Go Forth With Courage

I have worked my last shift as a hospital chaplain in New Orleans. No call for another ministry has come to fruition, but my position as a relief chaplain has been eliminated by the powers-that-be. I knew that they would be reducing my role, but four days before my latest scheduled shift we were told that there would be no more at all. As abrupt as it was, I realize that it’s a good thing because I’ve been in a holding pattern for at least six months now. Something had to give.

The shift started like many of them do: I sat and ate dinner while puttering about on my computer, intending to make rounds later after the nursing staff shift change at 7pm. That was interrupted when the ER called me at 6:45 to come be with a woman whose wheelchair-bound husband had been struck by a car. Debra is a sweet woman, very tiny, and shakes continuously. It was difficult to be a supportive presence because she exuded the smell of ashtrays (her purse had three opened packs of cigarettes) and I’m an asthmatic. I spent about 20 minutes with her, assisting her in attempting to call friends and relatives, relieved when she finally connected with one who said she would come and be with Debra. With an apologetic explanation to the staff, I left at that point and began making rounds of the critical care units. At every turn, I mentioned that this would be my last shift ever at the hospital.

It’s funny how you never really know what sort of an impact you have and on whom. Of course, I knew that people like Nathan and Cindy would be sorry to see me go; as charge nurses in the ICU units they had a lot of contact with me over the past few years. I took the time to say goodbye to Matt, another ICU nurse, who seemed not to remember who I was (which makes me laugh and also makes me question how well I functioned in that area!), but it was the nurses in the cardiac ICU who were the most sorry. This was the critical care unit to which I was assigned during my residency, and it was only at the end of my time here that I realized how much better the night staff knew me than the day staff ever had. It’s true that my residency was only 1/3 of the time I spent here, but let’s be honest: as an on-call chaplain at night, I’m rarely in the unit for more than an hour on any given shift. As a resident chaplain, it was part of my daily duties to spend around 3 hours in there. The reason the night staff knew me better was not due to the length of time I spent serving them, but to the quality of that time. I learned how to open up and share myself with others only toward the end of my residency. I suppose I could call this revelation bittersweet, but after so many years of self-imposed isolation, I’m just happy to have measurable evidence of how I’ve grown.

I checked on every patient on our shift report, leaving for last a gentleman who had requested a chaplain visit earlier in the day but was busy with a procedure when the staff chaplain assigned to his unit attempted to see him. I entered Will’s room rather late, a few minutes after 10pm, but he was still awake. He was very gaunt, and looked much older than his 48 years. A strong Southern accent wrapped around every word that proceeded from his mouth, which told me that he was not a New Orleans native (true NOLA natives sound as if they’re from Brooklyn NY due to the diversity of the 19th century immigrants who flooded the area). I did inquire as to his home, and initially misunderstood his answer as North Carolina, but eventually he clarified that he’s a native of northern Mississippi and has been on active duty with the US Navy for the past two decades. I responded that my parents had both served in the Navy (it’s how they met), and we briefly discussed how war has changed over the years. Will is proud of the service he’s given, but it’s clear that he’s reached a crossroads – and it’s not due merely to his age.

“I’ve always believed that I need to live my life as a good Christian,” he told me. “I respect others’ beliefs, I don’t feel that forcing my beliefs on others is what my faith is about. But lately…”

Watching the struggle clearly displayed on his face, I thought of my discussion with a man from Vicksburg some months back; Phil told me how the Yankees had attempted to starve out his ancestors by blockading the area so no foodstuffs could enter. At the time I’d observed that it struck me as rather ironic how much honor we ascribe today to the Confederate leaders – Robert E Lee, JEB Stuart, GT Beauregard and the like – while the North didn’t really have anyone who could fit in that group except William Sherman. While Phil agreed on that point (with a smile, of course), we both felt that that the Civil War/rebellion/Northern aggression [depending on where one’s home is] was vastly different from those we fight today. You knew who your enemy was; whether it was Yankee aggressors you detested, or Rebels who dared to defy the federal government, soldiers had no problem focusing their emotions on the reasons they wore their uniforms, blue OR gray. Will faces an entirely different set of issues today.

“They’re just people, like me. Mothers and Daddies, and the children are just like my children,” he said quietly. “How can I tell myself that what I do is right….don’t they have a right to live the life they know and choose? Don’t they have the right to practice their beliefs?”

“War has changed a lot in the last 150 years,” I said. “Sometimes, these days, your enemy isn’t always human, is it?”

“No ma’am,” he said quietly in that lovely Southern accent, with a wealth of unspoken emotions in just those two words.

Will has a highly developed theology, which he shared with me at length, and which further illustrated why he faces a moral conundrum over his military service. The life he chooses is a simple but focused one; he strives to be a good Christian for his God, a good husband to his wife, a good father to his children, and a good soldier to his country. The problems arise when he looks outside his own world and considers how his service as a soldier disrupts others who choose the same simple existence. It’s really not about politics, or religion, but about every day living. How many lives can he impact without feeling repercussions? How long can he function in a way that balances every aspect of his existence? Where does he draw the line? Those questions can only be answered by Will, of course.

I believe that God had a plan in bringing this as-yet undefined illness in to Will’s life. He needs to take time and step back, reassess everything he does and find a way to continue in a manner that won’t compromise his morals to the extent that he can’t live the life he pursues. Whether that means continued military service is something that only he can decide. I know, though, that God will figure prominently in the decision making process, as God has for me. A person with this deep a relationship with God does not turn away when things get tough, but pulls closer.

We prayed together, and Will asked if he could say a prayer for me as I leave this hospital with many unanswered questions about where God will choose to take me and my ministry. Much of what Will said is lost to my memory, but one phrase sticks out like a beacon: Go Forth With Courage, he prayed. God will lead you to where you are meant to be.

My last visit ever in this hospital was with 54-year-old Pamela, who requested prayer at 6:30am, prior to having surgery for heart problems. She confessed that she has been frightened; she had a stroke three years ago and is not certain what the outcome of this procedure will be. I stood at the side of her bed and prayed for God’s guidance, and as we finished, I felt once again (as I did some months ago with the artist who had cancer) the rush of fire through my being, accompanied by a little mild nausea, and needed to sit. Pamela expressed concern, worried that her room might be a bit too hot, but after about 10 minutes I gained my bearings, bid her a farewell, and left the room. A refreshing cool breeze surrounded me as I stepped out into the hall, and my concerns over the future dissipated in that moment. I felt utterly secure that God has a plan for my ministry and will lead me to the right place at the right time. It was with a real sense of closure that I rode the elevator down to the main floor for the final time, with a full understanding of Will’s charge: go forth with courage.