Out of these Ashes

Last Wednesday was Ash Wednesday.  For those whose tradition doesn’t recognize it or if you have never heard of it, Ash Wednesday is beginning of Lent, a 40-day journey (minus Sundays) leading up to Easter.  We journey through a time of reflection and penitence with a somber tone which reminds us of our own mortality.  The phrase “You are dust and to dust you shall return” rings out from the churches.  This phrase comes from the conversation said to be had between God and Adam in the Garden of Eden (Genesis 3:19).

OK, enough of the textbook answers.  For me, one year in elementary school, Lent meant anxiously awaiting the chance to wear my white Sam&Libby dress shoes that by fashion rules couldn’t be worn until Easter.  In sixth grade, Lent meant helping to lead Wednesday evening services with my confirmation class, including a duet I sang with my dad…I got nervous, started singing a measure early, got really embarrassed, and cried from the pulpit.  In high school, Lent meant giving up chocolate, soda, and yes, even g-o-s-s-i-p.  My first year of college, Lent was spent spotting the students on campus who I thought had a grease smear on their forehead.  It was really the first time I remember seeing ashes on people’s foreheads.  That was not a ritual that my home church practiced.  When I got to seminary, I learned that many Presbyterians perform the imposition of ashes, placing the mark of the cross on the hand or the forehead.  When given the choice, I would decline the ashes because it wasn't something I was used to doing.  This year, I got a different taste of Ash Wednesday than I had ever had before.

On Wednesday, beginning as early as 6:00am, the lines in the hospital chapel began for people wanting ashes.  Patients, family, staff, and visitors: all awaiting the chaplain’s blessing and ritual.  We ran around the hospital putting ashes one patients' foreheads.  I put ashes on an 8 year old before surgery; a 94 year old with failing health; English speaking patients and Spanish speaking patients.  I was even asked to put ashes on a 2-hour old baby (don’t worry, I just made the mark of the cross with my finger on her forehead: I thought ‘too new, no ashes’).  I had never played with so many ashes in my life.  I found a deep love for that ritual last Wednesday.  By the end of the day, I realized much of my original cynicism around the idea of ashes was wiped clean.  I thought of the Stephen Curtis Chapman song that says, “Out of these ashes, beauty will rise.”

Around 8:00 that night, I was called to a patient’s room, learning that he (a man in his early 50s) was going to be removed from life support after a prayer/blessing from the chaplain.  I began to speak with the immediate family in the room as the nurse gathered the rest of the family from the waiting room.  By the time all the family had come in, there were at least 25 people gathered around the bedside of this patient.  For the record, that's a LOT of people in a small hospital room.  The patient was completely unresponsive, but I encouraged the family to speak to him directly and share memories…after all, he may have been able to hear us – I have heard (no pun intended) that hearing is the last sense to go.  The family then began to grab hands and close their eyes.  I offered a prayer for the patient.  I then began the Lord’s Prayer and found a resounding unified voice echoing off the walls as the entire family spoke the “Our Fathers” together.  It was hauntingly loud, and still so beautiful.  I thought again of the song, 'Out of these ashes, beauty will rise.'

Then per the family’s request, I got out the ashes.  The ashes that I never played with as a child.  The ashes that I once confused with grease smears.  The ashes that I always passed on receiving.  I got out the ashes to make the mark of the cross on this man’s forehead.   The phrase “You are dust and to dust you shall return” didn’t seem fitting at the moment, so I went with my gut which was telling me to provide a prayer of commendation.  As I placed the ashes into the shape of the cross, I offered these words: “Go from this life in the name of the Father who created you, in the name of the Son who suffered for you, and in the name of the Spirit who sustains you.  Go forth, faithful Christian.”

Family members wept for the loss they knew that was coming, yet were comforted with the promise of the resurrection.  The younger family members held onto the older ones who struggled to keep their fragile balance.  Husbands and wives held each other tightly.  A young girl, probably 3 years old, saw others crying and wiping tears, therefore she innocently grabbed tissues to dab her dry face.  I then offered the ashes to any family member who would like them.  Surprisingly, about 15 of them came up one by one, and I offered each of them a blessing, by name.  They bore the same symbol that their precious loved one bore as he came to the end of his life.  I admired their courage that during this end of life experience, they were still able to face their own mortality.

It was a humbling moment for me.  It was powerful…so powerful.  My whole body had chilly bumps.  A life ending way too early.  A blended family – blood family, in-laws, step family, friends – grieving as one community.  A young child not yet knowing how to face death, but learning how to grieve by holding a tissue to her dry face.  Ashes making a mess of the room.  A young chaplain serving in a priestly role for this Catholic family.

The Stephen Curtis Chapman song came to mind again.  Out of these ashes, beauty will rise.  The ashes is the death…the beauty is the resurrection.  The ashes is our brokenness…the beauty is God’s wholeness.  The ashes is our sin, our hate, our evil…the beauty is forgiveness, second chances, and unconditional love.  The ashes is our “I’m sorry’s”…the beauty is our “I forgive you’s.”  I learned that day that we need the messiness of the ashes to show us the beauty that will arise from it.

The man died later that night.  His death should me a reminder to all of us this Lenten season that we are dust and to dust we shall return.  But fear not, my friends.  Beauty will rise.

Loaded Questions

Loaded Questions.  No, I am not referring to the board game which often brings my closest friends to a whole new level of awkward awareness.  This blog is about a different ‘loaded question.’  At work, I am often asked “What is a chaplain?”  Simple enough, right?  We are clergy who care for those outside of the church setting.  Both in the hospital and military, chaplains provide support when bad news is pronounced.  We go see patients who are angry or difficult to manage.  In our hospital, we respond to traumas.  We sit with families when their loved one’s heart stops beating.  We provide a ritual of life and blessing to a mother and father whose baby died before given a chance at life.  We meet with those of other faith traditions and those with no faith tradition, and listen without imposition.  Fifteen letters…four words…one loaded question.  What is a chaplain?

Let me share with you a quick story that caused me to think about this question more.  Today at work, I was talking to a male nurse about a patient and as the conversation ended and I was walking away, he asked aloud, “What is a chaplain exactly?”  I responded, “We are like pastors for the hospital, here to care for patients and staff.”  He said, “Well, you just don’t…look like a chaplain.”  (Believe me when I say I get told this almost every day, often multiple times a day – apparently I look “young” for a chaplain, or so I have been told.)  One of the boisterous female nurses on the floor shouted to the male nurse, “What, you’ve never seen a young cute chaplain?!  You expecting Quasimodo or something??”  She began to laugh loudly with one of the other nurses.  We all began laughing.  The nurse then began to fan herself and dramatically said, “Ohhh Lord, I gotta fan myself.  I gotta behave – I’m in the presence of a chaplain!”  A third nurse shouted jokingly to her, “Yeah, especially with that illegitimate child of yours!!”  To which the boisterous nurse playfully shouted back, “You think I’m bad?  You’re the lesbian!”  Laughter erupted out of all of our mouths.  We couldn’t stop.  I felt like we were all suddenly standing in the confessional booth instead of a nursing unit.  They somewhat jokingly apologized to me for their “bad behavior,” and I told them they had no reason to apologize, especially because they really had made my day with their comments.  I think that story paints a beautiful picture: What is a chaplain?  What caused these hilarious staff members to say the things they said to me?

I think about the times I am in the ER and purposely turn by badge around backwards when I go to meet families.  I do this because often times, people think the word “chaplain” means “I am coming to tell you your loved one has died.” (Just as FYI, at least at our hospital, we never tell someone their loved one has died – the physician does).  For some people, the word “chaplain” means “I better behave around my co-workers when the chaplain’s here because a lightning bolt might come through the ceiling.”  (Do people really think we have the power to produce an electric discharge on the universe?)  For other people, it means “You are a safe environment in which I can talk about my situation, my fears, my family, my diagnosis – because you do not know me and you will not judge me.”  And still for others, it means “You are coming to evangelize me and I don’t want to hear it.” (Another common misconception: we do not evangelize at the hospital – chaplains are taught to listen empathically and use the patient’s story as the jumping off point to move towards deeper meaning).

I guess the underlying question is: What do people really mean when they ask what a chaplain is?  Are they asking about who a chaplain is?  Who I am?  What we do?  I’m continuing to ponder this question.  Here are some of the funnier things I have heard…

One day, a patient was angry at the world so when I walked in his room, he ripped off his hospital gown, threw it at me and shouted, “Make my nurse get me a new gown, I pissed myself!”  What is a chaplain?

Once a patient asked if he could pray for me since he knew his soul was saved.  What is a chaplain?

Someone once asked how much they should tip for my chaplain visit.  What is a chaplain?

More than once a patient has asked me, “Did someone tell you to come see me because I don’t go to church anymore?”  What is a chaplain?

Also more than once, I have walked in a room and upon seeing my badge, the patient or a family member has burst into tears.  What is a chaplain?

Today an older male patient (who already had given me the heebie jeebies on a prior visit) asked me if I would help work out a kink in his back with a quick back rub.  What is a chaplain?

Perhaps there isn’t one hard and fast answer to this question.  Perhaps the answer to this question is one that will take many years of reflection to answer. I guess I’ll have to get back to you with my answer.  And you know that's hard for me since I like to have answers to things right away...but I shall wait.

 And just to clarify, I didn’t give the old man a back rub.

What happens when God calls you to be a chaplain?

I have mentioned this in prior blog posts, but as a reminder, I never in my life felt a call to hospital chaplaincy.  The closest I got to hospital visitations as a child was sitting in the hospital lobby or the gift shop while my dad went and visited with patients.  I do remember going to a hospice house (the only time I’ve been to one) to visit one of our long-time church members, Peggy Spaulding.  I was probably around 10 years old.  I walked in the room and saw someone who looked nothing like the Peggy I remembered – it was then that I learned what cancer can do to someone.  We hugged her goodbye.  She died the next day.

Once I felt my calling into ministry, I knew…or rather I thought…that God was preparing me for parish ministry.  I thought I would serve a church and serve as either a solo pastor or one of the pastors on staff.  What I found on the flip side of seminary was a calling as deep and as rich as my calling to go to seminary: my calling to become a chaplain.  A chaplain?!?!  Seriously, God??  Why me?  I don’t like blood, death, or the smell/look of hospitals.

I faced my fears and through the beautifully woven grace of God, I began to become more comfortable in ministering to those around end of life issues, traumas, code blues, the death of adults, children, babies...  I also stopped being afraid of walking into the unknown with every hospital visit.  I now become energized by the unknown: who will be in the room, what stories will they have to share, will they wonder who I am and why I am a chaplain, will they become vulnerable in our conversation and be willing to dig deep, how will I minister to them strictly based off their experience, how will God make Godself known to them in the brief, sometimes only, encounter I have with them?

Friends, believe me when I say this: at this point in my life, I feel called to be a chaplain.  It is a work that brings my heart and mind to life and seeks to resonate with the broken and grieving hearts of others.  It is indeed an art more than a science.  It means taking risks.  It means sitting in the silence of the conversation when the untrained mind may be telling you to speak up.  It means sticking with those patients who initially want to throw you out of the room.  It means going to work every day with the understanding that you have no idea what you will see, hear, smell, touch, or experience.  It  means moving beyond the small talk into deep, meaningful curiosities about life, death, pain, suffering, denial, family dynamics, faith, emptiness, etc.

Why do I share all of this with you?  The question now comes into play of whether or not I need to serve as a pastor in order to become a more ‘well-rounded’ chaplain, particularly a chaplain supervisor.  I listened to and wrestled with others in our department on the question of whether serving as a chaplain, particularly on the supervisory route, is done best when first serving as a parish minister.  (I want to be very clear that I am not trying to say that anyone I spoke to about this is right/wrong, but I think the question is one with which I/we should struggle.)  I have to question the model that chaplaincy is only a calling that can come when one becomes done, or even burnt out, with the church.  What if you feel called to be a chaplain at 26 instead of at 62?  I know that serving in a church, whether I ended up enjoying it or not, could teach me a lot about life.  But can’t chaplaincy do a similar thing?  I am an ordained Minister of Word and Sacrament - it just might look a little less “traditional” than being a parish minister.

Is the pulpit the only bridge to become a well-rounded chaplain, particularly within the supervisory role?  Or is that bridge something we have created by our own experiences?  Am I being too naïve in thinking that I can succeed in this work and help other chaplains grow in their experience without ever ‘officially’ serving as a parish minister?  How do we respect the experience of those older and more experienced than us without ignoring or denying our own experience?  I do not know the answers to any of these things, but I am definitely exploring them right now and covet your insights.

The question still remains: What happens when God calls you to be a chaplain?  I’ll have to get back to you on that...but know that it’s been a pretty amazing journey thus far.

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.