonder. This man who has nothing and no reason to believe in God, professes the presence of God in his life.
One whose life was spared, carries a text that does not speak to him in a moment defying rational possibility.
Who sees God for who God is?
And how do we know?

I am not a Gas Station attendant

I regret that I am not a more regular blogger- somehow there is too much of life happening to crystallize it. The last time I blogged, I was headed into a time when I was to train interns in a shadowing process. Each of those times brought learning for both of us. But the more recent time happened on a snowy day, when I drove through the virtual snow globe and slick roads, watching each of the 10 accidents I passed to predict if it involved people who would be coming to the hospital. I am still not sure what that says about me. After a trip that took three times as long to complete, I had just introduced myself to the intern, and gotten the handoff of patients when the traumas started. Since the other non-student chaplain was stuck in traffic, we were off to the first of 6 traumas in our 6 hour shift. Many involved another patient who was somewhere else in the ER, and the shuttling back and forth to keep everyone who had been torn asunder, connected. Husbands and wives, parents and children. In all of this buzz, there was the family of an older woman who was in the ER and dying, totally unrelated to the swirl of motor vehicle events. The ER is like a beehive when there are multiple simultaneous events, and one must keep one ear to what is happening beyond to know what will soon be told. In the midst was a Code Blue five floors away and the challenge of how to leave and how to be present for a totally different family who doesn't care about my trauma load downstairs. How it is that one is able to shift and be what is needed is truly God's work.
In the midst of this wild ride, I am trying to keep the intern in the loop and check how she is doing. It becomes obvious that this is not at all pleasant for her- in the rare moment of time, I ask how she is doing and learn " I guess I did not prepare myself for the reality of death. I am not ready for it now."
But who among us really has prepared? The fact your beloved has been sick and could die "someday" is not "today." The fact you were hit by another car, but now your mother, the passenger, is dying, is not what any of us can mentally be braced to simply accept. This is what makes us human- to love is to risk. But in the midst of this, what is the word that can be offered?
Recently one of my classmates, in lifting up the merits of parish ministry (which are many) told me that what I do is "just gas-station ministry." In the sense that I am sent by God to fill up your spiritual tank when you feel depleted, or drained, I suppose that is true. The fact we are 24/7 not answering machine, is a reality. But from where I stand, it is not about whether one or another has a "better" or more permanent ministry. After all, who knows what the seeds are that are planted- do they happen because of a great sermon, or a warm handshake at the door each week, or do they happen because when faith was tested in the crucible of trauma, it was restored, or kindled? Only God knows.
For whatever reason my time at the hospital allows me to use a gift. It is not an exclusive gift- but in my time there, I will do what I can to plant seeds, for the patients, for the staff, for the families, for my peers. Often this happens when a pastor cannot come, or at a time when pastors are elsewhere. It takes many of us, each where we need to be, when we need to be, to do what the Spirit desires. If that means I am a gas station attendant, then I guess I pray you will want to fill your tank and that one of us will be there with a smile and an encouraging word for the journey ahead.

How Can This Be?

"How can this be?" are the words we hear a young Mary speak in this Sunday's gospel text. "How can this be?" were the words etched into my brain from the other day when another young girl experienced unexpected events, but in a much more tragic context. She was twenty years old, and in her second year of college, the oldest of eight children in a close-knit and devout family. She aspired to being a high school teacher, and was proud that she had also scrimped and saved from her job at the supermarket to buy a dependable used car. She was home for break from school, and had just had a fight with her boyfriend. Maybe they had been fighting more now that she is away at school. He had left and she was probably feeling more than a little sad and stressed about it all when she began to feel an odd strangeness she had never experienced before. In fact, she felt so different than she ever had before that she called her Mom who was out shopping. The daughter was home watching the little ones. She begged her Mom to come home-NOW!
It had already been a bad day, not just the fight with her boyfriend, but her brother who was a year younger was at the police station with their Dad because he had been mugged, and was slogging through the obligatory investigative police work. In the time it took to get to the house it had all begun to unravel. Mom walks in the door to find her beautiful 20 year old violently vomiting, struggling with slurred speech, but she was able to comprehend that she could not feel parts of her body. And she was terrified and crying. The ambulance was called and the neighbor came over to stay with the others, and in a whir they sped away with the EMT's struggling to keep her breathing.
As I met the Mom in the waiting room I scrambled to comfort, and offer to get whatever news I could. I did not have to struggle to envision all of the feelings and instincts, but instead needed to chase away thoughts of my own. Very quickly, it was even more dismal than before, with the doctor saying there had been a massive stroke, and she was bleeding in her brain, and I ached as the rapid fire questions about health history, meds, and life situation were coming almost too quickly to be absorbed. And the truth is that there was nothing that could explain this. There would be more tests and treatment and maybe surgery but " I am very concerned- your daughter could die."
Desperate phone calls were made. I offered prayer that still seems like it was not enough, but then again how could it be? And she sank to her knees and began praying the rosary, pulling me with her. I know most but not all, but with my arm around her, prayed what I could aloud and joined in silence with her in the rest. She shared that she was focusing on the cross of Christ. And as the repetition moved further along, as she almost feverishly fingered the beads, the peace which surpasses understanding was enough to carry her in the tragic yet sacred space. And then we waited.
The father and brother arrived and after more updating and consoling, I gave them some space while I tried to find out more. I inquired if they wished their parish be contacted, and they asked for the closest on-call priest to come and anoint their daughter. And then we waited. And then a doctor came and shared what more they knew- and it was even worse- that there was no discernible brain activity, the machines were doing all of the heavy lifting. The Mom lurched in the wake of this tidal wave of sorrow, and I caught her before she could fall, her husband and I easing her into a chair as she expelled a visceral wail- how could this be? I ached to my very core for them.
The son was standing off to the side- his parents were embracing each other and praying. He asked if he could go somewhere to smoke a cigarette, not that he was a big smoker, but you know, times like this.. In this day and age, one cannot smoke in the building or on any of the property owned by the hospital.
I took him outside- and pointed about a half a block away to where he could go. There was a light, but chilling rain. We chatted briefly- he was overwhelmed by the magnitude of the day and these new inexplicable things. And in fairly non- chaplain-like language, I offered to this 19 year old that I was so sorry because, frankly this sucked.
"Yeah" is about the only word I can print here from his response, but my putting this into the base vernacular allowed him to let loose of some of the emotions. I asked him if he could use a hug, and as I did I recalled that in all of this, the parents had been hugging each other, but not him. " Thanks, you know I really could." And he latched on for all it could be, and in my mind, I thought that 19 is really not that old. When this kind of thing happens, suddenly it is hard to be an adult. In fact, "I don't want to be a grown-up" would be even more accurate.
I could not go with him for him to catch a smoke, but only stand there as he lurched off into the misty night, having shared with him what he would need to do to come back into the trauma unit.
He returned as the priest was arriving. As I left them to share in this time with the priest, I prayed that the three of them, Mom, Dad and Son would embrace together. I prayed for this young girl, and for all of the staff, many of whom, as nurses, were in their 20's as well. This was within striking distance of their ages, a cold slap in the face even for those who choose this profession. Now discussing the timing of the brain death determinations.
After the priest left, there was the flurry around transferring the girl to a trauma-neuro room during the interim, and it was time for me to hand off to another chaplain. Part of me wanted to stay, wanted to make sure that this family would get everything they needed, this maternal part of me struggled to say goodbye. But the introductions needed to be made, and the status reviewed. Long, deep hugs, and expressions of sorrow and prayer. It would be another chaplain who would discuss the organ donations, and the finality of things, in the dark of night, this cold and unforgivingly blustery night.
Before I ended my time, I circled round the ER, to listen to the nurses, and the clerks, and the security folks, and in that sharing, to be ministered to as I ministered. There had already been two other deaths on my shift, plus the regular pattern of heart attack and traumas, and in general we were all feeling more than a little beat up.
Out of this tragedy, five people received donor organs they so desperately needed- this is the reality of organ donation- it takes a tragedy to bring someone else long-awaited good news.
I drove home, distractedly, mulling in my mind all that had transpired. And it felt like a leaden blanket. And I have prayed repeatedly for this family, and this beautiful girl whose obituary photo allowed me to see her not as the dying girl, whose face was slack, whose eyes were vacant, wired up to so many machines, but a vibrant and beautiful girl with a hopeful smile- I mourn not seeing that girl. I cannot fathom the wrenching grief of the family, or the bottomless pit that something that cannot be quantified leaves for the medical folks.
Henri Nouwen shares that "There is a strong inclination to say, 'Don't cry, your loved one is in the hands of God'.. but are we really ready to experience our powerlessness in the face of death and say 'I do not understand. I do not know what to do, but I am here with you.' Are we willing to not run away from the pain, to not get busy when there is nothing to do, and instead to stand in the face of death with together with those who grieve?" I hope that this was the care I imparted through the power of the Spirit.
And I hugged my own teens a little more tightly reminded yet again of the wonderful blessings and the fleeting nature of it all. Reminded of the words of a sermon by a pastor who buried his own son after his car careened into the harbor- People ask where was God? God was the first to shed tears as his car sank into the water. And the Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.

There is so much we don't know here- Lord give us the strength to hold on to what we do know- death does not have the last word- none of your words are impossible. And Lord, have patience with us when it is hard for us to embrace these words.

What Time Is It?

Sometimes I visit Pray as You Go for my morning devotions. I had not been here for awhile but re-visited the site after reading Gannet Girl's poignant stories on her journey in grieving the loss of her son. This week's lessons have been from Ecclesiastes. Yesterday I made a homebound visit to two of our members to share in conversation, a devotion and communion. They are young, in their 30's, but he has battled non-Hodgkins lymphoma for the last 12 years. The cost of the cure has scarred his lungs, and left many other losses, yet they are generally one of the happiest couples I know. He is almost exclusively home-bound because of a compromised immune system. But yesterday's visit was the time to hear that she had been in tears because of a very bad day at work. It was a time to cry and a time to laugh, and a time to heal. So much so that an hour and half passed without it seeming so.
When I walked in the door, my husband told me there was a message from a good friend. It was from our daughter's trombone teacher. G has known my husband since high school, our oldest and their daughter are in high school together. We have socialized for years, and shared the ups and downs of parenting, and his wife's battle with MS over the last 10 years. She received her diagnosis when our daughters were in kindergarten together; next year they will graduate together. K's condition has affected her vision, and her mobility. It has been a couple years since she last drove. She is fully wheelchair bound within this last year. Catheterized within the last six months.
Two weeks ago, she had another episode which rendered her unable to use her arms, resulting in hospitalization, followed by rehab and therapy. Sadly, the conclusion was that she could not return home. Last week the planning began to place her in an skilled facility here in town. On Monday of this week, it was the time to share his pain about suddenly not only feeling like a single parent, but also like a bachelor. Balancing work, the home, the needs of their daughter, his aging parents who live on the same farm lane, and the disconnect of having a 48 year old spouse who will now be somewhere else. It was just too much to take in at once. Latched onto me, sobbing. And it was a time to hear from my daughter's friend about how scared she is that her mom is sick like this. This new and scary reality.
And this is where things were when I pulled into the driveway last night. To get the message K is back in the hospital- in ICU. Could I please call and would I please go to see her.
The day after her transfer to the facility, people were meeting in a conference room across the hall from her, and somehow someone noticed that K seemed unresponsive. She was, and they called a Code Blue. After 15 minutes of no response, they called G at work to tell him what had been transpiring and what did they want them to do? I cannot fathom sitting in my office and getting this call, this totally unexpected call, this life-altering call. He told them if they felt all had been done, he was prepared to accept that death may be at hand. As he shared this with me, his voice sounded different than it ever had, not overwrought, but exhausted and accepting. But then, they called him back to say, she had responded. She was stable, but they needed to send her to the Regional Trauma Center in Amish Country. Which is where she is now, where they are evaluating what this all means, while she is entubated.
And so it is time for me, as their friend, to also be something else, having been asked to see her as a chaplain, to bring those who will be on call up to date, and to visit my friend, and to pray for them and with them.
I confess it is hard to know what to pray for. She had a period of anoxic time, and may be pretty compromised, this may be a time when infection will take hold. It is hard to know whether it is time for life to continue or to end. And like the words of Ecclesiastes, we cannot see the beginning to the end. But it is a time when we seek and hold on to God, to trust that God is walking with them, in their suffering, and bringing consolation in the form of all who are in their midst. It is a time to pray for guidance, and knowledge for caregivers, and compassion. To trust that even when we do not know what to ask for, God hears and will provide. A time to accept that while we may not know what time it is, God does. God doesn't give us all of the answers, but God gives us God's self.
And a time to know that God gives each of us tasks to carry out. May God guide me in this day that I may be who God needs me to be.

Ministry in the Hallways

"When you are on the way to do the ministry you think are to be doing, real ministry will happen." Or words to that effect have stayed with me since I began my path towards seminary, these wise words from Dr. Mark Oldenburg (always give attribution).
How true this has been for me in so many ways, and continues to be so. Yesterday was my first shift as a non-intern, i.e. real-live paid chaplain associate. I came to the hospital to find a very tired overnight intern who had an incredibly rough night. We met in the hallway and her "will you get some coffee with me?" was the first of many hallway moments as she needed to share what had been an extremely emotional night with no sleep, and she still had the day shift to work with me.
Not knowing each other, we met first in her processing and then, in the formalities of "who are you, where are you from?" As she shared with me her amazement that people would so openly begin to lay bare their life experience with her, a total stranger, I smiled, watching her do the exact same thing.
As the remainder of the day unfolded, I was off to the ICU to see a patient who had been moved there post-surgery. He was asleep, and his wife was not there, but as I rounded the corner, I turned the wrong way. In doing so , I encountered a cluster of family with a doctor, standing in the hall outside a room, hearing the words, " So that's where it's at right now. Any questions?" They kind of stand there numbly and head toward the waiting room. I catch the doctor to find out that the patient is congestive and very tired and outcomes are not looking good.
As I head toward the waiting room, voices are beginning to rise. I step in and introduce myself. I mention I saw them speaking with the doctor and wonder how things are going. For the next hour I hear the struggles of the sister who senses her sister is at peace and wants to meet God and be reunited with her husband.
Another sister thinks the the patient is "giving up" and needs to fight because it's not her time to go. The sons are in shock and trying to internalize the medical information and make sense of it. They all tell me of the deep abiding faith of their loved one. And I hear the fears and pain of knowing that a visit to the house has revealed that things are labeled with who is to receive them, including several rosaries. Dots are being connected and a sense of potential finality is slamming them in the face. What does it mean to be faithful now? Who are they to be now, for her and for each other? I had not expected to be there. They had not expected me, but our time together ends with prayer and hugs and an expression that I must have been sent to them to hear them in this moment.
And so I head down the hall, to see a patient and I pass a woman with a baby on her lap, and the stroller laden with things, telling a friend " I guess now I am not just the sandwich generation, I am the triple sandwich, between Dad, and my husband and the baby- but we'll get through I guess." I make my visit and am headed back the hallway. The woman is still there, reading Doctor Suess to the baby and trying really hard to be all of the things she needs to be. I wave to the baby who smiles.
The woman looks up and says hello. I ask about her son who is 10 months, and we talk about the universal quality of Dr Suess. I ask her how her day is going. And we talk about her father's cancer, and her husband's work injury that has him laid up, and the baby. I notice she has a case of Diet Coke in the bottom of the stroller and an open can is in the cup holder. After she shares her saga, she smiles and says, " I know it is a lot but we are so blessed.. I know that. We will get through." We joke about how Diet Coke will help, but then spend a minute talking about what else she can rely upon. And I tell her we are there to support her anyway we can and give her a card. We say a brief prayer and I am on my way.
To run into the security guard who wants to ask about the motorcycle accident victim earlier and to tell me how scared the guards were when he came in with the paramedics and how worried they have been for the family.
And the patient who I expect to see for a routine visit request, but she is headed for an MRI and she is having anxiety. We pray in the hall and I write down Isaiah 12:2 for her to take with her- "Surely it is God who saves me, I will trust in him and not be afraid." She tells me later she held the paper in her hands in the MRI because even if she couldn't say the words, she knew she was holding on to them.
On the way to do what I thought I was going to do, the Spirit had other plans. I am humbled and grateful for the ways I was used, along the way.

Overcoming Barriers

David at Here I Stand asks an interesting question that has caused me to do a little more reflecting on my summer. He states, "Begging the question of the week: What can you do to help overcome the barriers of faith, prejudice, racism, or classism in the communities in which you live?"

I have blogged before about bridging the faith divide with a Muslim family in crisis. Here are some other snippets of my summer, and honest statements about my responses, for better or worse.

Scenario 1: My largest frustration is in my perception of the lack of sensitivity or concern for those who are not Caucasian European lineage. At times it seems as though these people do not receive the same attention or care, because it is a bother. A gentleman from Mexico was brought into the ER, not on the trauma side. I got a call because family is here to see him and they need to be showed to “somewhere.” I ask the patient’s name and go to meet them. There are two gentlemen. One is the man’s brother and the other is a friend who speaks English. I place them in the large consult and go to find out who is the doctor and nurse. The man was found collapsed and non-responsive by the brother. I find the doctor and let him know family is here in case he needs information or wishes to see the brother who lives with the patient. He does not seem terribly interested even though everyone is trying to stabilize the patient and wondering what is happening and complaining about lack of information. I find out what I can share and go back to family. I also get contact information because no one has gotten it. The patient will be going to ICU at some point, and it is not looking good. “I have contact information for family– do you need it?” seems to be greeted with “if you want to.” No one seems concerned that he may not make it through the night and who might need to be called. I wonder if the mindset is that this is just another Hispanic, maybe it’s drugs- he has vomited all over the room. Turns out he had a brain lesion that herniated. I mention there is a friend who is translating, and am told that is a relief because it is one less thing she has to deal with. Stress of the moment or genuine sentiment? After the patient is as stabilized as can be, and I have again reminded the doctor that family is here, then he comes. I introduce him to the brother and translator. The doctor asks background, the thing he needed 40 minutes ago. He looks at the translator- he never looks at the brother. When the family finally comes to the room, the brother is told there is no reason to stay. Still no one seems concerned about them. I ask if they want to stay, but they seem OK with what has been communicated. Usually there is some question about whether family wants to stick around. I confirm that they will be called if there is a change. They go home.
The next day, I wonder if I should visit. I look to see where the patient now is and find out that there was a Code Blue and the family was called and told there was not much to do and the brother called off the efforts. We were not called, either then or later when family arrived. They faced all of this alone. Coincidentally, I ran into the family at the elevator- the translator recognized me and called out to me. He tells me the patient died. I ask him to express my sympathy to the family- they are tearful and express gratitude. They thank me for all I have done- for caring about them. The translator thanks me for pronouncing the man’s name correctly. Not trying to not trying to make it be an English name. This tells me the perception of the group about others they have encountered. They are on the way to Mexico for the funeral. I am glad to have been there- I just wish that the same degree of care and attention devoted to others by staff had been shown to this family.


What did I do? I brought it up to my supervisor who passed it on to the Vp for Diversity. This incident has passed, but the ongoing training has not.

2. People in the ER are poor and dirty. The staff are joking about it, but not in the presence of the people in question, but at the other end of a very large department. What did I do? I left the circle of conversation and went to stay with the family. I observed to see whether the buzz moved to where it could be heard until they were discharged. It did not. It was a rough night in the ER so I did not use that time to speak up, but to be aware and stand with the family. Maybe they would not talk that way in the chaplain's presence.

3. An increasing number of Hispanic families are at the hospital. There is plenty of charting to let medical staff know the family or patient are Spanish speaking only. But somehow this is not communicated to pastoral care staff in fulfilling visit requests. This makes visiting difficult for non Spanish speakers. But what I saw happening was that rather than trying to arrange for translation or see how far they could go in meeting needs, these visits were being pushed aside. What did I do? In one instance, I made a visit and was able to use my limited Spanish conversational skills and pen and paper to determine that the patient had a church and desired her pastor and made the contact. In another, I tried to visit and met with the daughter. She and I talked about how her mother was doing, set up a time for me to visit when the daughter could translate and ministered to the daughter regarding her stresses. I raised the insufficiency of the communication of language needs.

4. An Amish father came to see his son on the pediatric floor, but was clearly lost. I escorted him to the check-in desk. The clerk gave him an ID and told him he could enter. She did not offer to take him to the room which I knew was far away. So I stayed with him and took him there. On my way out, she thanked me, saying she wondered if he could find it, because " you know how they are" - a people who opt out of parts of culture? who leave school after 8th grade? I said that all I knew was he was an anxious father who was being asked to process a lot of information in a stressful time, and since as a parent it would be hard for me too, I guess I did know "how he was." She stated she hadn't really thought about it that way.

I wonder why others do not make a greater effort to understand. Even with questions about why people’s names are different, a lack of sensitivity to proper pronunciation disappoint me. Often I have not shared this disappointment. I have tried to answer questions when I have been asked in a neutral way, not self-righteously. But I wonder if we are called to love all God loves, if we can see that there is more than surface level. While many times, I can only focus on my own work in this area and encourage others, I wonder if there will be times to be more prophetic.

While I could spend a lot of time wondering why others " do not", I could more effectively focus upon what I can do now that God has sent me, which may be focused upon honoring others as created in God's image one-on-one, or may be working with others to highlight injustice and work to overcome it. And I think that my job is not to make others be like me, or to defend my God, but to meet people where they are- this has meant be sensitive in prayers, use of religious resources, obtaining Qur'an's, rosaries, hand held prayer labyrinths, and honoring traditions that seem diametrically opposed, including the right of a Jehovah's Witness to refuse a blood transfusion that would save his life.

In the end, I feel I often have more questions than answers, but I trust that God will guide me, and give thanks for all of those who strive to love our neighbors, whoever they may be.

The Long and Winding Road Takes Another Turn

Our time for the summer unit of CPE ended a week ago at the Regional Trauma Center in “Amish Country.” A time for us to wrap up our reflections ( though mine are still resonating). Time for contemplating this context of ministry which is in a city(though arguably not a New York or even Philly-sized) which serves a county of a half a million, plus a neighboring area. Where our diversity includes not only several racial or ethnic groups, but a distinct religious sector, the Plain Sect faiths. A place where many may see the county as one way, the days of old, in spite of the rapid, burgeoning growth in divergent paths. In the past, most towns could count a traffic light or two, but now bypasses, sprawl and transience are phenomena of the last fifteen years. Where the trauma bays is far more frequently in use than ever before. Here are some random thoughts from the group.
One of my team mates brought up how the ER staff treats people who are intoxicated- the “drunks” – and how he found himself buying into their vibe and banter even when he felt he should not. It is easy to understand- the staff have seen lots of pain and crisis when people drink and drive. It is hard to have to clean up a person who chose this path. My peer stayed and joined in. And I thought of that fire in the courtyard with Peter and the others- denying Christ. What you do to others, you do to me. What about those it is hard to love? We talked about how easy it is to see Jesus’ ministry and our calling to carry it out, in a sanitized movie-set way. The truth is that the ER and much of the work we do here on the eight floors is a very real composite of the demoniacs, lepers, drunkards, gluttons, prostitutes, blind, lame.. these are not people somewhere else, but here in our midst and we are called to minister to all of them.
And while much of our work is valued at the time, who knows for whom the message is a fleeting glimpse. Some may see their crisis as the catalyst for a quest, while others know they can or will not, and some will outright reject. Our sharing centered around remembering that Jesus was not only loved and adored, but rejected with a cry to “Crucify!” One of the struggles for some has been wondering how their work will bear fruit, who cannot see their presence at the moment as sufficient, a single step in a much longer journey. Sometimes our work is done in very visible ways, and at other times when perhaps only God knows we have been present. Some wrestle with not having an affirmation of their care. Others struggle with knowing that they see a person leave who is going right back into the crucible that sent them here. And I think of the rich man who walked away, those who were healed who never said thanks. And those who do the things they do not want to do, and cannot do the things they know they want to.
For myself, I know that what I have gleaned here can, and will hopefully, carry over into ministry and relationships in a variety of circumstances and contexts. But I also know that the immediacy of this care in this context, where I am Spirit led and sent into roles I could not imagine, to be in liminal moments where I am in awe of God’s presence, demonstrating compassion to those it is easy to forget, is an experience I am drawn to. Times where mere words seem insufficient. While my peers wrapped up their unit and moved on, I am continuing as an on-call chaplain while I return for my second year in seminary, with a new ID, and new discerning to do. When I began my process of discernment, I assumed I would be ruling things out that did not seem like my ministry. Instead I have found that I am ruling things “in” which I think means that I am becoming more a person open to the Spirit’s leading, and less a person who wants to tell God how I think it ought to be. I am energized to see where the long and winding road will take me next and who my fellow travelers will be.