The Dirty Words of Chaplaincy

*Disclaimer: There is one ‘bad’ word being used throughout this blog post.  My hope is that as you read it, you will look beyond the word itself and into the deeper meaning of what the word represents.*

I was at a webinar with chaplains from the area as we listened to a lecture entitled “A Day in the Life of a Chaplain.”  All seemed to be accurate: praying with patients before surgery, being with family during code blues, hearing the tears of a patient recently diagnosed with cancer, providing support to family members after deaths, performing next of kin searches, responding to trauma pages, etc...  Then one of the leaders began to tell a story about working in a hospital:


It was time for shift change and the daytime nurse was passing on report to the nighttime nurse.  The chaplain was there as the progress notes were being read.  During part of the report, the daytime nurse said, “Patient had a rough day; became tearful so we called the chaplain; chaplain performed PFM on patient and then he began to improve.”  The chaplain thought he knew the hospital lingo, but this abbreviation was new to him.  He asked, “PFM?  What does that mean?”  The nurse laughed and said, “Oh, sorry.  It means ‘Pure F-ing Magic.’  The work you all do – it’s amazing.  You go in to see a patient who is sad and when you leave, they feel better.  The only way to describe something like that is PFM, pure f-ing magic.”

I couldn’t stop laughing when I heard this acronym.  PFM, eh?  So inappropriate…but in a sense, it does describe some of the work we do.  I would never say I hold some special power within myself as a chaplain to perform magic on patients or bring false hope or joy.  But there is something going on in visits that seem to bring calmness to the patient.  As I’ve posted in a prior blog, I believe most of the time people just want to be heard or want to describe their fears, their pains, and/or their frustrations.  I often get paged to come see patients or family members who are sad, angry, or in distress.  But the calming presence and the willingness to listen is often times exactly what people need.  Often times it means finding out their religious tradition and having a prayer or ritual in the room that brings them back to the familiar words and ritual of that tradition.  Sometimes it means turning difficult questions back to the patient, allowing the space for them to explore their own answers.  And even sometimes, it means sitting in the room and crying with them – in the unexplainable tragedies of life which can bring even the most stone-cold people to their knees weeping.

Then I began to wonder: If I don’t believe PFM comes from within myself, where does it come from in visits?  As a Reformed Presbyterian, I came to the conclusion that the PFM has to be the work of the Holy Spirit.  If I believe I am given my energy and strength from the Holy Spirit, I have to believe that the Holy Spirit also provides that for the patient.  Maybe I’m wrong, who knows.  But if I believe in a relational God, I must believe that God is present in our human relationships and able to provide us the necessary PFM.  So my hope is that, as chaplains, we will continue to listen…to provide a calming presence…to share our own emotions as we see fit…and to allow the patient to work him/herself through the muddy waters of life and into the clear streams that lie ahead.  In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the PFM.

Parable

I realized I have so many ideas for new blogs, yet with my first unit of CPE coming to a close and the holidays approaching, I haven't had much time to write.  For those of you not versed in the chaplaincy lingo, the CPE residency I am doing right now is divided into three units, almost like semesters.  We just got to the end of our first unit and had to write an evaluation including the Standards of Practices, etc.  The last question asked us to write a brief story or parable about our CPE experience thus far.  I enjoyed imagining and creating this parable and I figured I would share it in my blog, too.  I share it with you so that you, too, may look at your life both for its beauty and brokenness and find a metaphor that works for you.  As I wrote this story, it helped me see the bigger picture of my hospital work and the beauty of the minsitry to which I have felt called.  So here it is:


Miles the inchworm woke up one morning and realized someone had picked her up and dropped her far from her home.  She had lost sight of where exactly she was, but she remembered the last time someone picked her up and dropped her somewhere near there.  Not knowing what else to do, Miles began to crawl forward – one inch at a time.  “This will be an exhausting journey,” thought Miles, “and I’m not even sure I remember where my home is from here!”  But Miles kept crawling…inch by inch.

Soon after the start of the journey, Miles met another inchworm.  “Are you lost?” asked the inchworm.  “I am,” said Miles.  “I’m Inchie! Let’s move along together – maybe we’ll find where we’re supposed to be.”  And so the two worms crawled along side by side…inch by inch.

There were times when Miles became afraid of what lay ahead.  Luckily, she didn’t have to face it alone - she had her friend, Inchie, there with her.  Everything seemed less scary when Inchie was by her side.  The sun was up and blazing at this point and Miles was happy that she was small enough that the grass blades towered above her to give her shade.  Surely she wouldn’t overheat because of the dewed grass around her and the cold soil below her.  So in the beauty of the surrounding creation, they continued…inch by inch.

Still not knowing where they were headed, Miles and Inchie continued on their journey.  Because they were so small and the land was so big, Miles felt like they weren’t making good progress.  There was one part of the journey were Miles was simply ready to give up.  “Inchie, I don’t know where I am going and this journey is becoming pointless.  Can we just give up and find somewhere near here to call home?”  Inchie replied, “No, we must keep going.  Trust me.”  And so they continued…inch by inch.

The sun began to set and Miles was thankful for the cooler weather.  The upcoming darkness did not seem scary when she had Inchie by her side.  Up ahead in the distance, things began to look familiar for Miles.  “I remember this!  This branch, this soil…it all smells like home!  Let’s hurry up.”  Inchie stopped in his tracks and replied, “No need to hurry, just take your time.  We will get there.  Together.  For now, enjoy the journey.  Live in the present – make it so beautiful that it will be worth remembering in the future.”  And so they continued into the night.  Miles and Inchie…inch by inch.

An Altered Imagination

I have always had an active imagination.  As a child, I loved to play pretend and found myself lost in my imagination often.  One time when I was about 3 (I don’t remember this, but I’ve heard the stories), my mom thought my dad had me at work and my dad thought my mom had me at home.  Both of them ended up at the church…and realized they had left me at home.  My mom sped home, afraid she’d find me dead, but I was in my room playing and didn’t even realize they were gone.  At our old house, I remember that the bathroom had different colored tiles on the floor (all rectangular in shape), and I would pretend that each tile was a child lying on their kindergarten sleep mat and I would read to them, teach them, and yes, even discipline them.  From outside the bathroom, it probably sounded like I was talking to myself…because I was.  Throughout my years in gymnastics, my gym friends and I envisioned our future gymnastics arena we would build – it would be called Lazer Gymnastics and would have a 2-story gymnasium that was sure to impress any gymnast or coach.  Through all of these stories, it is clear that I loved to pretend, to dream, to imagine, and to wish.

This wild imagination also had a not so good side.  I could watch a scary movie and for the next year think that there was a murderer standing behind my shower curtain or a masked man hiding in the bushes with a chainsaw.  In middle school, I watched one of those ‘fact or urban legend’ shows where a man claimed a snake came up through his toilet and attacked his family.  I was afraid to sit on a toilet seat for…well, sometimes I still am afraid to.  I can’t get that imagine out of my head.  When I did CPE at the hospital last summer, I was afraid that the images of patients would never leave my head: seeing my first patient on life support, the first stab wound, the first severed limb, the first dead body, the first suicide.  Surely those images would stick with me forever and consume me.  The more experienced chaplains would tell me to “look past” it and see the person, but all I could see was blood and death.  When I would see a person with an injury, I would imagine that injury on myself and it was as though I could see and feel the pain myself.  That is what would cause me to get dizzy, weak, and sometimes faint.  At times, I would even imagine how I would take the news if it were my own family member coming into the trauma bay.

As I have been discovering my own vulnerabilities and being able to name them, I can move forward in creative ways and see how to best handle my wild imagination.  The more experienced chaplains were right: I have gotten more used to what I see and it doesn’t bother me.  I am able to look past the blood, the tumor, the wound, or the coldness of death and see the person.  I no longer imagine myself with the injury or wonder how I would take the news if it was my own family member.  I still believe there is still a deep mystery in death and I don’t think I’ll ever part from that ideal, but I have gotten more comfortable being called to deaths.  I mention all of these to you because I believe I am being most honest to myself and others when I share stories about that the things with which I struggle.  One of our supervisors taught us two very important lessons which have helped form the words for this blog: 1) ‘You cannot do pastoral care in hiding.’  2) ‘Being vulnerable doesn’t mean you are powerless – it means you are powerful.’  If I am going to be honest in my calling, I must be willing to share in my weaknesses and continue to find my growing edges.


So while I no longer talk to floor tiles in the bathroom or envision the masked man behind my shower curtain, I am blessed to say I still have an active imagination...an altered imagination.  This newfound imagination occurs through curiosities that arise in conversations with those who are sick and suffering, through talking with my chaplain peers about our strengths and weaknesses, and through my visions of where this residency might lead me.  Most of all, I think it is my active imagination that allows theology to come to life for me.  In a world that fights to be black and white, I think living in the gray area – the unknown area that doesn’t have all the answers but instead finds itself with more questions – might be a pretty good place for me to be.

At least for now.

Facing Death

A week ago, I got to work and noticed the hospital felt different.  The parking lot was fuller, there were no chaplains in the pastoral care office, and the mood was somber.  I asked our secretary why the hospital felt different and she explained what had happened.  The night before, the staff received the awful news that one of the 25 year old NICU nurses, Larsen Hunt, was murdered.  I checked the news and found out that her ex-boyfriend came into her home, shot her several times, fled the scene and ended up driving his car into a house causing the car to catch fire and kill him, too.  Tragedy all around.  While I never met this beautiful young woman, I got to know about her story throughout the last week.  A funeral service was held at a local Methodist church last Saturday and was led by one of our chaplains.  There were over 800 people in attendance.

I worked with our pastoral care director and the NICU manager to put together a bulletin and service for the hospital.  Most of my day yesterday was spent meeting with some of the NICU nurses to gather information about Larsen’s life for the bulletin.  I searched for appropriate scriptures for one who has suffered at the hands of domestic violence, yet who lived a life of joy and laughter.  By the end of the day, I realized that I was planning all of this on All Saint’s Day.  It brought me peace to be reminded that Larsen is among the saints who have gone before us and that she joins the great cloud of witnesses who watch over us.

Often times in the hospital, we watch traumatic scenarios come in and I hear chaplains say “That could’ve been my child,” “I saw myself in that bed,” or “Wow, that hit close to home.”  This one hit close to home for me.  As I worked on the service, it made me realize just how fragile our lives really are.  Larsen was only 8 months younger than me.  She set her mind on her goals and fought to make her dreams happen.  She was young and full of energy.  I imagined that had I known her, we would’ve been friends.  I wondered, “What would it look like if someone were planning my funeral?”  How would people begin piecing together the stories and memories throughout my life?

I remember back to a class I took in seminary called “Death, Dying and Bereavement” where we had to write our own obituary and funeral service.  In doing that assignment, I began to come to terms with my own mortality; this tragedy furthered that reality…not in a pessimistic way, but in a real way that reminds me of the importance of living for the moment and not taking life experiences for granted.  It is unexplainable for anyone to die at a young age.  Even though her physical death can technically be explained, I believe it is truly unexplainable as to why these random acts of violence happen.  My heart breaks for her family, for her friends and for the TGH staff…my heart also breaks for her 5 year old son who has autism and who never again will have his mommy.

At the funeral, there were four doves released into the air: three for God (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) and one for Larsen.  The picture was shown at the TGH memorial service.  It looked as though God was carrying her to heaven.  It certainly brought me comfort to read these words from Revelation 21 at the memorial service (paraphrased here): “Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth.  I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘God will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more.’”  May that day come sooner rather than later.

Let the Little Children Come to Me

         I was overjoyed on Thursday when I got the honor and the privilege of baptizing my first baby.  As chaplains, we rarely get to even see the healthy, living babies.  It makes sense that we as chaplains don't see them often: parents are in awe and amazement over holding a newborn in their hands for the first time and certainly would want to be with just family; some families have a church home or at least a church they know where they will get their child baptized; plus, hospitals have such a quick turn around after birth that there’s not really time to stop and think, “Hmm, maybe a visit from the chaplain would be nice.”  So when I got called to baptize a perfectly healthy 6 hour old baby, it brought such joy to my heart.  There is nothing in the world quite like looking at one of God’s most recent creations and saying to him, “Be at peace. Christ is with you forever.”

         I was still soaring on cloud 9 over that experience when I went into work today.  I received a call from the nurse on the postpartum floor.  This time, no baptism; this time, a blessing.  The baby was born and died at 20 weeks gestation.  I went up to the unit and prepared myself for the blessing.  In our hospital (and perhaps the way many hospitals do it), we bless deceased babies with holy water that is placed in a shell and poured over the baby’s head.  The shell is small and does not hold much water, but the babies are so tiny that it is enough water to cover the forehead.  I did the water blessing for the child, as well as placing the mark of the cross on the baby’s forehead, symbolizing that Christ is with him forever.  I grieved with the mother – there are just no answers to such a difficult loss.

          The words of Matthew 19:14 kept coming to mind, when Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.”  In seminary, one of my professors warned me of society’s 'romanticization' of this text.  I think there’s some truth to that – I’ve certainly seen the images of Jesus carrying around a fluffy, smiling baby lamb as the blue-eyed children run to his feet.  But here in this moment, holding this tiny baby, it didn’t feel romanticized at all.  It gave me chills; it brought me joy; it brought me sadness; it brought me one step deeper into the mystery of God, the fragility of our lives, and the silence of deep and agonizing mourning.

          The prayer for this baby sounded a little different than the prayer for the baptism two days prior.  I used a prayer that I keep stuffed inside my tiny Bible for moments like this.  The prayer reads: “May the grace of God surround you through the warmth and love of family and friends, and may you not feel alone.  May God grant you assurance that your life has made a difference and that you are loved.  May God bless your journey from this life to what lies beyond.  May the Spirit of God go with you and grant you a peaceful passage.  And may we meet you again in heaven.  Amen.”

           As I left the room, I heard the tiny, innocent cry of a healthy newborn next door as the baby’s mother tried to feed her.  The mother on one side of the wall struggles to nurse her child; the mother on the other side of the wall struggles with knowing which funeral home to choose and whether to bury or cremate her child.  The silence of death and the wails of life happening at the same time.

           In these moments, I have to remember that Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me.”  At the same time, yet in different ways, I imagined Jesus’ hand reaching out for both of these precious children.  “For it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.”  Thanks be to God.

Remember

I used to dread theology class.  I remember looking at the course schedule when I started at Columbia Seminary and being nervous that theology was one of the only classes in seminary that lasted an entire year instead of just a semester.  My brain works well with math, with rules, with concrete ideas.  I loved taking Greek and Hebrew and did well in both subjects.  Theology, on the other hand, was about abstract ideas, uncertainties, and small discrepancies that held worlds of different meanings.  I would read every page of the assigned theology reading and still not have a grasp on the subject.  I would sit in discussions with my peers and find that no matter how much we debated, we always left the room with no more answers, only more questions.  I dreaded taking my theology ordination exam, yet ended up with a higher grade on that ord than any of the other subjects…God’s humor astounds me.

I was thankful when I began hospital work because unlike being a parish pastor, I would finally be able to put theology behind me and get on with life.  Silly me.  What I found was just the opposite – theology comes to life in the hospital.  Theology is more important to me now than it ever has been before.  I now see its relation to every person, to every situation, to every day.  It is no longer just the theology of 16^th century theologians or feminist theologians or liberationist theologians.  It is the theology of each person’s story in the hospital.  It is seeing how Christ’s death and resurrection fit into people’s lives when they take their last breath on earth.  It is wondering where God’s comfort lies in the midst of human suffering, cancer, unexpected diagnoses, and death.  It is wondering what it means to worship a relational God and how we as people live in relationship both with God and one another.  For me, it is recognizing that it is only by the grace of God that I can wake up each day and gain energy from the things I experience at work.

Our deepest convictions and theologies come out of our stories and our lives.  These stories are sacred not despite our brokenness, but in our brokenness.  One of our supervisors taught us that our stories are sacred because we are created by God and God speaks to us through our life stories.  When we are able to share our stories, we are given a sense of community and commonality among all people.  Therefore it is crucial that we remember our story, that we claim our story, and that we tell our story.  No one’s life story is greater than another’s, even if we live in a culture that tells us otherwise.  The man selling newspapers on the side of the road has just as sacred of a story as the celebrities who make the front page of those newspapers.  The CEO of a company has just as important of a story to tell as the person who empties the trashcan in the CEO’s office each day.

So how do we continue to tell our story?  We have to start by remembering it and claiming it in our lives.  Through the Old Testament, God tells the Hebrew people over and over to remember.  Every time they started to lose hope and power, they needed to remember their story and from where they came.  Psalm 139 cries out in the suffering of the Israelites as they remembered Zion.  When Christ broke bread with his disciples, he told them, “Do this and remember me.”  Throughout our lives, we are told to remember our baptisms and the claim God has on each of our lives.  We are people who are called to remember.  Remember our stories; remember our joys and our sufferings; and remember that our lives are sacred as we continue to write them.  So remember the stories of the Bible and the gospel message – they will continue to play an important role throughout your life.  But just as importantly, I encourage you to remember your story and see that through the messiness and the hurt, the joy and the laughter, God has written a beautiful, unrepeatable story that continues to write itself each day.

The Greatest Gift of All

People might say that greatest gift of all is Jesus…or having a child…or surviving cancer…or getting an iPhone 4 .  But hey, if I don’t put a catchy title to my post, how can I expect people to read it??  So for the sake of the moment and the intention of this blog, I am here to say that sometimes, especially in the hospital, the greatest gift you can give someone is the gift of listening.  For me, there is a difference between “hearing” and “listening.”  I think of hearing as the physical act of being able to hear the audible sounds of another person.  Listening, however, implies that deep connection and understanding with another and the ability to be right there in the moment.  I think we hear others all day: in the office, in passing, at meal times, during family time.  But how much time in the day are we listening to others?

In our didactic this week, we heard a quote by Fredrick Buechner, an American writer and Presbyterian minister.  Buechner says, “Be kind enough to others to listen, beneath all the words they speak…maybe we can help bring holiness to birth both in them and in us.”  As Buechner says, we need to listen not just to the words themselves, but to what lies beneath those words.  That is when we can find the truest meaning of what we are saying.  As chaplains, we are taught not just to listen to the words of a patient, but to listen to the unspoken language and see if we can crack into the depth of the person.  This is where some of our deepest connections and discoveries take place.  What might you learn from someone else by listening to his/her story?

Today I visited a man in his 60s who was just diagnosed with cancer of the spine.  As I was leaving, he grabbed my hand, began to cry and choked out, “Thank you for listening to me, chaplain.”  I realized that, prior to the closing prayer, I had only said about five words to this man in the whole visit.  But the man didn’t need words – he needed someone to listen as he talked about his fears: fears about cancer, how he will pay his medical bills, whether or not he’ll be able to go back to work, how he’ll be able to take care of his wife after this diagnosis.  And then I realized that listening is a gift that I can give every person I encounter at the hospital.  It is a gift without dollar value, yet it is priceless.  We live in a busy world – a world that is so occupied in keeping up with itself that it doesn’t have time to have meaningful conversation or time to get to know one another.  I think about the times I have said, “How are you?” to people in passing knowing that they’ll say, “Fine, and how are you?”  And I’ll say, “Fine, thanks.”  But in actually, my day may have been absolutely awful.  Yet, I fall back to the default response: “Fine.”  Have you ever stopped to ask someone, “No really, how are you?”  You may be surprised with what you will hear.

In truly listening to someone, we are saying “What you are saying is important to me” and in turn saying, “You are important to me.”  Chaplains aren’t called to patients’ rooms to solve their problems, calm them down, or preach to them.  We are called to their rooms to listen to them.  If you truly listen and trust the patients, you will find that they will be able to discover their own answers to their problems.  They will calm themselves down.  They may even learn something about their relationship with God through the conversation.  But they may not be able to do that without first being given the gift of listening. 

So enjoy all the gifts you are given in your life and continue to offer your gifts to those around you.  But remember to always take the time to offer others one of the most precious gifts in the world: the gift of listening.