A Sweet Pain

The day after we shared our first verbatims in group, I took stock of the notes I’d made during the feedback session before I began rounds. O had said that as a seminary-trained chaplain I shouldn’t feel as if I’m imposing on patients, while Q reminded me that I should be meeting around 20 people daily. B had picked up on my subconscious habit of directing the visit, and J talked about the double bind of wanting closeness but fearing it. I resolved to work on all these things simultaneously, so with these things in mind, I went visiting in the postoperative unit, choosing those patients who had been here longest without a chaplain visit.

Mr. C looks remarkably healthy for a hospital patient, my age and a strapping man. He was out of bed, standing by the window while I introduced myself and explained that as a chaplain, I’m here to help in ways that are spiritual rather than medical, and that includes procuring religious materials and praying with patients. I sensed the same hesitation in Mr. C that I myself have felt in expressing my spirituality to others; he seemed uncomfortable at first sharing that part of himself with a stranger. He hesitated for a long minute, but I waited patiently (rather than seize the opportunity to retreat, as has been my habit in the past). Then he stepped forward and asked if I would pray with him. We held hands while I prayed aloud, naturally, from the heart, without a script. I gave thanks for God’s presence in the room, asked for God’s guidance with the medical staff, invoked the Spirit’s presence during healing and then fell silent, offering space for Mr. C to add his own words to our prayer. He chose to pray silently, for a markedly long time. I stood immobile for so long that my legs began to hurt, but I welcomed that hurt. His giant hands engulfed mine completely, and he gripped me so tightly that my left arm grew numb all the way up to my elbow.

During our mutual prayer, while this man silently prayed so fervently for things unknown to me, I prayed just as fervently that I would always remember this moment when I am tempted to retreat from closeness. I wanted that pain seared into my memory, so that I would never forget what occurs when I ignore my fear of closeness and share my spirituality with another: a joining of souls that is impossible to express in words, but which underscores the very reason I return continuously to the joy found in pastoral care.