Eulogy for Sean

In the fifteen years I have been a chaplain, I have heard from various people, “oh, I don’t know how you do it! I could never do what you do!!” It’s difficult to explain why a person would choose the vocation of offering emotional and spiritual support to someone in a health crisis or terminally ill. What chaplaincy does is offer a chance not to experience someone else’s crisis, but to build relationship with that person and, if possible, learn from that person. Through the miniature community that is formed by this relationship, both of us learn and grow and the bond that is formed is something far more unique than anything that I ever found in a 9-to-5 desk job. Of course, it’s a lot tougher emotionally, but that is something that Sean always understood, so it’s one reason we had a good connection.

It was tough to get a foot in the door with Sean at first; he was skeptical of what I as a chaplain was going to say and it was about a month before we finally met in person. Once he knew I had no agenda, he relaxed and began to share with me who he is. He never spoke about the chaotic upheaval he went through as a child. As far as he was concerned, only the present mattered. Over the year plus that we met, he was able to process what he was going through and face some of the toughest decisions any person has to make – not because I met with him, but because he was strong enough to do this by himself and I was privileged to be a support while he did so. Looking back over the many times we met, the overriding theme is that he was always concerned about other people, never himself. From his partner Erik to the elderly people he felt were being treated unfairly in a group home to the homeless living near him, he constantly expressed concern for others’ well being but rarely his own.

He liked to watch “My 600 Pound Life” on The Learning Channel and as we spoke about it, I realized how intuitive he was and how he saw parallels between his own struggles with alcoholism and the struggles of people who are morbidly obese. He was aware that it’s a disease and not a weakness, and also that people pass judgment without knowing a person. The compassion that drove him was evident when he talked about this.

In the last few months, he began declining physically. He also began verbalizing that he was not going to be healthy enough to receive a liver transplant, but that he was okay with it. Several times he told me that he sensed Erik sort of watching over him, waiting off in the wings. While he was not a religious person, he told me that he feels we do have some sort of further life after this one and it gave him hope. It was this hope, I believe, that gave him the strength finally to take that last big step toward his next existence rather than continue to hover between this existence and the next. No doubt that Erik was waiting, with a beautiful smile, to welcome him.

The best thing to say about Sean is that he fully understood what it means to live life as a good person, and while he struggled to care for himself, his compassion toward others could never be doubted. That’s why a part of him will always stay with me, and I hope that that compassion will manifest itself again in my future as I build relationships with others. My prayer is that this legacy he has left will bloom in others he knew and loved. God Speed to you, Sean, and we will see you again.

Collide

I’ve been a sports fan my entire life. I grew up just outside Detroit, so my teams have always been the Detroit Tigers (baseball), the Detroit Red Wings (ice hockey) and the Detroit Pistons (basketball). I’m not particularly a fan of American football, but if the Detroit Lions win I’m happy. Now that I have lived half my life in Arizona, I tend also to be a fan of the Arizona Diamondbacks (baseball) and the Phoenix Suns (basketball) when they aren’t playing Detroit teams. I vividly recall the wonderful 7-game World Series in 2001. When Luis Gonzalez hit a little looping single in the bottom of the ninth inning to win the game and the title, I jumped up screaming and accidentally slammed my hand into a ceiling fan; it was sore for a week. Yesterday while searching YouTube for random sports videos, I found the outstanding HBO documentary “Nine Innings from Ground Zero” about that World Series – and, more to the point, about the resiliency of the people of New York City after the terrorist attacks on 9/11. While many quotes stuck out to me, what inspired this blog was the comments from two of the Yankees – third baseman Scott Brosius and manager Joe Torre – when they met with people at the Armory. Most were still waiting to find out if their loved ones were alive -and, if not, would they have any physical remains. Brosius said, “I felt completely out of place….what am I doing here? What do I have to offer these people?” These words really resonated with me, because in my training as a chaplain, I found myself asking those questions at least once a day. Then Torre shared the moment that sticks out in his mind. Outfielder Bernie Williams had gone up to a woman, and said, “I don’t know what to say, but you look like you need a hug.” I thought, now there’s a guy who would make a great chaplain. We spend so much of our time doing that we often overlook how important simply being is. It is a lesson I continually learn as a chaplain.

We want so badly to be able to fix things, to make things better. The first and most difficult lesson to learn in chaplaincy is that This. Will. Never. Happen. Of course it’s also true that it’s not my job to fix (this is sort of a peripheral part of that first lesson). Over time, as we encounter crisis after crisis with different people, different situations and different places, we learn how to mine – very carefully – the entire scenario in front of us, searching for precious pearls to hang onto and share at the opportune moment. Something as simple as a hug from a stranger – be it a chaplain or a famous athlete – can help a person going through trauma. Other times it is something far less tangible.

It was 5:15 in the afternoon and I was making rounds in the ER. A woman in her mid-80s was on a stretcher in the hall awaiting a room; she and her best friend (both widows) shared that her legs had been giving her problems, and her friend had insisted they go to emergency. She’d resisted, and her friend all but dragged her to the hospital. The doctor had made it plain to the patient that she owed her friend her life; apparently she had life threatening clots. While she spoke of how she valued this friendship, suddenly the overhead blared: CODE BLUE. FIVE. ROOM 19. CODE BLUE. FIVE. ROOM 19.” The number five was the indicator that the code was occurring in the ER itself (so a doctor was already present). The patient looked at me somberly and said, “that’s bad, isn’t it?” I didn’t feel comfortable being fake; I simply acknowledged that it was and bid farewell since I was the on-call chaplain and headed around the corner and down the hall to room 19. Amid the flurry of activity, I saw that the doctor present was every chaplain’s favorite doctor. I’d taken to calling him JD due not only to his dedication to medicine, but to his strong resemblance to actor Zach Braff, who gave delightful life to the character John “JD” Dorian for nine years on the television show “Scrubs”. One of the RNs came over and led me down the hall toward the family waiting room, explaining the back story: the patient was a 3-year-old girl who had chased the family dog out of the house, through the backyard and down into the Colorado River. I was the first to arrive in the waiting room; within a few minutes I was joined by two Hispanic females: a 20-something woman and a girl about 14, both of whom were soaked from the waist down. Their jeans were caked with sand and mud. As time passed, I learned that they were the mother and the aunt, respectively, and that they’d dredged the river as long as they could trying to find her. We sat together for about 15 minutes before the RN came and spoke with me first, then beckoned Mom and Aunt. The medical team was still coding the little girl, but they were not receiving a response. One thing I always respected about “JD” was his belief that parents needed to be aware of what was going on. He asked that the mother be brought in so that she could see for herself that efforts to revive her daughter were fruitless, so that she would better understand that the course of action to follow was to allow the medical team to cease treatment. She did so, then collapsed next to the gurney.

The next hour was a blur; during that time, her father and her stepmother (the child’s grandparents) arrived and both were tremendous sources of support to the mom and her younger sister. The poor aunt was so young she appeared overwhelmed by it all. When we had to explain that due to the circumstances surrounding the girl’s death, Mom would not be allowed to take her home, she really broke down. She and her family reverted to Spanish as they grieved and comforted each other and interacted with me. Until two weeks ago, she told me, she’d been living in San Diego with her common-law husband of nine years. He’d been abusive to her the entire time, she admitted. She had always been afraid to admit that he’d been a mistake and that she should not have left Arizona. But when the abuse extended to their child she finally got up the courage to leave him. Now she started fearfully wandering down that road….”if only I’d stayed in San Diego”, she began, but I would not allow her to continue on that thought. Instead we spoke of her relationship with her stepmother (the mother of the teenage aunt); it was clear that the two were close. I said I was glad to hear that. After about an hour and some, the RNs finally had to tell us that the family needed to leave since the coroner was coming. Mom was unable to walk without assistance; her father on her left and I on her right, we helped her out to his white Ford pickup. Along the way, I kept asking myself those questions. What am I doing here? What do I have to offer these people?

In the end, it was spontaneous, as it often is. As she sat down on the passenger side, I held her arm, looked into her eyes and said firmly in Spanish, “You’re a good Mom. You got your daughter out of a horrible situation.” I could see that the words hit their mark; there was acknowledgment in her face. I knew that it would not last and that the grief would return in tidal waves, but I also knew that she would remember those words in the future. I wanted to be there to remind her of this again and again, but it doesn’t happen like that. The second tough lesson we learn as chaplains is that we are rarely or never around to see the outcome of these situations – we’re only present for a short time, so we try to find those pearls and offer them as solidly as possible and then move on to the next person, the next crisis. Our lives collide briefly, as lives did on September 11, 2001. When we have the privilege of offering hope and the possibility of a life after all this, we strengthen our community – and in doing so, we strengthen humanity.

In Spite of Everything

"I keep my ideals, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart" - Anne Frank

What can I say for you, to what compare you, O daughter Jerusalem? To what can I liken you, that I may comfort you, O virgin daughter Zion? For vast as the sea is your ruin; who can heal you? Your prophets have seen for you false and deceptive visions; they have not exposed your iniquity to restore your fortunes, but have seen oracles for you that are false and misleading. All who pass along the way clap their hands at you; they hiss and wag their heads at daughter Jerusalem; ‘Is this the city that was called the perfection of beauty, the joy of all the earth?’ All your enemies open their mouths against you; they hiss, they gnash their teeth, they cry: ‘We have devoured her! Ah, this is the day we longed for; at last we have seen it!’……the LORD has done what he purposed, he has carried out his threat; as he ordained long ago, he has demolished without pity; he has made the enemy rejoice over you, and exalted the might of your foes.

I have kept this blog for over eight years. In all that time, I have never addressed politics. Like death and taxes, they are an inevitable part of our existence and I just assumed that like a posterior, every person has a specific type. For my international readers, I am a US citizen and was raised by my parents to be an intelligent, thinking voter. No party allegiance is listed on my voter registration card; I am what is termed an Independent. Prior to the 2016 election I always had a candidate I clearly supported and, win or lose, I felt good about my choice and the fact that I had a say in the government’s leadership. This time, though, I struggled to find the positive in both major parties’ candidates. While I detested the xenophobic comments that vomited out of Donald Trump’s mouth, I also hated that Hillary Clinton directed the democratic party to blackball an independent candidate for president. It felt like I had to choose between having a root canal or an enema – either way, it would be pretty painful.

Most of my friends know that though I identify as centrist, my progressive views on social justice brand me a “lib’rul” in the eyes of conservatives. It’s because of my social justice concerns that late that Tuesday evening, as the electoral college votes kept rising steadily in support of a person who has said derogatory things about several major ethnic groups, I felt compelled to sit and pray. Pray for my nation. Pray for the winner. Pray for the loser. I felt a level of fear I have rarely felt in my life. For the first time ever, I had an inkling of what daily life must be like for those people who live in the restless zones of the Middle East and other areas where warfare is a way of life rather than an occasional interruption of privilege. Because I knew what would happen if we elected the one whose running mate is clueless enough to believe that homosexuality can be ‘cured’ through therapy. It was not a surprise when the protests began. I could only sit and watch numbly as the nation we always touted as the ideal for any person from anywhere to come and make a good life began to crack.

Cry aloud to the Lord! O wall of daughter Zion! Let tears stream down like a torrent day and night! Give yourself no rest, your eyes no respite! Arise, cry out in the night, at the beginning of the watches! Pour out your heart like water before the presence of the Lord! Lift your hands to him for the lives of your children, who faint for hunger at the head of every street. Look, O LORD, and consider! To whom have you done this?.....the young and the old are lying on the ground in the streets; my young women and my young men have fallen by the sword; on the day of your anger you have killed them, slaughtering without mercy. You invited my enemies from all around as if for a day of festival; and on the day of the anger of the LORD no one escaped or survived; those whom I bore and reared my enemy has destroyed. The thought of my affliction and my homelessness is wormwood and gall! My soul continually thinks of it and is bowed down within me.

In the aftermath of the election, I was appalled that we are divided so clearly. That we would have no qualms voting for a man who degrades women and the disabled. That we would mourn not having elected a woman who by her own admission has done unethical things to clear a path to the presidency. But what bothered me most is that so many people with the same progressive views were truly stunned – that they believed this could never happen. What does that say about our level of awareness as a nation? Nothing positive.

And yet, I see a glimmer of the future….those who were convinced that they would never need to fight for their rights, those who said they would never take to the streets to protest, have been doing so. Those of us who were born and raised with privilege are realizing for the first time that freedom truly does come at a cost, and that we are responsible to every citizen of this nation for every action and its consequences. The day I saw a video of US military veterans on their knees at the Standing Rock Reservation in North Dakota begging forgiveness of the Lakota people there for all the evil done them by the US government, the heaviness in my chest lightened slightly. Perhaps this extreme situation is what we needed to teach us about real interconnectedness. All is not lost.

But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: the steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. ‘The LORD is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in him.’

To Live as a Good Man, Part Three: The Power of Memory

It’s been almost seven years now since I wrote a blog about a baby girl who died the day after Mardi Gras. I’d been rather airy about working an on-call shift on Mardi Gras evening, convinced that a whole two years of experience (!!!) had prepared me for anything I might face. To be called to the ED at 0630 to provide support to the girl’s parents was the very definition of being blindsided. I recall so vividly how I tried to put it aside, compartmentalize it, get on with things….I’d planned to go to a sneak preview of the film “Shutter Island” that Wednesday evening with a friend, so I walked to the nearby CVS to stock up on candy and treated myself to ice cream at the Creole Creamery afterward. I had hoped that the richness of the treat would numb the pain; instead it brought my rage and grief roiling to the surface.

How clearly I remember looking at all the people walking around as though it were all normal, and wanting to scream at them for acting as if nothing had changed when it seemed as if everything had changed. At the time, writing about it was a balm for my soul, a way of processing the grief that I inadvertently internalized and held onto. Over the next two years while I continued growing as a chaplain and moving toward ordination, I realized that writing about it made it such a powerful memory that it became indented in my mind. The Creole Creamery is an ice cream shop that attracts people from around the entire USA, and perhaps the whole world, given the number of tourists that visit New Orleans every year. The richness of the treats it offers should always be a positive thing. However, it became apparent to me that every time I went there, I always recalled that Ash Wednesday in 2010 when I allowed grief to consume me. I moved on from New Orleans, spent time at another hospital in chaplaincy, and then moved to the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles to serve as a hospice chaplain. This was the position that afforded my church congregation the opportunity to approach our denomination and formally request that I be ordained to the ministry. With delight I returned home to New Orleans in February 2014 to celebrate this milestone with my church home here and with my family, who all came to New Orleans for the first time and fell in love with “The Big Easy” as easily as did I. My father in particular was seduced by the Creole Creamery, so much so that the family requested we visit the place for dessert every night they were here. The evening after I was ordained, we all sat here enjoying a treat, I with my “A Chockwork Orange” and my dad with “Chef’s Perfect Chocolate”, and as I stared at the CVS across the street, I looked upriver at the Chase Bank and the Thai restaurant on the corner and the memories returned. I wondered if they would ever change.

My life has taken some rather bizarre turns in the past eighteen months. I spent two years with that wonderful hospice in LA, then moved to Arizona to care for my aging and infirm parents (who needed elevated care) for about four months. Once they began improving, I started seeking another position and, lo and behold, discovered one in the very hospital in New Orleans where I’d received so much training and learned so much. I have been back here almost exactly one full year, and while much has changed in the past five years, much has stayed the same – until this afternoon.

After church, I went to make groceries (note: this is how it is expressed in NOLA: one does not buy groceries, one ‘makes’ groceries) and decided on the spur of the moment to visit the Creole Creamery just downriver from Whole Foods. The shop accepts only cash, which I have always known, but I have a change purse filled with about $10 in change so it did not concern me. I waited patiently while a family of about six decided what they would buy (“are you sure, Jimmy? You want Red Velvet AND Creole Cream Cheese?), then decided on a scoop of Roasted Pistachio after a taste test. A cone is $3, so I reached into my shoulder bag to get out my change purse….and found it missing. I realized that I’d left it on the kitchen table this morning when I removed it to make room for my checkbook so I could pay part of my pledge to the church. The young woman offered to keep it in the freezer for me, but I live a good 10-15 minutes away now, so I apologized and jokingly said, “this must be God’s way of telling me I don’t need it!”. With no hesitation, the woman behind me in line said, “I’ll pay for it. Don’t worry about it.” Flabbergasted, I said, “are you sure?” and she said of course. For some reason, I felt compelled to explain that I really hadn’t realized I did not have my change purse with me but she was not the least bit bothered. As I looked at her face, there was such a serenity that I immediately ceased protesting and offered a very sincere and what I hope was a gracious thank you. Walking out the door, I looked across the street at the CVS; then, as I always have in the past, up at the Chase Bank and the Thai restaurant. And for the first time in seven years, instead of the grief I’d had to process on that awful day, I felt humbled by the kindness of a person I’ve never met, and joy filled me at the realization that now this memory will always share space with the other. I often tell my patients’ families that it’s all our memories, both good AND painful, that taken together make the framework of our existence, and that the diversity of memories is what makes it a good life.

Seven years ago, I wrote these words in response to that awful day: “Putting others first…doing everything possible to bring life to the moment, to share in that life, to be a part of that life as long and as deeply as he is able. I believe that’s what it means to live as a good man.” I will add the addendum that weaving together the results of bringing life to ALL our moments into one secure tapestry offers us a beautiful landscape as the base for our existence. It is my hope and prayer that with such a solid base, I will find it that much easier to picture a beautiful future.

To Live as a Good Man, Part II

Not long after I moved to Los Angeles to work as a hospice chaplain, I met a man who would become one of my favorite patients. Angel (pronounced AHN-hale) was just shy of 90 and was living in a residential home for the elderly. It was from Angel that I first learned of the diversity of LA’s Hispanic peoples; I naively asked if he were originally from Mexico before I noticed the Puerto Rican flag sitting on top of the dresser. Needless to say, his response was rather feisty, but then Angel was feisty about everything. The type of Alzheimers that had attacked his brain caused him often to say things that were inappropriate and outrageously funny. In the beginning, there was still some lucidity to the things he discussed. He was very skeptical of the idea of the existence of God – or any higher power, for that matter – and sounded bitter when he discussed organized religion. Unfortunately, he was no longer at a point where he could really explain why his feelings about God were so negative.

I meet with a lot of people who suffer from Alzheimers, which is in my opinion the cruelest disease there is. Many medical personnel have commented, “well, the patient really isn’t suffering”, but as a chaplain I look at the whole picture and how everyone in the family is affected. I don’t accept that the patient does not suffer, and Angel was a good example of this: there was a restlessness to him that drove his behavior. He was always dissatisfied, whether it was his angry ramblings about God or his upset over "that church over there across the street" (he would gesture to an open field). The one thing I never understood was why he could name every person in the pictures on his dresser, except himself. The large picture of Angel smiling for the camera, he always insisted, was a picture of his father. After a while, I accepted this as true.

Like many hospice patients, Angel's health declined very slowly, and at one point he was discharged from the hospice service because he no longer met MediCare's criteria for people who qualify for hospice. Within two months, however, he was readmitted after a severe stroke which left him severely speech impaired. He was a vastly different man this time; his vacant stare no longer held anger but he still appeared unhappy. One Friday I called his son long distance in Arizona, wanting to establish connection with his family (they were difficult to contact by phone). Angel Jr was very accommodating, explaining that his younger brother (who lived close by and had POA for his father's affairs) worked quite a distance from his home and was often traveling when I would try to call. Jr verified that the picture on the bureau was indeed his own father, adding that he did not understand why his dad would insist it was his grandfather. We spoke briefly of the things Angel said, and how he could be unintentionally funny, and at the end of the call Jr asked that when I sensed the time was close for his dad, would I please notify him because he had a sister still living on the east coast who would need assistance in traveling to California for the funeral. I agreed and we ended our call. Literally 20 minutes later, just as I finished charting our contact, my work cell phone rang. Angel had just died; could I take care of it and offer support to the family? Stunned, I agreed and called Jr right away. Then I headed over to the facility, where I met Jorge, the son who lived locally and had a "difficult relationship" with his dad, according to Jr.

Jorge and his wife, along with their 11-year-old son, arrived not longer after I did. I told them how sorry I was, and that Angel was one of my favorite patients. They asked if I were his RN; when I said I was the chaplain, they looked confused. Laughing, I explained that I'd always understood that Angel was an atheist but it didn't stop us from having good meetings. Jorge was polite but guarded with me. He admitted that he shared his father's atheism once he realized I would not judge. He said that it probably stemmed from both men having been very cerebral and scientific in their careers as well as in their approach to life. He also confirmed that he did not have the best relationship with his father, though he did not share the reasons. I asked his wife Laura if I might attend the funeral; she asked for my card and said she would call the office with information once it was scheduled. Laura called me three days later with the pertinent information, and six days after Angel died I went over to the mortuary where the wake was held. Jr was there, with his wife, children and grandchildren; he greeted me warmly and they all had a good laugh that the chaplain had so enjoyed meeting with an angry atheist. Privately, though, Jr shared his father's life story with me.

Angel was just 18 when the US entered WWII; as a native of Puerto Rico, he was a citizen of the US and like most men of his generation he signed up to serve because his ideals told him it was the right thing to do. On his way from basic training somewhere in the deep south to the coast for deployment, he witnessed a mob dragging a Black man to a tree, to lynch him. Appalled, he grabbed his service weapon and prepared to exit the bus. His commanding officer barked that he must sit down and said, "it's not our business." Angel watched helplessly as the man was murdered by citizens of a country he was marching off to defend. Less than a month later he was deployed to the Philippines; though he spent three years there, Jr told me that Angel never said one word to his children about what he witnessed there. I can only imagine the atrocities he witnessed near Bataan. I was horrified to hear the things he had suffered as an idealistic young man, but it offered a great deal of insight into why he was so angry whenever he spoke about God. He probably thought if there were truly a God, such ugliness would not occur. It's one of the biggest misconceptions I encounter in atheistic friends - that somehow only God (or A God) is capable of good, decent behavior. Yet he himself clearly understood the difference between good and evil. If he had not, he would never have been so haunted by his experiences. How I wish we had met when he could still communicate his thoughts. Not to change or challenge his views, but to affirm that he had lived life as a good, decent man.

Jr had informed me on the phone that Angel enjoyed the music of Tito Puente, but I never got the chance to share it with him. Instead, some months later, I encountered another 90-something Puerto Rican patient, a delightful woman with a sassy mouth and a penchant for dark chocolate, who also enjoyed this artist. Late one morning I drove to the residential facility where Celia lived, with the intention of playing the music for her. The sun nearly always shines in Los Angeles, but on this day it seemed especially bright and beautiful. I was struck by the intensity of the golden rays as I got out my CD player and a disc of the best of Tito Puente. As I shut the door of my car, it dawned on me that it was April 24. Angel’s birthday. Staring up at that beautiful sun, I felt tears sting my eyes as I thought of all he’d witnessed in his life. Simultaneously I knew deep in my soul that he was in a better place, and that there was no need to define or defend what he believed about a higher power. His presence shone through that sun powerfully, and with a small smile, I said happy birthday and went inside to meet with someone else.

Those Who Were In Anguish

The past several weeks have been so trying that I feel exhausted in every way one can feel drained. The other two chaplains with whom I work were gone from the office for several days, leaving nearly a dozen new patients to be assessed within the standard 5 day period. In addition to this, charting had to be done and routine visits with patients already on service were to be seen to and I felt as if I were running a marathon and losing badly. As a professional chaplain, I’m held to a higher standard of behavior than many people; others come to me to vent about such frustrations, but when I find myself in similar circumstances it’s difficult to commiserate with my coworkers unless it’s the other chaplains. When they aren’t there, it becomes a pressure cooker for me. Pressure builds and builds and while I manage to siphon it out in small portions away from the office, it hasn’t disappeared entirely. Adding to the pressure was the coming weekend, when I would be on-call for 48 hours. In other words, if a patient dies between Saturday morning and Monday morning, no matter the time, I am called out to respond to the death. The past several months my on-call weekends have been peaceful, but since it is December now I knew better than to expect that it would be tranquil.

Sure enough, I was called just after 9am to take care of a 70-something woman whose 98 year old mother had just died in a residential care facility. Despite her advanced age, Betty admitted that she hadn’t finalized the funeral arrangements yet because she had a tough time coming to terms with the loss of her mother. I helped her settle things, then took a long nap. Late in the evening, just before midnight, I was called to a private residence where a 99-year-old patient had finally made the transition. Her nephew needed to talk a lot, and as much as I had enjoyed meeting with this patient, I was fighting to keep my eyes open at 1:45am. Sunday I was kept busy assessing two new patients during the day, then I was called a third time at 1:30am on Monday to attend to the family of a 60-something patient who had been on service only a few days. She was a woman who always pursued a healthy lifestyle including diet and exercise, but unfortunately that didn’t stop the cancer. It left me feeling anguish; her 40-something daughter was on the hospital bed with Mom the entire time I was there, holding her like a life-sized doll. I said what I have said several times in these situations: “there aren’t any words that can help, but I am so very sorry.”

After returning home at 3am I got about three additional hours of sleep before working a full regular day at the office, and then continuing to work through the week to get caught up. The thing that kept me going was knowing that I was on vacation at the end of the day Friday. Flying to Tucson to spend an entire week with my family, going to the Gaslight Theatre for another great vaudeville Christmas play, baking like a madwoman for my family….anticipating all these things was what kept me afloat. I focused on the peripherals that have helped me cope with stress in the past. It never occurred to me that I was ignoring the most obvious way to deal with pressure, until I met Anais.

Late Thursday afternoon, I drove out to the rural area in eastern Los Angeles county where she lives with her husband and family. She is only 37, but appears older, due perhaps to the cancer that is eating her body. She had attempted radiation, but it was unsuccessful to the point of being damaging, so she told her family she wants no more treatment and that she wants to die peacefully at home. Looking at her swollen face, I realized I had absolutely nothing in my ministerial bag of tricks. There was nothing I could say that felt genuine. The emptiness that engulfed me was something I have rarely felt. For the first time in my career as a chaplain, I started crying in front of a living patient.

Anais seemed very moved by my tears, whereas I felt I was being unprofessional. Pulling on my big girl clerical collar, I asked how she copes with this. She spoke openly and with a very deep theology about how she has learned over the past year to accept that she will be dead before she is 40, that she will never see her children grow up, get married or have children of their own. The phrase that stands out the most is: “when I get to feeling sorry for myself, I think of Jesus and what He endured on the cross for me. It helps me keep it in perspective.” This statement so awed me that I responded, “sometimes I find that the patients I meet are actually chaplains to me.”

I was reminded of Anais’ words again this morning when I attended worship services at St Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Tucson. Pastor Jim Toole said that he has in the past labored under the misconception that he must be perfect in order to be right with God, a statement that really resonated with me. Many times I have felt that I am not allowed to err, that to be angry or frustrated over MediCare regulations isn’t seemly for a pastor, that to be anything other than always serene and low key is unacceptable for a chaplain. Pastor Jim said that we must bring our entire, imperfect selves (anger, frustration, stress and all), to the table in our faith walk. It’s then that we encounter the authentic God, he said. Tears welled in my eyes when he said that, because I realized that I had such an encounter when I met Anais. Through her, God reminded me that we all go through times like this. Even Jesus. What He endured was far worse than what I have been going through and He not only endured it, He conquered it. This is the sort of perspective that builds faith.

But there will be no gloom for those who were in anguish….the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light Isaiah 9: 1, 2

What Faith Can Do

For the past year, I’ve been toying with the idea of turning this blog into an online ministry. If I were a 20something, I am certain this would have already occurred to me. However, as a Gen Xer I do struggle a bit with how a digital ‘Net ministry can be worthwhile and so I’ve been ‘sitting’ on it while actively seeking a position in ministry I have practiced: real, in-person in a hospital, hospice or parish setting. I just completed my second residency, a one-year position as a hospital chaplain only four hours from my family, which allowed for more frequent visits. Now I begin the next leg of the journey: service as a hospice chaplain in the northern suburbs of one of the country’s largest cities.

I’d shied away from hospice chaplaincy, though I have understood for a long time that it’s where my best ministry seems to be. I have a gift for bringing comfort & peace to families experiencing the death of a loved one. More than one friend has said, “I don’t know how you do it; I could never do that!” but my theology of community thrives on this, on the all-too-brief closeness that builds a micro community during our most vulnerable times. Very few people with whom I meet talk openly about dying and death, not even the two dozen or so hospice patients with whom I’ve met so far. They focus on the quality of life they experience, or the memories they have of when they were still healthy and vital. Many times, I have to gently nudge people into talking about the unpleasant reality of that life coming to an end. It’s the most powerful and simultaneously humbling thing in the world to have to tell someone as I did just about a month ago, “I’m so sorry; they did everything they could, but they were unable to revive her. She died about 30 minutes ago.” For me it is always a privilege to be part of this process, though that doesn’t mean I don’t find it emotionally and spiritually exhausting a lot of the time. In my book, that’s a great thing – I think the worst that I could do in life is to be complacent, to work at a ‘job’ that does nothing to help me grow as a person and as a Christian. I saw a saying online recently: Do what you love and love what you do, and I understand it completely. My faith in the call I heard over 11 years ago has never wavered; I know in a way that goes all the way to my bones that this is what I’ve been called to do in my ministry and I love it with all my heart.

The thing I find so sad is when I meet with people who don’t find that connection with something outside their own existence; who feel that my presence is not only unnecessary, but might even be a nuisance. As a professional chaplain, I understand quite well that not everyone has ‘faith’ or religion or belief in a higher being; I’m not threatened by that. What puzzles me is the notion that discussion of religion is all I’m good for, or that I’ll show up with a Bible in one hand and a conversion rod in the other, ready to spout warnings of hellfire & damnation if you don’t “repent and be saved!” Spirituality and faith are such beautifully unique things in each individual that to try to box them into such narrow definitions is blasphemous in my opinion (yes, I will employ religious language). One of my patients died this past week even before I had a chance to meet with the family, but they made it clear they did not need or even want a chaplain because “we’re atheists”. I wish I’d had the chance to meet with them, to explain that talking about faith or lack thereof is only one avenue on the enormous roadmap of what a chaplain can provide. It causes me to wonder how many people have had such awful experiences with chaplains that they are unable to accept any sort of support from us, and makes me determined to set an example that challenges that mindset.

Am I fighting an uphill battle? Probably. Cynicism permeates our culture these days, and I see so much negativity on Facebook, Yahoo! and similar media that it causes me to wonder what I hope to accomplish by turning this blog into an online ministry. When people insist that God doesn’t exist because too many terrible things happen in the world, I’d like to engage them in discussion. When they point out the lack of physical evidence of any higher being, I want to ask about their belief in other things for which there is no physical evidence. When they ask how I can possibly do what I do every day, I plan to share with them how enriching this is, that meeting with people and getting to know them in this manner is real life. It’s living, not just existing, which I did for far too long. I deliberately withheld myself from others out of fear of being hurt, and all it did was isolate me to the point that I longed for nothing more than to find community. It took years for me to break those destructive patterns, to open up and trust others by sharing my inner self, by being vulnerable instead of defensive. It’s an ongoing process; I’m still very private, but I know that the more I meet with people who are at the deepest level of vulnerability one can experience, the more I am able to open up and bond with them. It leaves a legacy for the family of every patient with whom I’ve bonded, from Jack (who died over six years ago) to Pablo (who died last week). In turn, it transforms me into the type of person who refuses to give up on an idea that may seem futile, because the possibility that even one person might find a similar transformation from an online ministry is enough to get me to say ‘yes’. That’s what faith can do.