Does God keep time?

One of the difficulties and theological paradoxes of being a chaplain is timing. In order to provide consistent service and availability to the patients, families and staff, chaplain's need to be scheduled, guaranteeing time of presence. So 8am-5pm time slots are determined, on-call hours are doled out, and unlimited time is offered. In some moments, these scheduled times don't seem to be enough for the situation at hand. A patient is entering death but not always within the clocked hours so other staff, providing renewal after spent time to the family and chaplain. Other moments are filled with emotions and pain that have covered a lifetime but somehow need to be shared in the day's brevity.

Pagers squeal without consideration of time.

Hearts stop too soon in a person's timeline.

Babies squeeze out, ready or not.

The time of the chaplain, however, can also be empty of work, connection, or need. The 8-5 schedule holds openness for conversation without many to see. Some connections happen spontaneously, being in just the right time and place, but not scheduled. And many conversations require multiple attempts of initiation, time of waiting and hoping that being present despite being forced or asked will be enough to establish a time of nurturing and not a time of twiddling my thumbs.

Patients send us away in a snap.

Pages go heeded only to be dismissed upon the called check in.

Life and death journey without rush.

When I try to bring understanding to my faith around the concept of time, I see God in it all. I also wonder how aware God is of time compared to me. Do things go slow for him or always race by? I can't imagine he ever feels bored, like the time isn't filled, but then why do I? Did Jesus get bored, just waiting for the time the men bring out the adulterous woman to be condemned? His timing had great significance to Mary and Martha when their brother died. Still, Jesus' timing worked- Lazarus had no lasting effects of an extra day in the tomb. Still, for all involved and witnessing this moment, the four days stood out to everyone. Timing in this experience of death infused the whole situation with mystery and miracle. Finally, Holy Week ebbed and flowed in poignant time of dinner to the dark night, a moment of adoration to the sorrow of denial, the hanging to the rest in a tomb, the abandoned death clothes to joy-filled reunion. As I reflect on each of the points of time, I realize the emotions, hopes, sorrow, and devotion require all of that time to reach their deepest measure. Peter is changed in the 24 hours of Holy Saturday- wailing, wondering, waiting. Pontus Pilot rushes forward in his decision to avoid the chaos and decree according to tradition of time and festival.

This paradox of time, God's presence, the mysterious ebb and flow direct me as a chaplain directly as much as it does my patients. I realize even as I write this, my attitude and outlook on this day, my time at the hospital and the overall summer time as a chaplain is taking a different shape, being redefined. I won’t deny boring days come alongside the hectic days. I think faith illuminates a new purpose and power from these realities. No longer are they simply clips of time- dragging or racing- but they are moments where humanity meets the sacred.

Languages

Today the complexity, diversity, and yet ever present spirit link of the flaming tongues flowed throughout St. Anthony North Hospital. Languages of many nations and perspectives were spoken. And in the midst of the potential confusion, clarity reigned and provided calm and serenity.

In the hospital we have blue interpreter phones that look like something the Smurfs would use with great hilarity. I say that thinking of the good ol’ days as kids when we could connect two cups with a string and send our messages to each other standing no more than four feet away. They seem and look strange, but these unique devices are critical for good communication, good care. They have two handsets, but most importantly, they provide the connection to a vast interpreter service that can translate over 230 languages.  By connecting to an interpreter, a care giver can speak to the patient without losing the integrity of the message or eliminating the dignity of the patient. So when I visited Mr. Chin, I had no choice but to call for help if I wanted to offer any help. Through trial and error of three separate languages, Mr. Chin found a translator who could speak Cantonese. By that point, I was so impressed by the way he could get his message across in several languages that I had almost lost my sense of speech. Still we chatted for a bit, discussing his hospital visit, his improving health, the visitors he could count on, and the meditation practices of his Buddhist tradition that helped him even during his hospitalization. Without good open ended questions the “Yah. Yah,” I heard him say as he sat next to be on the bed was simply translated, “Yes. Yes.” I laughed at my own simplicity. Of course. Those responses  seemed universal as was his smile as I hung up. The effort took some patience on his part for sure, but I knew without a doubt he held gratitude for breaking the language barrier for a simple visit.

As a professional who spends most of her time with patients more than staff and especially doctors, the language we hear is often filtered through a patient’s perspective. It’s not uncommon to hear phrases like, “The doctor didn't listen. He just wanted to know about this one thing and left. He didn't ask about my real pain. He doesn't get it.” Those are real sentiments, a language of grief and frustration.  We heard from the doctor’s perspective today when Dr. M visited CPE class. He relayed that the message he and his colleagues share might not be what the patient wants to hear. Their goals in the hospital focus around the language of acute pain and preventing death.  A patient’s language revolves around the pain and change to daily life so the message they might hear is one of dismissal versus cure.  As a chaplain we can become accustom to one language of hope and neglect and miss the opportunity/need to hear another viable language, spoken not out of deception but for a different purpose. Perhaps we are the bridge or translator of these language barriers.

Treading into foreign, yet more familiar waters than Cantonese, I ventured into Ele’s room with as much Spanish vocabulary as I could remember. I added capellán (chaplain) and orar (pray) just in case. Despite my butchered statements, the patient’s face shone as she could share that she was mejor (better). I asked if she had a church to which she sadly declined only to think up all the people in her life who did. From Catholic to Seventh Day Adventist to Pentecostal, she and her children named friends and family of these churches. “They’re all for Jesus,” her son said. The languages of the churches spoke the same language for her. Finally, we prayed, I in English, and they silently in Spanish. “Dios sabe,” we agreed. Indeed, God does know the language of our hearts, the prayers of his people beyond the complexity and diversity. To this we gratefully say, “Amen, Yah, Yah. Yes, Yes.”

life in and beyond the hospital

The rhythm of a hospital has a distinct and sometimes discombobulating beat.  The pace of the staff, nurses and doctors can be frenzied. The beeps and squeaks of the various machines and monitors produce their own groove or chaos.  The hours of service are unending.  But finally, the abrupt switch or pause for a patient and his/her loved ones interrupts the hospital while also interrupting their lives.

I learned this week, including my on call weekend, that hospital promotes life but can’t always facilitate that beyond its walls. For instance, two wives came in this weekend, following an ambulance that was meant to be caring and improving a dire situation of their respective husbands.  Yet, both wives went home alone, only their own life to live now absent one who so enhanced that very existence.  My patient from ICU who had been suicidal and barely hanging on, might go home this week with resources and possible rehab, but the care and constant life enhancement is the patient’s job when she walks out.

Mac and I are in the midst of making long term plans for Denver. While he’s in the midst of Bach Fest and preparing for music directing in CDA and I’m attending to class work and patients on a daily basis, we still have a life to begin to create in our new hometown. Mac played the secretary, making connections with possible apartment complexes and setting appointments while the job of “on-the-ground” research fell to me.  Compared to Casper or Spokane, Denver goes on for-ev-er and thus required time, energy, life to accomplish what seems like a simple task. So with a day off open to cruise the city, I visit 15 different places and neighborhoods to find a home.  I guess I should be grateful I didn’t wander for 40 years like the Israelites or have to wait without ability to take action like family members of patients. And yet, the stress of finding home, such a place of life for us, took a toll and didn’t mix well with my responsibilities at the hospital.

I know people figure out how to juggle.  We even figure out how to cope while hanging on.  But the sacred care offered and received at a hospital is not easily found, given, or received beyond.  And yet we yearn for such a place of sustained and promoted life.  That’s why we cherish our homes, our friends, and the communities in which we live.  Somehow these give life as naturally as possible.  Sometimes it’s only after a hospital visit to pause our rhythm of life that we actually recognize life beyond the hospital bed.

The Merch Perch has been secured and we even have a baby grand at our fingertips (in the clubhouse lobby). The Piano Apartment, as we call it, was a huge relief to find and will enhance and transform our lives.  And the hospital fax machine was a God-sent.  What I hope to remember is the hospital rhythm for breath, heartbeat and care need not end at the sliding doors, but can encourage us to always promote life however it comes.

common elements

In my Methodist tradition, churches usually celebrate communion the first Sunday of the month.  This past holiday weekend was no exception for First UMC in Casper.  Also within this tradition the Bishop must give permission to a person before he or she can administer and bless the Communion bread and juice. (Welch’s grape juice is standard since Mr. Welch was a Methodist.) This reality is new in my life because as of July 1, I have the permission to administer the sacraments including communion and baptism.

Over the years from youth gatherings in the Rocky Mountains to high church in an Anglican congregation in England to the chapel grounds of my university, I have pondered communion and in a sense come up with a personal theology about it. I have yet to fully dive into the Methodist doctrine behind my particular tradition’s understanding, but history and my own experience have illuminated the gifts of this sacrament and its unique ability to unite Christians of all places and beliefs. 

Part of my theology is grounded in the common elements. I believe Jesus used flat bread and wine because that was typical of a Passover meal. Had he lived in America, he may have offered rolls and apple cider or El Salvador, tortillas and Fanta. Thus, I am not too particular about the elements. Bring in white cake and punch for an extra sweet celebration. They’re common and meant to evoke memory and thanksgiving at future meals with the common elements. 

So today when a patient asked for communion and wasn’t particular about whether a priest had blessed the Eucharist or not, I humbly offered that gift. P and I arranged to have worship together at noon when I would come and accompany her to the hospital’s prayer garden. It’s a beautiful, small patch of nature and rest, yes with bird poop stained benches and just enough shade to save us from the intense heat.  We talked a bit about her life and struggles and little about my own. I sang Amazing Grace while she hummed along, not wanting her raspy voice to infringe on the sound. John 14 came next as we pondered deeply the words of Jesus comforting his disciples, encouraging them to believe and know him, reminding them again and again that they need not fear.  P asked how I understood that passage, but quickly answered for herself that “we are to have faith no matter what.” A sacred pause prompted a new courage to ask, “What would you say to a person who couldn’t believe? Who wanted to but didn’t know if it was enough? Who prayed but felt like she was on the back burner of God’s priorities?”

“That you are beloved and enough. I would say that the best prayer can be ‘God, help me in my unbelief.’ I would suggest that you ask God for the desire of your heart. He hears and knows his beloved.”

And with that belovedness in mind and nothing but deep affection for God and this tender patient, I pulled out a Styrofoam cup of grapes and slice of bread. “These are the common elements for communion today. Jesus used common things, too.” She laughed, saying that God was certainly amused by the grapes and bread. I served her, savoring a thick bite of bread and juicy grape before offering her another piece. Who could say no to more Jesus? We chuckled and finished the elements, taking a renewed spirit and Jesus’ love into the world. A prayer concluded our feast of thanksgiving and questioning, fearing and trusting.

For the rest of the day I thought about the common elements I used. What a miraculous thing to find grapes in the refrigerator from a Friday meal with the patient’s name on it and a slice of bread! But then epiphany arose as I realized we were the miracle of common elements. Two strangers. Two ordinary people. Two ladies in Colorado. Two people who loved God. Two souls thirsty for a touch and sign from God. We are they, the common elements, for we come broken and kneaded, pressed and dry to be held in God’s loving hands as blessed offerings for the world.  We are both the sacred vessels for his presence and love and also the holy, set apart pieces he needs to share.  We were the common elements ordained for this time.

Our garden picnic and sacred sharing of the common in the midst of fully being common created the space and memory that seems to be what Jesus had hoped for when he raised the bread and cup before his disciples. The new covenant flowed abundantly upon us common people out of the uncommon gift of our God.

where colors can speak

An old saying goes, “I learned everything I need to know for life in kindergarten.” In some respects there’s not a better statement and then again… Perhaps the life lessons we take from kindergarten are those life-giving, life-saving, life-sustaining pieces.  Only through Crayola crayons and some watercolors could I truly embrace, reflect, and articulate the tough but sacred spaces of my first weekend on call.

Color has become another alphabet and vocabulary for me. When the 26 letters fail me, the deep purples or warm reds or energizing greens speak thoughts, emotions, and prayers.  This makes me wonder if the tongues of fire that blazed to a rest on each apostle during Pentecost didn’t also endow the Holy Spirit with visibility, vibrancy, and color.  How strange would the experience have been without some visual to mark the experience!  Colors have marked my memory in a way that articulates the intensity, depth, richness, and power of a moment in the hospital.

Without going into great detail because this is not kindergarten material, I spent a portion of my weekend with a patient who tried to end her life and a family and medical team who tried to save her life.  The depth of the pain for the patient and each person involved weighted heavy, like a dark stone falling ever so slowly to the bottom of a shadowy and mysterious blue ocean. My own emotions initially matched the family’s grief and hurt as the simple fact of immanent death loomed.

With each hour of critical toxicity and medical procedures, the weight took on an intensity of light striking and sparking, an extreme of tensions. Would she live? How do we decide her care? Why did she do this? What happens next? Isn’t there more to do? What can we do but wait? Why does sleep escape us in our exhaustion? What is God’s will…

Life hung suspended for minutes that sped forward into days and crawled into unavoidable moments.  I checked in with the family and patient several times, each time being another affirmation that I could approach for reasons of caring and comfort and not death.  Yet, the life remained, perilous and yet powerful, marked with pain yet vibrant.

In all these places of shock, suffering, grieving, wondering, waiting, praying, and hoping all for somewhat fuzzy and uncertain answers, God’s love abided. I so adore that word abide because I sense the hospitality but not coercion in it. The ever present but non-invasive existence characterizes the word. And there is God. A warm pocket of love to hold life tenderly.  

The Holy Spirit infused its mark in this painting. It is by the Spirit that I found breathing space and expression. I believe this painting will continue to live and speak to me of grace and truth, wisdom and God’s character. That’s what kindergarteners endeavor to do with their creations, too. Capture their world to share with others, bringing the truth into living color.

Ordinary

One of my chaplain colleagues arrived at work yesterday with her right middle finger in a splint. The slight pull of her dog’s leash, the cause of the injury, made the situation even more infuriating. Worse yet, the digit might require surgery. Thankfully she is left-handed.

My colleague is also a pianist and plays to help her process the time she spends with patients and families. I’ve been thinking about how she has been enduring similar frustrations and limitations as the people we see each day. Her predicament also got me thinking of a wonderful concerto by Ravel for the left-hand that had been commissioned for a musician who had lost his right hand in World War I.

Oliver Sacks, who is a brilliant mind, doctor and author, crushed his leg in a mountaineering accident and barely recognized his limb following his hospitalization. Interestingly enough he learned to claim his leg as part of his identity and walk again through the music of Mendelssohn.

A patient I saw today has endured 6 months of pain, weight loss, and unanswered questions when a routine gall bladder surgery went array. A simple knick in the bile duct and his insides soon became his outsides.  Now he’s holding on to prayers and wanting rest, strength and answers, all which have eluded him for too long.

During devotions this morning with the group I shared some of my photography as we engaged in visio divina, a meditation practice to see at a contemplative pace and see deeply. I chose an image I’ve looked at so many times and yet I somehow the ordinary road in the left corner or red flower in front of the dark trees caught my eye.

Today’s reflection is that of the ordinary changing our lives. The gems in our individual circumstances offer beauty. The inner resources we carry, even of hope, possibility, pleasure in lovely things and creativity, allow life to exist, strive, and even thrive.  My colleague is bound to recover, and perhaps this concerto will be an outlet for a while. Sacks connected the unfamiliar with the familiar in music. My patient may learn a strength in suffering or gain a hope to share with his wife. I realized the message of being present in a photograph. 

These ideas come from the ordinary, the very essence of God’s daily bread and abundant love.

Ravel Piano Concerto for the Left Hand  

The first task…possibly ignored

At the beginning of everyday at the hospital, the group of us chaplains (there are two staff chaplains, 2 resident chaplains, and 3 summer interns) must complete morning work.

Enter the Broadway soundtrack of Lion King with “The Morning Report.” It always comes to my mind.

Morning work is a main administrative task which informs us about who is here, who we connected with previously, and who might want to see us today. Each one of us visits the patients on a unit (eg. ICU, Labor and Delivery, Emergency Room, Surgical) to offer comfort and care as desired. We also provide information about Advance Directives, prayer, and coloring books for the bored.  While the morning work is semi-complicated and takes one person about 30 minutes to comb through the 60+ names on average, it is the guide for the rest of the day.

That is, it is a potential guide.

Twice in the last week the morning work went unused, by the way side.  The priority of caring for a family and friends while a patient is actively dying trumps any other plan for the day. This time with families and a patient is sweet, tortuous, calm, and wrenching all at the same time. Logistics have to be tended to while the chaplain also cares for and supports the grieving people left behind to live.  Such connections are not complete in a typical 30-minute visit, but can instead fill an entire afternoon.

This past Friday, only three of us were at work and I scrambled all morning to take care of the admin pieces. I made sure morning work was wrapped up before a meeting only after to run right to ICU for rounds to find out about each patient to report back and complete the morning work information. Then after a service celebrating the Feast of St. Anthony (patron saint of St. Anthony North Hospital), a quick bite for lunch and a single conversation with one of the patients on my unit, I got a page to attend to a family and their dying mother/grandmother. All the scurrying and preparation of the morning felt for not as I spent the next five hours with the family and dying patient.

When I pray in the morning for the day, I sometimes get tongue tied, because as much as I can anticipate what the day will look like, I really have no idea.  But maybe it is in that tongue-tied, speechless moment that the vital prayer exists: Let me be present to you, God, and present to your people.  These are the most important aspects. The preparation for visits and efforts to provide intentional care are not to be thrown out. But a clingy-spirit to such things must be; in the end we are only allowed and able to cling to sacred space where God needs us most.

flower perfection

My new neighborhood in Broomfield can’t be beat if one is a walker.  All the streets have beautiful, well-maintained sidewalks tucked in from the road with groomed lawns and luscious deciduous trees lining the edge. But still more walkways and trails can be found intersecting the land behind the houses, winding their way beyond traffic into worlds all their own. I’ve especially enjoyed these paths this week while Mac visits from Washington. Though his stay is just a week, we’ve made the most of our time to walk, talk, and inevitably get lost, grateful for the GPS in our phones.

Along these walks I’ve come across a lovely assortment of flowers blooming over people’s white picket fences and brushing us on our way by.  I don’t having ever encountered these particular plants so they are all that more sweet to me. They have become a symbol of true perfection.

Yes, this might sound cliché, but it only occurred to me as I passed by several times what wisdom I can find in a flower. Lately I’ve been pondering the idea of perfection and right and wrong. I don’t believe these necessarily fit in tandem with each other, but such are the terms and realities society and my personal reflections have landed on. If the choice isn’t good it must be wrong. Right decisions are to be sought and wrong ones avoided.  But when I look at flowers I don’t see right or wrong blooms.  Some might be bigger or fuller or brighter, but these qualifiers do not make them right or wrong. They simply illustrate difference in beauty for so bud is anything but lovely. What generosity in judgment! Flowers inherently have beauty as a quality and cannot be called right or wrong.

My ah-ha moment tells me to do the same with myself and others. People are inherently beautiful, loveable, and a thing to be admired. My decisions and actions might be off the mark, but my being, ME, is not right or wrong. It’s different variations of lovely.  With this perspective of who I am and then the rest of humanity, I might be able to look with more generous eyes.  First I can put away judgment. Then I can take closer peeks into the created perfection of each individual.    

Quickest Friend

Last week I approached a room with some legal information to share with the patient and gingerly knocked on the door, not really wanting to bother the family members during their visit. Yes, this is an area I want to work on this summer- the idea that disrupting might actually be a delightful distraction or calming presence. Anyway, my light knock not only made my presence known, but is also made a little girl turn in her chair and with new energy and play and smile at me.  J happened to be the great granddaughter of the patient, but to me as I walked in, she was my angel, unaware.

My cohorts and I are studying some literature that discusses the term “intimate stranger.”[1] This phrase captures the closeness chaplains gain with patients and family and yet the perfect anonymity in order to release words and emotions with some amount of comfort.  In the Bible, the Hebrew word ger or gerim usually translates into the English word “stranger” and is used alongside the command of caring for the orphan, widow, and poor. In my context, “intimate stranger” helps protect people and also allows them the support they didn’t know they needed or couldn't ask for.  The hospitality I provide the patient/stranger is space and listening.

Yet, when I entered the room to J, her sick grandpa, mom, and siblings, that 8 year-old girl was anything but a stranger.

“Hey, you’re not in school anymore! What do you like to do in the summer?”

“Swim!”

“Oh yeah. Where do you swim?”

“At my grandpa’s house.”

“It sounds like he’s a good one to keep.”

We became the quickest of friends. Honestly, I felt at ease to talk to her all afternoon, but the booklet in my hand and the other eyes gazing at us turned my attention away. The next day I saw J in the hall looking for our comfort cart with its hot chocolate.

“How’s your grandpa?”

“Not very good.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Sad. And my mom is sad which makes me sad, too.”

“Here’s a mandala to color. You can pray for your grandpa as you color.”

“And I can give this to him?”

“Absolutely. That would put a smile on his face.”

Maybe in another place and time, J and I would never connect and forever be strangers.  But today I can imagine getting an invitation to her birthday party in the mail to come swim at her grandpa’s pool once he’s better.  I know I’m partly seeing this serious situation the way that softens my heart rather than leaves it heavy with grief. But walking through the door, offering a welcome and connection to what matters to those present, and remembering a face, a friend can be the balm necessary to endure.  I pray for the health of J’s grandpa for his sake and the continued connection he has with his family.  I also pray that one of my quickest friends ever will be no stranger to wholeness and comfort in her life despite the suffering she might encounter along the way.

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[1] Dykstra, Robert C., “Intimate Strangers: The Role of the Hospital Chaplain in Situations of Sudden Traumatic Loss,” in The Journal of Pastor Care, Summer 1900, Vo. XLIV, No.2.

a sweet beginning

With some trepidation but also bolstered courage and rest from the long weekend, I began my first day of patient visits. In ICU I met "D" who shared her dreams of heaven and hell.  “I’ve never know that kind of love,” she whispered with tears in her eyes.  This encounter with the Mystery and God of Love had been bathed in warm cream-colored light, and I imagined the sweetness as if it were a gourmet cupcake and smooth frosting.  On the 3^rd floor I talked with many people who had a great deal of hope despite the incredible hills they had already overcome in their lives and the challenges still facing them. They spoke softly of their losses, tenderly petting a lap as if a beloved dog still rested there or wishing for another chance to make better choices as an example to grandchildren. The rich faith oozed out of all these patients, a sustenance thick as honey that could no longer remain the cookie-cutter picture once learned in Sunday school.

As I reflect on my day, I realize that had looked forward to my “Death by Chocolate” ice cream throughout it all. No, I wasn’t drooling on patients, but the knowledge that a sweet treat would accompany me after dinner popped in my head once or twice.  This first intentional encounter with patients fulfilled long awaited expectations I thought about, prayed for, and dreamt about since January. Finally, this day came without disappointment, just as sweetly as a bowl of ice cream this evening.  I experienced a few moments of hesitancy and uncertainty.  How would I answer questions about forgiveness? How might I show care to one who is in the last days of life? Will we move beyond the inconveniences of surgery? I let those questions linger with me and somehow they found resolution or just the sweet space for mystery.  I look forward to tomorrow, not just for the sweet, pleasing ice-cream experience of it, but for all as I know now that I won’t be disappointed.

knees first...

The first time I ever saw more water in one place bigger than my bathtub occurred when I was six at the Pacific Ocean. Then the water never ended. My father gave me one rule- I couldn’t go into water deeper than my knees. For a girl from the desert mountains of Wyoming, that seemed like a great freedom and daring act. And at age six the enormity and rush of the waves terrified me enough to follow directions gladly.  Since then I’ve ventured deep under the waves and salty surface of oceans.  The act doesn’t seem quite so heroic, but the process into the water has stayed the same.  Knees first.

I can see myself on multiple occasions walking into the ocean or lake, tenderly placing my feet into the chilly water. It’s not that bad. A bit deeper to my calves and my knees and Oh my! Am I sure I need to get wet today? Really? If I reach my belly, I’m shrieking, shivering, and totally committed. Count to three. 1, 2…*dunk*…Gasp! Such a calculated journey to total immersion. 

This week’s orientation to be a hospital chaplain has allowed me to settle my toes in long awaited and still surprising information and then venture in to my knees, a little deeper with those hard topics of death and meaning of life and crisis conversation. I’m up to my belly with a full schedule, pager, and computer access.  Now it’s time to go and do the serving. 

As much as I am excited from the moment I approach the beach, I know getting to the all wet stage takes time, serious consideration, and positive self-talk. (I’m not a run until I splash-fall into the waves.) Such is my sense with this situation, too. I want and need to meet people, converse with families, feel tension and paradox, empathize and feel suffering, and share and see hope.  That is what the ocean is for- it has great expanse to enfold me in the power and mystery of it all. Monday that immersion fully begins.

Knees first, and all of me now.

handbooks, handshakes, humans

Two of three days of orientation can be crossed off the calendar.  Such time has been like a fire hose with incredible amounts of information, procedures, and a good deal of internal reactions and surprises. Tuesday turned out to be a little tough due to sleep deprivation. All day we went through the handbook.  Infectious diseases can be cool, but even that half hour lecture had me nearly nodding off.  But still I had a special opportunity to meet and connect with my cohort of other interns- Tracy and Brother Donald- and hear wisdom from seasoned and passionate chaplains. I hope I retain such words, but by grace of one chaplain, we are to give ourselves, “Patience, patience, patience.”

Such advice I had to remember yet again today as we dove deeper into the training of chaplaincy. First was the hospital tour. Hospitals can be like malls- confusing layouts with elevators and stairs in random, hard to find spots, and only one food court.  Thankfully we shook some hands of security officers and charge nurses as be oriented ourselves to the units.  We got lost and found a couple times and followed the color tiles in the floor. It’s a bit like the yellow brick road but with a variety of colors designating the path to different units. We shared our faith maps with each other: the interns, residents, and our supervisor together, and then figured out our schedule for the next 3 months. I’m sure I’ll say more about it when the time comes, but one requirement is on-call duty from Friday, 5pm- Monday, 8am. And how will I get called? A pager! The technology still works AND is used!

The afternoon session comprised of a lesson and conversation about organ and tissue donation.  What a gift donation can be to people! What a scary decision that might seem to be for someone who just lost an unregistered loved one! In our training we walked through the careful donor plan, the benefits of donation, and the ways to have this conversation with families.  All of a sudden, life and my service at the hospital were real. Oh yeah- we are connecting with humans. I tried to role play and found my tongue tied and default words such as "humane" and "procedure" replacing more appropriate words of "care" and "offering." 

I realize even this story doesn’t exist in a vacuum. We are all dealing with hardships and suffering- some minor and other major. So to ramble on about recovering organ and tissue donations without affirming the human life that this might require or gift would miss the point.  At 4:23pm I felt that trembling heart of fear that what I say mattered and who I spoke to deserved more than a book answer.  Yes, the role-play lacked the reality of death. However, it did not fall short of being a keen reminder than handbooks are a tool to move into shaking a hand and speaking humbly of our humanity. 

Gate to Gate

“We will arrive in two hours, ten minutes, gate to gate,” chimed the flight attendant. In such time I would reach my destination in Denver, my new job, my new home. I realized with her words that the only other time I’ve flown one-way to my new home occurred back in July 2007 when I joined African Children’s Choir.  I have driven to every other new home I’ve ever had. Whether it was to college in Spokane, Zion National Park for a summer job, or just down the street to a new apartment, my journey has been a gradual move from one place to another. With these trips I often spent hours jamming to music and cruising through the nation’s diverse landscape. Those hours also gave me the luxury of great thinking time and a gradual shift into what would be a very different life.  This gate-to-gate transition, however, felt anything but gradual.

Life in general is very much like a gate-to-gate move. Out one slimy gate only to reach the pearly one somewhere on the time continuum.  Along the way we embrace, sometimes with boredom, the routines such as brushing our teeth, waking up for work, or smiling for pictures just as a flight attendant services on-flight beverages.  We meet a variety of people along the way, those who inspire us in conversation, simply want to yak our ear off, or glide on by in their parallel universe, ear buds in.  At moments (some longer than others) we endure turbulence or joyfully embrace the highlights along the way. With this new perspective, the trip I took this afternoon was a blip on the timeline, and yet the tears wanting to pop through their gates tell me otherwise. The expanse of my current gate-to-gate just doesn’t seem to be the right timing.

Throughout my life I’ve wanted weeks to speed toward Friday or days to slow down to a crawl. When I think about my vocation or God given purpose, I’m filled with urgency.  Tomorrow I will begin an internship that forces people to respond to an unexpected shift in their gate-to-gate journey. As a chaplain in a community hospital, I suspect to encounter people dealing with some very similar emotions and questions that I face during my two-hour flight.  At times the quick change of bodily and emotional wellness will be completely debilitating. In other circumstances, patients will have had time to get use to the idea of their illness and the consequences.

When I began this post, I didn’t quite get the significance of the gate-to-gate journey. I thought I was simply taking advantage of time-efficient machines and choosing to courageously leap from one life to another. Now I realize that this quick trip forced me to think differently about transitions, life experiences, and perspectives of our time on earth. I had tapped the reflective resources of the 13-hour drive routine to the next home.  Likewise, my emotional and experiential capacity to engage in my new destination will benefit from my quick airplane transition.

Over the next several days and weeks, I hope to share more reflections about life’s gate-to-gate experiences.  Not only does this allow me to engage with my present moments, but also I find it a special and helpful way to stay to connected to those far from my new home.  My days may become routine in my eyes, but hopefully I can continue to tap into reflective resources along the way.