When God Gives You More Than You Can Handle

“God will never give me more than I can handle.”  I constantly hear this quote at the hospital.  People are quick to say this to chaplains, and it has always made me curious why people say it.  The more I hear it, the more I think people say it to me because they think I’m secretly judging their ability to be a Christian and be one who struggles with sickness, suffering, or addiction…as though you can only be one or the other.  I think others say it because it keeps the conversation on a safe, surface level.

People often tell me it is scriptural, but they don’t remember where it is in the Bible.  Well, I am here to dispel that rumor: that quote is not from the Bible.  Sure, there are scriptures that talk about trials and temptations, but the quote “God will never give me more than I can handle” just simply isn’t there.  I jokingly say it is from 2nd Hezekiah (in case you were wondering, there is no 2nd Hezekiah).

I find it ironic that so many people who are suffering from illness or grief would turn to this quote.  Perhaps it is a comfort to them.  Perhaps they have heard it said to them by friends or family.  Perhaps it’s just another way of saying, “God will see me through this.”  And I can certainly respect that.  I just struggle to envision God with my life story in one hand and a calculator in the other, stating, “Jenny, I know you can handle ‘X’ amount of grief, so I have decided to give you ‘X-1’ so that you will be able to handle it.”

Mother Theresa played with that quote when she said, “I know God will never give me more than I can handle - I just wish he didn’t trust me so much.” I think what she is saying and what I, too, am trying to say is that sometimes it sure feels like our lives are crashing in around us.  I remember standing with a physician when he shared with a mother and father that their 5 year old daughter was brain dead.  Could you imagine me saying to them in that moment, ‘God will never give you more than you can handle’?  How about when a mother has to pick between her life and her child’s life because only one of the two is guaranteed survival…or a woman's mother dies after a long bout of cancer…or a woman in her 30s becomes a widow after her perfectly healthy husband drops dead while going for a morning run.  For some, it’s not just physical death that feels overwhelming: it’s an addiction to alcohol or drugs, a family broken apart by deceit and mistrust, or the threat of divorce when there are young children involved.

I think there are a lot of scriptures that speak to the threshold of one’s being and God’s response to it.  In Isaiah 54:7, God says, “For a brief moment I abandoned you, but with great compassion I will gather you.  In overflowing wrath for a moment I hid my face from you, but with everlasting love I will have compassion on you, says the Lord.”  This certainly isn’t one of the more commonly quoted scriptures, but it’s there.  In Psalm 88:6-7, the psalmist cries out to God, “You have put me in the depth of the Pit, in the regions dark and deep.  Your wrath lies heavy upon me, and you overwhelm me with all your waves.” Human suffering goes deep, my friends.

I suppose I stand here today to make the case that we aren’t always kept safe from our ‘threshold of suffering’; rather, our threshold continues to stretch as life deals us more and more grief and pain.  In my own life, there recently have been instances both with my family and friends that show me how deeply we can suffer (I won’t share them on this blog because they aren’t my stories to tell).  I’m sure many times in my life, I have told people, “God will never give you more than you can handle.”  Well, I am here today to say I am officially retiring that statement.

My hope is that even if you use that quote, then you will also say to the one who is suffering, "I am here to listen...and I will share with you in your suffering.”  Let the patient, the friend, or the family member decide if it is more than they can handle.  And if it is, be the shoulder for them to cry on...the ear to let them be heard...and the tears to let them know you share in the sting of their suffering.

Perhaps this saying should be re-written.  I would re-write it to say, “I will never give God more than God can handle.”  So cry out, my friends…for God is listening.

Alleluia

Often at the hospital, I meet with patients who have a common thread among them: questions of forgiveness.  People hear very different things when they hear the word ‘forgiveness.’  For some, it is a word used after a fight among family or friends.  People seek apologies and forgiveness to bring peace to a situation.  In my Presbyterian tradition, we hear a Declaration of Forgiveness each Sunday after we confess our sins.  But still for others, forgiveness is something with which they struggle.

At the hospital, I have heard questions like, How will I ever forgive him for cheating on me? How will I forgive her for driving recklessly and killing my father? God, how might I ever forgive you for taking my baby away before she even had a chance at life?  Many people are in the hospital because they are at the end of their lives and still have family turmoil or messy relationships.  And then there are those who think that the things they have done in their lives are so despicable that they wonder if God will be able to forgive them.

I remember meeting with a man several months ago who was a nightmare for the staff.  One by one, they went in, got yelled at, and left.  I was asked to come see him…and I stood there as he screamed at me, ripped his gown off, threw it at me, and tried to kick me out of his room.  I did not leave – I didn’t think he actually wanted me to leave.  I stood in his room and eventually said to him, “I can see you are upset.  There must be a lot on your mind.”  He eventually broke down in tears, asking me if God’s grace could reach as far as someone like him.  He saw himself as worthless and therefore could not find a place for God’s grace in his life.

So how might one answer this patient?  A strapping and eager Reformed Christian might say something like, “But we live by grace alone, and God’s grace has no limits.”  A person well-versed in scripture and evangelism might quote Ephesians 2:8 and say, “But scripture says, ‘For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith – and this is not from yourselves, it is a gift from God.’”  A listener who is quick to fix and slow to explore might say, “Oh no, I can’t believe you’d ever think that – of course God’s grace stretches to you. You are special.”  Are any of these answers wrong?  No, I don’t think so.

But as a chaplain, I was slow to offer words of grace and forgiveness to this man.  It sounds counterintuitive, but hear me out.  I believed there was something much deeper going on, so I explored what it is about himself that causes him to feel this way.  Was there something in his past that he has suppressed because it was too hurtful to think about?  Did enough people in his life tell him he was worth nothing, causing him to start believing it?  Does he have a psych issue that could be addressed through a trained psychologist and maybe even medication?  There are many layers to a statement like his.  But I thought in the long run, it would be a lot better for him to find the grace and forgiveness within himself rather than hear it from someone else…kind of like letting a young child struggle through simple addition when the answer seems so simple to the trained mind.

Perhaps in some ways, I have lived a sheltered life and have not seen the yearning for forgiveness that some people face in their lives: that deep desire to be loved and forgiven again.  But last Sunday, at the Easter service at my home church in Daytona Beach, I saw forgiveness in a new light.  I want to share that story with you.

To give you a little background, we have a huge banner that sits in the front of our sanctuary during Lent.  This banner has the twelve apostles’ names listed on them, and underneath their name is a symbol that represents them.  One of those apostles is Judas Iscariot, the one who betrays Jesus and turns him over to the chief priests.  The symbol underneath Judas’ name is an image of several coins, symbolizing the 30 pieces of silver he receives for turning Jesus over to the arresting soldiers.  At our Maundy Thursday service, as the lights are turned out and the haunting hymn ‘Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?’ rings throughout the sanctuary, a black piece of felt is placed over Judas’ symbol.  Complete betrayal – turning Jesus over to be crucified.  What could be worse than that?

But on Easter Sunday, as the announcement is made that the tomb is empty, the lights turn on and the congregation sings the hymn ‘Jesus Christ is Risen Today.”  As we were singing, the choir processed; the Bible was carried in and placed on the pulpit; the organist went to full organ, causing the balcony to shake.  We were singing the last verse: “Sing we to our God above, Alleluia!”  I watched my father walked over to the banner and reach towards the black felt.  “Praise eternal as God’s love, Alleluia!”  The felt was pulled off – Judas’ name and symbol reappeared with the other 11 apostles.  “Praise him, all you heavenly host, Alleluia!”  Forgiveness, I thought.  That is forgiveness.  I surprised myself as I began to cry.  “Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Alleluia!”  How incredibly beautiful is forgiveness, I thought.  (I know there are differing ideas about what happened to Judas after Christ’s death and resurrection, but it sure painted a beautiful picture of forgiveness for me.)

I thought of the patient I met with who wondered how God’s grace and forgiveness could stretch as far as him.  Or perhaps as far as someone like Judas.  Or even as far as a sinner like you and me.  But this Easter morning, I grasped the word 'forgiveness' in a whole new light.  And my understanding didn't involve any new definitions or teachings...just tears.  Praise him, all you heavenly host; Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Alleluia!

Dear Death

I am in the process of becoming an ELNEC certified trainer.  ELNEC stands for “End-of-Life Nursing Education Consortium.”  With this title, I will become a PCRP, "Palliative Care Resource Professional."  As you can imagine, it is predominantly nurses who go through this training; however, at our hospital, we find it very important for chaplains to go through this training, too.  There is focus on palliative care, pain and symptom management, active listening, honest engagement about death, and the fulfillment of patients’ wishes as they face the end of their life.  One of the activities we did at the training was explained as follows:

"Write death a letter.  Begin with the line 'Dear Death,' and write whatever comes to mind."  There were close to 50 of us in the room: 40+ nurses, 6 chaplains, and 1 occupational therapist.  We wrote our letters in silence.  After 10 minutes, our leader allowed us to share out loud.  Examples included light-hearted answers like “Dear Death, bite me.”  Some claimed their hope in Christ and said things like, “Dear Death, you do not have control over me.  Only God does.  If it is God’s time, then it can be yours, too.”  One nurse fought back the tears as she read something along the lines of, “Dear Death, you have already taken so many of my family members. Why do you keep showing up in our lives without us inviting you??”  I realized how death looked different to each person in the room.  Same greeting: "Dear Death," yet totally different paths emerging from each person's heart.  I know I’ve seen a lot of death lately…I am often reminded of my own mortality, especially when the young ones die.  Part of my letter included, “I thought I was too young for this…silly me, thinking I was invincible.  But since you’re here, I’ll put on my best dress and high heels.  I’m ready to dance.”

Sometimes death is the uninvited guest.  Other times death is an answer to prayers after a long and hard journey of suffering.  Death can be the last word for some families; for others, death can be the first time grief and true feelings are expressed.  Death can be the end of suffering for many people, but can also be the beginning of suffering for families who have never had to talk about their emotions before.  I have seen patients die at the hospital and seen many outcomes: watched family fall to their knees at their bedside...kiss the hands and forehead of their loved one…embrace one another…walk out of the room, never to return…smile as they imagine their loved one pain-free in heaven…shake the body, hoping to wake it from the dead…kiss the tiny fingers and toes of a child or baby who has died...watched families crumble, realizing the deceased loved one was the glue holding a fragile, broken family together.


In many ways, I have prepared for my own death.  One of my seminary classes required that I write my own obituary and plan my funeral service.  I already have my Living Will and Healthcare Surrogate forms completed.  I told my family I want to be cremated, not buried.  I am only 26.  But with all that in order, it still was eye-opening to write Death a letter.  What would you say?  How might you welcome death?  Or run from it?  Or pray that it stays far away?  Or ask God that death meet you before death meets your spouse…or your child…or your parent? 

Sure, we all imagine how we might die.  We plan it in our head, many of us hoping for the least pain possible.  To die in our sleep, to not be a financial burden to our family, to be surrounded by our loved ones.  But sometimes death sneaks up on us.  Sometimes our heart stops without any warning signs.  Some die way too young.  Some die suddenly in accidents.  Some become diagnosed with cancer and die weeks later.  Some babies die before they even leave their mother’s womb.

I know this is heavy stuff, but it is on my heart this week.  And of all the weeks to write about it, I thought Holy Week would be an appropriate time as those of us who are Christian journey with Christ through the palm branches…to the table with his disciples…to the cross…to the tomb.  But we know the Easter story doesn’t end there.  We know on Sunday we will awaken to an empty tomb.  That is the hope we have as we talk about the difficulty of facing death.  For me, writing this letter to Death invited me to sit in the ‘Friday and Saturday’ of the Easter story, yet knowing that 'Sunday' would soon be there to welcome me.  And as I told Death, 'Sunday' too should know that I'll be in my best dress and high heels, ready to dance.


I remember learning my first important life lesson when I was about 6 years old.  While sitting around the dinner table, a close family friend taught me, “There are only 2 things in life you have to do: pay taxes and die.”  Well, it’s tax day…and I’m not getting any younger.

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.