Granddaughters

This evening at my hospital, a grandmother died. She had lived a full life, 89 years of careers, marriage, family, friends...her death was sad but not tragic. Her young granddaughter was there, perhaps 8 or 9 years old. She used to go see 3-D tween movies with her grandmother, like The Adventures of Shark Boy and Lava Girl. Her grandmother loved every minute of it.

There are times when I am at a loss for words in a room where there's been a death. I put on a face that is hopefully comforting, expressing my empathy, and not too bright or too dim. I am used to sadness. However, the presence of this little girl changed the tone of the room. While there was sadness, her presence was also a reminder of life continuing through the generations. This beloved woman had died, but a reflection of her grace, her humor, her very essence sat cross-legged in a reclining chair, ready for whatever was next.

Half expecting to be without words again, I was surprised to find that I knew exactly what to do for this little girl. A few Cheetah Girl and Hannah Montana references later, an offer of markers to draw on the white board in the room, and a quick Google search yielded word-finds and mazes for a girl who was a little bored waiting for the adults to get their act together.

Strange how easy it is to slip back into something I know, something I did every day working at the Children's Museum and with the all the different kids in my life. It feels like pulling on a worn-out, comfortable t-shirt. Every experience we have becomes a puzzle piece of a much larger image. As be begin to see how the pieces fit together, we have a greater appreciation for the whole.

Moreover, it is not always the "logical" or most financially responsible decisions that make the most sense. There's no way I could have known that doing art projects with kids could help me be a minister to a grieving family. Sometimes we just have to go with our gut, and let the rest fall into place. Our hopes and dreams, our striving and passions, they are our moral compass.

The Long Slog

Here I am at the hospital again. I pulled myself out of bed this morning and donned my professional gear—a black suit, name badge, and beeper. The best part of my day was when my cat Jessie jumped up onto my lap, settled in, and began to purr while I was eating my morning cereal. Even though I had to use the lint roller three times to get the cat fur off, it was worth it. Jessie is warm, and soft, and healthy.

I’m the only chaplain in the hospital today. I’m the one who gets paged for all the deaths, all the Code Blues, all the anxious people about to go into surgery tomorrow. There’s also 21 new people who need to be visited, which is far fewer than the chaplain on call Saturday had to deal with. I should feel lucky.

I was at a church potluck yesterday celebrating the end of the canvass (fundraising pledge drive) for next year. I made my salad, and showed up to see several hundred people that I care about. We talked, we laughed, we listened to a 17 year-old church member’s jazz band. My twelve year-old friend Margaret and I started a dance party in the back. It was…well…it was lovely.

I talked to my adult friend Craig at church and told him some of my stories. Craig has a huge heart. I still remember him crying when his family’s cat died. Craig said he couldn’t do what I do. He said he couldn’t be in so many sick people’s rooms.

I love my job. I really do. And yet, today, I’m not sure how much I can do. I’m not sure how present I can be to people. I’m sure I’ll get into the rooms, and somebody will need something important, and I’ll reach way down to the bottom of my soul to pull up the patience and the energy I need. I know I’ll find a way. But quite frankly, I’m exhausted today. It’s not that I didn’t get enough sleep, it’s that I’m full of the stories. Their stories. I'm brimming with their pain, their shattered hopes and dreams, their fear that they will never go home again. I’m emotionally spent.

As of tomorrow, I will officially have worked at the hospital for 8 months. Being at the hospital 70 hours a week for 8 months…I guess today, I’m feeling it.