One evening several years ago I was seated on the MAX Orange Line headed out of downtown.  I could not keep from overhearing a conversation between two men seated in the row behind me.

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What’s with the coloring books?

I like coloring books.  I’ve just started getting back into them.

I like coloring books, too.  They’re cool.

The cool part for me is that I get to share them with my daughter.  I couldn’t see her for a long time because I was using heroin.  Now that I’ve been clean for two years, I get to see her again and we like doing coloring books together.

That’s cool.  I do heroin sometimes, it feels good but it’s not like it’s the best thing ever.

Good that it hasn’t hooked you.  For 99% of people, it’s “Hello, I just found the new love of my life.”  Please don’t do heroin again.

You homeless?

Yeah.  I’m staying tonight at the shelter near 17^th & Holgate.

I’m homeless, too.  I’m staying at a place in Milwaukie tonight.

So, I was serious.  Please don’t ever do heroin again.

I don’t do it much, mostly just when I have been drinking and think, “Why the hell not?”

That’s when people die.  Alcohol and heroin are deadly together.  I almost died several times.

Yeah, I died a couple of times, but they brought me back.

Well, don’t keep pushing your luck.  And there’s worse things than dying.  Do you have any brothers or sisters?

Yeah, I got a brother three years younger than me.

Well, I’ve got younger brothers, too, and they won’t see me anymore because I was a junkie.  Why should they look up to a junkie?  Having little brothers that won’t see you is worse than dying.  Please don’t do heroin again.

I’ll think about it.

Listen, I’ve got to get off at this stop, but promise me you won’t do it again.  It will be the best decision you ever make.

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As we pull into my station, the second man rises and steps in front of me to exit the train.  His arms are laden with grocery sacks holding his belongings.  I feel a nudge and, without pausing to reflect, I tap the man on the shoulder.

“I just wanted to say that I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation on the train.  I wanted to tell you that you were doing really good work back there.  I really admire you.”

“Thanks, man,” he responds.  His eyes quickly well with tears.  “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know God?”

“Umm … that depends on what you mean, but I think … yes.”

“Would you be willing to pray for me?”

“Absolutely.  How would you like me to pray for you?”

“It’s complicated …”  He trails off, begins crying more profusely.  “Do you have a minute?  Could we sit on the bench here?”

“Sure.  I’m not in a hurry.”  We sit.

“It’s like … my Dad, he lives in Africa now, I haven’t seen him in years, and I just learned he’s got cancer bad …”

“That’s really hard news …”

“It is, but …”  He stops, cocks his head, and hears a train going in the other direction approaching the platform.  “Listen, I have to catch this train, ‘cause I should’ve gotten off at the last stop … what I really want you to pray for is my girlfriend and her daughters … my daughters … they are in a really bad place right now.  Really bad.  Her name is Melissa …”

“And your name is …”

“Brian.”

“Brian, I will pray for Melissa, and for your daughters, and for your dad … and for you, Brian.  I will hold you all in my heart, and in God’s light.”

“Thanks, man—that really means a lot.”

I pat Brian on the arm, and he steps onto the train with his bags.  The doors close, and he disappears into the night.

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At the time of this story, I’d taken a leave of absence from seminary to return to full-time work, and I didn’t know when or if I would return.  As the train pulled out, I sat back down on the bench and tried to absorb what had transpired.  I’d only meant to offer encouragement, but instead I was challenged to step into a role for which I felt totally unprepared.  Having opened the door, I had to step through and trust that I could be what was needed in the situation.  As I got up from the bench, I had a deep sense that something sacred had happened, and that I needed to return to seminary to explore further.

I understand this story now as my first experience of chaplaincy.  It came to me fully formed, with all the hallmarks I now recognize.  Compassionate presence with a person in need.  Active listening to what is on their heart.  Simple words acknowledging their pain and offering wishes for healing.  No knowledge of how the story continues, just a sense that the conversation serves a higher purpose.

For me, this story abounds with questions about how God acts in the world.  What brought these three strangers together on that train?  What spirit led Brian to minister so profoundly to the other man, especially given the pain of his own struggles?  What spirit nudged me to reach out to Brian, that we each might offer the other something we deeply needed?  I don’t think of God as a master puppeteer, but I do believe God’s desire for our healing is so powerful that we can sometimes hear it—if we only listen.

Tara, in her 30s, requested that a chaplain visit her in her locked psych hold room in our Emergency Department.  She’d attempted suicide twice that week, and was undergoing evaluation for inpatient placement.  Her room has nothing in it besides a simple bed, so I wheel in a small stool and sit down beside her, as she sits cross-legged on her bed.  The tears flow immediately.

“Thanks for coming, I know there are probably lots of other people in the hospital who deserve your time more than me.  I just want you to know that I’m not as bad as everyone says I am.  I’ve done a lot of bad things, things I regret, but not everything they say about me is true.”

“Tara, I don’t know what other people have said, and I don’t need to.  I’m here just to listen to you.”

“Well, I actually wanted to talk to you about my mom.  I haven’t seen her in a long time—maybe 10 years—and I don’t even know how to find her.  But I’m worried that she’s not in a good place.  It’s the same thing with my sister.  I worry about them so much.”

“It’s really hard when you’re worried about someone you love and you feel there is nothing you can do.”

“I mean, my mom was not a good mom.  She abused me and did other terrible things to me, and I got put into foster care.  So I was really bad back to her, and to my sister, and to everyone else around me.”

“Sounds like you were angry with her.”

“Really angry.  But now I realize that the family she grew up in was terrible, too, maybe even worse than mine.  And now I feel really bad for her.  It’s like, I don’t think she wanted to be that way—just like I don’t want to be this way—but she didn’t know any different.  I wish she could know that I understand this now, and that I feel sorry for her and forgive her.”

“Tara, your heart is so huge and filled with love.  It’s incredibly difficult, after all the hurt you’ve known, to want to show understanding and love back in return. I’m really moved.”

“The other night, when I was up on the bridge, staring at the water, getting ready to jump, I realized I didn’t want this to be how everyone remembered me.  I want people to know that, despite all of the bad things I’ve done, I have a good heart.  But now I don’t know how they’ll ever know that.”

“I don’t know, either, Tara.  Sometimes, it seems, there’s nothing we can do but pray.”

“I’ve been wondering about that.  What does it even mean to pray?  Do you have to believe in God? I’m not sure I do.”

“That depends on who you ask, but for me, it can be as simple as focusing on what’s on your heart—like your mom—and sending your love and concerns out into the universe.  We may never know how it’s received or if it makes a difference, but just putting out that positive energy can feel like a good thing.”

“Can you show me how to pray?”

“Sure …” I say, and I take her hand and settle into silence.  “Dear God, thanks for being right here in this little room with Tara and me.  Help her to feel your love, to know that she is your beloved daughter, that you are always with her.  You have listened to her pain, and to her love and longing for her mom.  Please help her mom to feel your love, and Tara’s love, wherever she may be, and bring peace and healing to both of their hearts.”

“And God, please do the same thing for my sister,” Tara adds.  “I miss her so much, and I want her to know I love her.”

We open our eyes and look at each other, and I say, “And that’s how it works.  You just did it—you added your own prayer—and it was beautiful.”

“It’s different when you think about God as being down here, in a room like this.  Everybody talks about God being ‘up there,’ but I’ve always thought, what good is a God that doesn’t understand what it’s like down here—how hard it is down here.”

“Well, there are many wonderful faiths, but one reason I’m a Christian is that Jesus really knew how hard it is down here—he lived a hard life, and suffered a lot of cruelty, and despite that he never lost his capacity to love.  You haven’t lost your capacity to love, either, Tara, and I hope you never do.  I’m so glad you got down off that bridge—we need your light down here in this world.”

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I always draw in a deep breath when I’m called to visit the unit where Tara was being held.  I only have a little formal training in mental illness; while I see plenty of it on other hospital units, the patients here are truly in crisis, and I often feel inadequate to the challenge.  Then I remember that my job isn’t to treat them, just to listen and offer support, and to remember that while it doesn’t seem like much, it can still be very helpful.

Despite the seeming confidence of my answer—“Sure …”—the question “Can you show me how to pray?” is as intimidating as it gets, at least for me.  As a Quaker, I don’t reach for well-known prayers from any tradition, even if I love many of them.  Instead, we try to center in silence to hear the leadings of the Spirit and then give them voice.  Whatever these prayers lack in elegance and grace tends to be made up for in authenticity, which I find especially helpful with patients like Tara.  Or anyone, really.

I don’t think I’ve ever encountered anyone with as much self-loathing as Tara. I don’t know what was done to her to cause this, nor what she’s done since then to build her own case against herself.  In her condition that day, I don’t even know what was grounded in fact and what was delusional.  But I do know what it’s like to feel undeserving of love because of mistakes you have made, and I do know how it feels to be told that you are deserving of love no matter what you have done.  It can transform lives.

In my post What Remains, I reflected that “nothing [feels] more worthy of doing than serving as God’s hands down here in this mess.”  The sense that God was present in the mess of her life is what opened the door for Tara to pray.  And I reflected that my work these days is “seeking to touch with love all that has been touched by fear.”  I can only hope that my small touch of love stays with Tara long after our time in that room, and that she remembers that she knows how to pray, so that she can feel the touch of God’s love once again.

Many of you were powerfully moved by my recent post Best. Life. Ever, in which my friend Jack shared reflections from his journey with ALS.  Reader Steven summarized this well:  “I am touched at the deepest level.  May the great spirit we all share grant me such grace.”  My sentiments exactly.

Sadly, I now need to tell you that Jack passed away, very peacefully, on July 27.  As he shared with you, his disease progressed very rapidly and gave him less time than he—or any of us—would have wished.  True to his character, Jack signed off on his last missive to his support group by saying, “You have blessed my life and I continue to feel your love.  I said it once before and it remains true today: Best. Life. Ever!”

As I shared with our seminary community, it’s hard to find a bright side to losing a friend as dear as Jack, especially to a disease as awful as ALS.  The brilliance of Jack’s light is why those who knew him feel the darkness of his absence so profoundly.  But as I centered myself last Sunday morning, I remembered a post from Jack just a couple of weeks ago, and I want to share it with you now.

One of Jack’s final adventures he entitled Operation Chaplain Splashdown, wherein a group of friends rigged a river raft so he could take one last float down a beloved river.  In his own words, “Operation Chaplain Splashdown was a grand success!  It was amaaaaaazing and refreshing to be in the Clark Fork again.  I didn’t wash off upon arriving home.  I wanna hold on to the river a little longer.“

I didn’t note the double entendre of the title until after Jack was gone, but I know his mind well enough to feel confident it was intentional.  Jack has now splashed down—returned home—after his long journey among us.  But he left us this beautiful picture from that trip, and I offer it to you today.  Savor the love that surrounds Jack, then blow it up nice and large on your screen, and savor the love that exudes from Jack’s face.  This is how Jack would love to be remembered, I think.  Blessings to you all …

Over a period of a few days a very difficult situation evolved at our hospital; it ended this past Saturday with two people dying violently.  This traumatized our staff and patients, to varying degrees, including all members of our spiritual care team.  Some team members were involved directly with the situation, others supported staff and patients who had been directly involved, the rest supported our team and other staff.  No one was untouched; all who weren’t at the epicenter know they easily could have been.

A chaplain from a sister hospital kindly offered to lead a debriefing session for our team, so for three hours on Monday we came together to share our personal experiences of the situation.  Perhaps more importantly, we listened deeply to each other and felt the healing power of being listened to deeply.  This is, after all, what chaplains do, and as painful as it was, I think we did it well.

As we began to sense that hearts were settling, at least as much as they could in a single meeting, our facilitator led us into silence with an invitation to each member to speak to this query as each felt led: 

Why do you keep coming back?

It’s not my place to share how others answered this query.  I can only say that listening to each person share, coming as it did after listening to each of their stories of service in this horrible situation, was as inspiring as anything I have ever experienced.  One common theme was that each of us is inspired by the opportunity to serve with others whose hearts are so big and whose skills are so profound.  Yes.

What is mine to share is my own response to this query.  The section below contains the words I spoke to our group of chaplains, as best as I could recall them 12 hours later, reshaped—as all such memories are—by how we would like to remember them, including what we’d wished we’d said but didn’t. 

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As some of you know, my Friday here at the hospital was hard; my part in this situation was only a piece of it.  I spent time in the recovery room with a couple in their 40s whose final attempt at IVF—their last embryo—had just ended in miscarriage.  The minute I stepped away from that couple, it was time to go accompany the family of a patient I had come to know and love as we withdrew life support from their wife/mother and watched as she died.  So I was feeling pretty drained … and then Saturday happened.

It took me a long time yesterday to get settled into my morning yoga and prayer routine—and a lot of silence—but when I finally got centered, this very question rose for me:  Why do you keep coming back?  As you all know, today is my 68^th birthday, so it’s a pretty obvious question for me when you think about it.  But as the question rose, the Spirit also rose within me, and offered me this:

I have led you to this place, and equipped you to do this work, because the need is there and you have the ability to do it.  It’s work that needs to be done, and most people not only don’t want to do it, they don’t want to hear about it, they don’t want to even think about it.  But you help people to feel my love in the midst of their hurt, and in doing so you feel my love grow in you as well, and that’s why you keep coming back.

You guys—each of you—are doing the same thing.  You are agents of God’s love, you bring God’s light into darkness to help others see their way forward.  As I sit here, I see God’s light shining brightly through each of you, and it’s just the most beautiful thing.  So how could I not keep coming back?

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I have the pleasure of knowing quite a few of you who read this blog, and I know many of you live lives of service to others—be they family, friends, or strangers—that often take a toll on your spirits.  Really, most people do.  So I invite each of you to reflect on this query:  Why do you keep coming back?

I want to introduce you to my dear friend Jack, who will be your guest columnist today.  Jack, like me, undertook chaplaincy later in life, though “later” is relative—he just turned 56.  😊

Our Quaker seminary, the Earlham School of Religion, assigned me to be Jack’s “buddy” to show him the ropes as an entering remote study student.  We bonded quickly over many shared passions, notably baseball and the novella “A River Runs Through It.”  Inspired by the latter, Jack has spent much of his adult life in Missoula, Montana, where he continues to reside.  We had the joy of sharing our capstone classes, which integrate and apply all of our seminary coursework, and we graduated together in 2020.

Jack has always displayed wondrous wisdom and a delightful spirit.  Over the past year life has dealt him a difficult hand, which he has responded to in a way I know you will find inspiring.  He has written movingly about his journey and, with his consent and encouragement, I have excerpted three passages for you today.  For me, Jack is courage and grace incarnate.

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March

This past summer I began to notice changes in my legs and core strength.  I attributed it to poor cardio conditioning.  Through the fall my symptoms progressed and in mid-November I expedited my annual medical exam.  After delays in Missoula I decided to forego my local options and I connected with the Mayo Clinic in Arizona. I spent 17 days in Scottsdale, staying at my sister’s house while engaging a very helpful, professional, efficient, and kind crew of practitioners and staff at the Mayo.

I now know the source of my struggles.  I have ALS.  Based upon my symptoms and their spread, an ALS specialist I saw presented a prognosis of likely 2.5 to 4 years.

Right now, I am safe, warm, well-fed, and expertly supported.  I am also exhausted, sore, and still a bit overwhelmed by all that has happened and what happens next.  I simultaneously feel a profound peace.

I recognize that my life has been one long, bewildering, beautiful miracle.  Thank you for continuing to be such amazing friends and for being a cherished part of my life.

April

Last Thursday, I officially retired from my role as Hospice Chaplain and from my career as a working soul.  Having now closed my tenure carrying the title of Chaplain, I am led to reflect back to a prayer I wrote six years ago, while working as a Resident Chaplain in Spokane, WA.  My mentor commissioned me to compose a prayer to open the retirement ceremony for one of our staff chaplains.  Today, it speaks to me in both familiar and challenging ways.

Gracious God, I lay my work to rest,
and in doing so,
I lay at your feet

the faces I have seen,
the voices I have heard,
the words I have spoken,
the hands I have held,
the service I have given,
the joys I have shared,
the sorrows revealed.

I lay them at your feet,
and in doing so, I ask,
what now would you have me do?

June

I have been gifted an incredible life.  I grew up in Sedona, Arizona, a beautiful, strange, adventure-inducing place in the ‘70s and ‘80s of my youth.  I invested much of my time there hiking and sometimes scaling the impressive cliffs, mesas, promontories, and inselbergs—remnant outcroppings of basalt encased by sandstone—that surround Sedona. 

Today I am wheelchair-bound and seldom get out of the house.  I am still able to stand and pivot but unable to walk any steps, and even my stand-pivot days are approaching a close.  I’ve experienced an approximately 30% decline in my “respiratory function”—the volume of air I am able to move into and out of my lungs.  This is all progressing more rapidly and more broadly than I had hoped.

But through all the struggles and injuries and disappointments and “troubling” results from the Nerve Conductivity or Pulmonary Function tests of life, I have also witnessed the miracle of unbounded imagination bending stark reality.  For just moments, yes, but those moments are as real as the cliffs and inselbergs among which I grew up.  I’ve been witness to the fact we each are principal actors in the dynamic interplay of imagination, reality, and potentiality.  

I’ve been witness to power of human community as antidote to the worst tragedies this life can dish out.  The depth and breadth of love and support and kind expertise my community of family and friends provides knocks me silly on a daily basis.  I am humbled by the multitude of people who bless my life!  

I often experience an unexpected perspective on the story of the fishes and loaves—there are sooooo many incredible people in my life.  I’ve been witness to more miracles than I will ever remember, much less recount.

Best.  Life.  Ever.  Thank you, Creator, thank you.

During ICU rounds one morning I learned that Elyse, in her late 50s, had been admitted the night before.  She’d been diagnosed with advanced breast cancer four years earlier, but it had gone into remission after a brutal course of treatment and she’d been in good health since.  However, her breathing had become more labored over the past month, and after simpler remedies failed, a chest scan in the ER revealed a large mass pressing on her lungs.

Leaving rounds, I noted a man wearing a “Jesus is My Rock” T-shirt entering Elyse’s room, and I left them to their time together.  I returned later to find Elyse alone, getting an IV line placed by her nurse.

“Greetings, Elyse, I’m one of the chaplains here.  I can come back in a few minutes if you like.”

Elyse waves me in, with her nurse’s encouragement.  “I’ve been hoping a chaplain would come by.  I would really like prayer.” 

“I’m happy to do so.”  I walk to her side, and observe her staring at her left arm with trepidation as the nurse searches for a vein.  “Would you like me to hold your hand while he works?”

“That would be great.”  I take her hand and suggest that we settle into silent prayer, and Elyse relaxes quickly.  Before long the nurse finishes his task, and Elyse thanks him warmly for his skill and tenderness. 

As usual when someone requests prayer, I ask Elyse what she would like me to know about her faith.

“I’m a Christian.  I was raised Catholic, but when I was 18 I ran into a bunch of crazy Pentecostals and that’s where I’ve made my home ever since.  You know, though … I’d always thought I understood what it meant to have a relationship with God, but it wasn’t until I got breast cancer that I really experienced it.  It was the best thing that ever happened to me.  All my family and friends were upset about my illness, of course, and it’s not like I wasn’t, but I felt so grateful that it had brought me to a new place in my faith.”

“That’s really helpful.  Can you say a little more about what changed, what feels new?”

“It’s hard to describe.  It’s like, the moment I got my diagnosis, I felt this powerful presence within me and outside of me, letting me know that, whatever happened, I was not alone and I’d be OK.”

“I understand.  It’s a shame that it seems to take a crisis to open us fully to God’s presence, but it sure is wonderful to feel that strength in a time of need.”

“Absolutely.  And that comforting presence has never left me.  So now I’m sitting here, and I’ve got this new tumor or whatever.  The tests aren’t back yet, but they’re telling me that surgery seems unlikely.  That’s probably not a good thing.  I don’t want to hear the word ‘terminal’ when the doctors come back in here this afternoon, but I’m preparing myself that I might.  Still, somehow, I’m feeling OK, that I’m in God’s hands and I’ll be all right.”

“I really appreciate your sharing that.  I’m happy to lead us in a time of prayer—let me know how I can best pray for you.”

“I want to pray that the presence of God that I feel today never leaves me, and that that same presence be felt by all in my family—that they might know that whatever happens to me, God will be with them and they will be all right.”

And so we prayed together about these things …

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I am always in awe of those who confront end of life with courage and grace, and I learn so much from spending time in their presence.  Both Elyse and Clark, the self-described atheist from my post “The Science Teacher,” manage to do this beautifully while coming from seemingly opposite faith foundations.  How do they do this?  And are their faith foundations really so different?

Courage isn’t courage if there isn’t a measure of fear, and Elyse certainly felt fear.  “I don’t want to hear the word ‘terminal’ when the doctors come back”—and who among us would?  She knew from personal experience how difficult the path of treatment might be, yet also understood the consequence of not pursuing treatment.  She knew the fear her loved ones felt at the prospect of losing her, and she had her own fears about leaving this life that had brought her so much joy.  She held her fear openly, but it did not overcome her.  Elyse displayed great courage.

Similarly, grace (as I intend it here) isn’t grace if there isn’t some adversity to which it is a response.  It’s easy to be gracious when there is no personal injury, but much less so when learning that life may be coming to a premature end.  While acknowledging the reality of her loss, Elyse’s primary response was gratitude, focused less on what was being taken from her than on what she had received.  Elyse exemplified grace, from her kindness to the nurse sticking a needle into her arm, to her reflections on her treasured family life.  But what stood out from all of these was her gratitude for God’s steadfast love—what many call the greatest gift of all.

Courage and grace are steady companions; in my experience, one rarely finds one without the other.  There’s a reason for this, I think.  A favorite text of mine says, “perfect love casts out fear.” (1 John 4:18)  Accordingly, to perceive and acknowledge perfect love is to acquire the strength to overcome fear.  To me, it is the meaning of grace, and it is the source of courage.

What is the source of this love that casts out fear?  Elyse named it God, and expressed it in the context of the Christian story, as do I.  But Clark’s response to his own adversity was quite similar.  He named the source of the love he felt “the universe,” and he located that love within his personal experience of the universe.  Despite these differences, the quality of love and gratitude that I felt in Clark’s presence were made of the same substance as Elyse’s, and so were the courage and grace he displayed.

In The Science Teacher I remarked that “true faith … is the embrace of all that we don’t know, coupled with beliefs that enable us to step forward toward the unknown.”  This resonated with many readers, and I’ve continued to reflect on this as I’ve pondered my experiences with Elyse and Clark.  The world’s great faith traditions give us teachings and stories leading toward that embrace, but participation only provides context—as Elyse said, she’d thought she was a Christian until crisis brought her to a new understanding of her faith.  Clark, on the other hand, rejected immersion in any faith tradition, but cultivated within himself the seeds of faith that came to fruition in his time of crisis.

“In the end these three remain: faith, hope and love, and the greatest of these is love.” (1 Corinthians 13:13)  I believe the truth of this teaching is not confined to any faith tradition, and that it is accessible to all who listen carefully to their inward teacher.

After a few weeks away from the hospital, I came in to find Clark, a man in his early 60s, on my unit.  He’d had a complex set of medical problems, including cancer, that had had him fighting for his life in the ICU for a couple of weeks.  He’d stabilized enough to be moved to the oncology floor a few days earlier, but he’d remained in a state of delirium—until that morning.  His chart indicated he’d now been fully briefed on his course of care over the previous weeks.  Palliative care options had been discussed, and he was still taking it all in.  I let a few more hours go by, then went to see him in the afternoon.

“Greetings, Clark, my name’s Greg, and I’m one of the chaplains here …”

He cuts me off with a smile.  “I’m an atheist.”

“I saw that on your chart.  Many of my family and friends are atheists.”  I return the smile.  “I’m here to offer company and conversation to anyone who wants it, with no regard to religion.”

“Oh …”  Clark pauses for a moment, thinking.  “I’d like that, actually.  It’s been a big day for me.”

“Seems like it.  Tell me more.”

“Well, I feel like myself for the first time in ages, and I’ve had time to sit and think.  I’ve decided I’m done with medical treatments.  The last few weeks have been hell, and I still have stage IV cancer.  I don’t want to keep doing this—I’m done.  I’ve had a really good life, and I’m not afraid of dying—I’m ready.”

“Wow, that’s big all right.  You sound really clear about this.”

“I am.  The more I sit with it, the more it feels right.”

“Then I’m very happy for you.  Would you like to share a bit about the really good life you’ve had?”

Clark’s face lights up.  “I’ve been a high school science teacher my whole life.  I just love science—that’s why I’m an atheist.  I was raised Jewish, but I can’t reconcile the idea of God with my own understanding of the universe.  I don’t think it works that way, and I don’t need it to—I find all the beauty and meaning I need in the natural world.”

“I love your enthusiasm—no wonder you are a teacher!  Tell me, if you don’t mind … have you been thinking about what comes next?”

“I’ve always thought there is nothing more to us than the molecules we are made of,” Clark continues.  “Yet what an amazing thing it is that our consciousness, and our ability to think—and do science, and have relationships—arises from just these molecules.  I like thinking of myself as made of the same matter as the universe, and I’ll just be giving that matter back to the universe when I die.”

“That’s a beautiful image, Clark.  For me, the essence of spirituality is a sense of oneness with that place from which we were created, our ability to feel and express wonderment and gratitude, and our care for our fellow created beings.  Whatever you call it, you’ve got it.”

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There was much more to my conversation with Clark than just this snippet, but this is what opened the way forward.  I never begrudge a patient’s preconceived notions about why a chaplain might knock on their door—one never knows what they’ve experienced that formed those notions.  If given a chance, my goal is always to defuse their preconceptions by simply stating what we do, then let them decide from a better-informed place.  I’m grateful that Clark, scientist that he is, took what I said at face value and accepted my offer.

The majority of patients I see in the hospital have no active religious practice, and even fewer participate in a religious community.  Many still feel a sense of identity with religious roots from their upbringing or families of origin, but have left that behind—just like Clark.  All of this is in keeping with trends that have been evolving since at least the 1950s; for better or worse, Portland is farther along the path than most of the U.S., but it’s happening everywhere.

Those without religious identification often search for a label to communicate their status: atheist, agnostic, none, and “spiritual but not religious” are ones I hear frequently.  But all labels are inadequate, including Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, and Quaker—we are all unique manifestations of what it means to be human.  So when someone offers me a label, I see it as an invitation to learn more about what that label means to them.  If they want to be known, they are usually happy to say more, and that’s when the real conversation begins.

This sentence leapt out for me from an article I read recently:  “The quest for certainty and control can tempt people of every faith and no faith.”^[1]  I have listened as patients expressed their certainties in times of crisis—whether grounded in religious dogma or in scientific determinism—and I do my best to support them in whatever context they find solace.  But true faith, for me, is the opposite of certainty:  it is the embrace of all that we don’t know, coupled with a set of beliefs that enable us to step forward toward the unknown.  In this sense, Clark was every bit as much a person of faith as any religious person I have ministered to, in spite of his self-described “atheist” label.

With labels set aside and a lovely foundation beneath us, Clark and I discussed the many other important things on his mind:  how best to convey his decision to his life partner, who would be arriving in an hour; whom he might want to reach out to before he passed; how he would like to be remembered by the school and students he had given his life to—and how a hospice chaplain could continue these conversations with him after his discharge from the hospital.

I am blessed to have known Clark.

---

[1] “‘Shiny Happy People,’ Fundamentalism and the Toxic Quest for Certainty,” NY Times, June 13, 2023,

Bonus rounds
Nothing left to prove
Nothing more worthy of doing
than serving as God’s hands
Down here in this mess

Bearing witness to the unwinding
of the lives we have built
and the lives we have known

Embracing the new lives
God ushers into our presence
That we might tend to their souls
And they to ours

Honoring the beauty we behold
Grieving the pain we cannot evade
Seeking to touch with love
all that has been touched by fear

Awaiting our time of rest
in God’s welcoming arms

As I begin writing this, I am in transition from 2+ weeks in southern Italy to life back home.  The transition has been delightfully gradual.  One last quiet day at our place nestled in farmland, then saying good-bye to rural Italy.  One last afternoon and evening in frenetic Naples, where we began our sojourn, greeting it like an old friend, then saying good-bye to urban Italy as well.  Catching myself saying “grazie” to a restaurant server at London-Heathrow.  The flight map now tells me we will land in Portland in 7 hours.  As much as we have enjoyed this time away, shared with lifelong friends, Diane and I are looking forward to returning to the familiar surroundings and routines of home.

And then what?  What are we coming back to?  What remains for us to do?  The central goals of our lives—to raise a family, to accomplish meaningful work, to build loving relationships with family and friends—are mostly in the rear-view mirror now.  Even though I feel incredibly blessed that these dreams have come true, we have always oriented ourselves toward goals in the future, and I often find it disorienting to have no big goals in front of me.

Four years ago this month, on an even longer flight home—from Kenya, where Diane and I had served on a medical mission—these same thoughts arose for me, fresher and more urgent than they are today.  And from these thoughts arose the poem that opens this post.  I have tweaked it over the years, but the urge to do so has diminished.  It keeps calling me back, though, and it anchors me at times like this.  It helps me to let go of ambition and accomplishment, for what lies beyond them is far richer—unimpeded engagement with the fabric of life itself, in the warp and weft of each moment.

The poem also reminds me that, even if I have endured my share of losses, my season of letting go is only just beginning.  I see this in the increasing infirmities of family and friends, in the activities we once shared that are no longer feasible.  I see it in my own body, in the fact that the decades have imperceptibly shaved two inches from my height.  I still have the strength for ambitious travel and backpacking, but I am growing more at peace with the notion that I may never again see the backwaters of Kerala or the summit of a Cascade volcano.  I see in some of my patients a weariness so deep that death appears to them like a long-promised rest, and I no longer struggle to imagine feeling such a weariness myself.

Yet every day I wake up to find abundant life all around me.  Whether tending to a grandchild, listening to an elderly patient, or sharing a meal with Diane or another loved one, there is so much in each day that feeds my soul even as I seek to feed the souls of others.  This is what I am returning home to now.  It is what remains.  It is what I hope to do for as long as my body and mind are able.  And it is as satisfying as any ambition I have ever had.

Our administrative assistant stopped me as I was returning to our office.  “Short Stay called with an unusual request.  They have a patient who’s done with surgery but doesn’t want to leave until she speaks with a chaplain.”  I checked and learned that Carmen, in her late 30s, just had a D&C in follow-up to a miscarriage a month earlier.  I headed right down …

I find Carmen lying on a gurney in a small curtained-off space, still in her surgery gown, with a blanket pulled up to her neck.  I take a seat by her side.

“Greetings, Carmen,” I begin.  “Thanks for inviting me to be with you today.  What would you like me to know about you, so that I can be of help to you?”

“Well, I’m Roman Catholic, and that’s very important to me, though I don’t attend church as often as I should—maybe once a month.  What about you?”

“I was raised Catholic, though I’ve been a Quaker in my adult life.  Still, we read the same Bible and follow the same Jesus.”

This seems to put her at ease, and she begins.  “I’m here because I had a miscarriage a month ago and I never stopped bleeding.  It’s just really hard … I’ve been reliving that day again.”  She begins tearing up.

“That’s a huge loss, and I can understand how your procedure today would bring it up all over again.”

“What’s even harder for me right now is feelings of guilt I’ve been having over poor decisions I made a long time ago … I think I’m still dealing with those decisions today.”

“That guilt sounds like a big burden to carry.  Is there anything more you want to say about it?”

She looks away. “I got pregnant and had a baby when I was very young.  I raised him myself, and he’s been the greatest joy of my life, but he’s all grown up.  Now I’ve finally found a good man—Victor—and we want to have a child together, but I keep having miscarriages.  I think maybe it’s because of the decisions I made when I was younger.”

“So … you think that maybe in some way you are being punished for becoming pregnant when you were a teen …?”  Carmen nods vigorously, and tears flow abundantly.  I offer my hand, which she takes, and we sit quietly for a bit.

“Tell me, Carmen,” I finally say, “do you think the Jesus you know from the Bible would punish you today for mistakes you made as a teen?”  Carmen shakes her head no.  “I don’t think so either,” I continue.  “In fact, Jesus says many times that he didn’t come to condemn, that what he really wants for us is new life.”

Carmen visibly flushes with relief.  Her tears continue to flow, but her breathing becomes more relaxed.  We sit in silence again, and soon a look of peace graces her face.

“I’m not a Catholic priest,” I say at last, “so I can’t offer you confession, but let me ask you this:  if you feel clear that Jesus would offer you forgiveness, do you think you can offer forgiveness to yourself?”

Carmen draws a deep breath, then nods and offers a shy smile.  “Yes, that feels right.  It feels so good to get this off my chest.”  We sit for another minute, then she says, “Do you think you could say a prayer?”

“That’s my job!” I say.  “Dear God … thank you for your presence with Carmen and me today.  Thank you for the gift of Jesus, who reminds us of your unconditional love and your desire for us to be healed.  Please help Carmen to accept your forgiveness and to forgive herself.  You have blessed Carmen with a beautiful son, and you have heard of her longing for a child with her husband, Victor.  Help them to know that, whether they are able to have a child or not, you are always with them and will accompany them for the rest of their days.  In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.  Amen.”

I watch as Carmen makes the sign of the cross, then looks up and smiles broadly. 

“Thank you so much for listening!  I feel like now I can go out and be a better version of myself for my husband.”

◊

My relationship with Christianity is complicated, to say the least, but over time I have found a place of peace.  As a chaplain, though, I watch people struggle with the blessings and burdens of their faith—or lack of faith—every day.  My hope is that, by listening and offering reflection, I can help them untangle a small piece of the knot, so that they might feel less torment and more comfort going forward.  It was a blessing to be invited to do this work with Carmen.

My own upbringing exposed me to some of the best and some of the worst of Catholicism.  My mother’s parents were Irish immigrants, and she embodied what I consider the best of Catholicism.  Still, in middle school I pushed back hard against doctrines and practices that I abhor to this day.  My mother debated me at length about faith, to see for herself what kind of foundation I had formed, then she finally said, “You can leave the church, but I hope you keep searching for a faith to call your own.  I have never mistaken the Catholic Church for Jesus Christ, and I hope you don’t either.  Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water.”  I’m forever grateful for that guidance.

For me, the life and teachings of Jesus are the core of Christian practice.  This might seem obvious, but I never cease to be amazed—and troubled—by how often they get overshadowed by the doctrines and practices of Christian churches, Catholic and Protestant alike.  I listen to many good people like Carmen who suffer from guilt over past actions, a sense of moral inadequacy, and the expectation of punishment that they think they deserve.  I understand where those who instill such beliefs find biblical justification for their doctrines, but in doing so I see them ignoring the “good news” at the heart of the faith.  I can’t help but see this as losing sight of the forest for the trees—or the baby for the bath water—and it breaks my heart every time.

These misguided doctrines—and the behaviors of so many leaders of Christian institutions—have been leading people to disassociate from religious faith and institutions for several decades now.  I did so, too, as a young adult, but the life and spirit of Jesus, and the wisdom that Christianity shares with so many other faith traditions, keep drawing me back to study and practice.  More important for chaplaincy, these teachings provide context for building bridges with many patients I see, whether those like Carmen who are still engaged in institutional religion, or those who have left, or those who have never paid it any attention.  The goal is not proselytizing, but rather helping the patient to use the best parts of their own faith or spiritual identity to do the work of healing themselves.

At one point I asked Carmen if she’d ever had any of this conversation with someone from her church; she replied “no,” and left me to imagine why that might not have felt safe.  I don’t know why she decided to have it with a chaplain who could not offer her the sacraments of her church, but I’m glad she did.  I have no idea if she will ever seek out a Catholic priest for the sacrament of reconciliation, but I hope our conversation strengthened her relationship with God.  As a Quaker, I don’t believe we need a mediator in that relationship, but I do think the company of fellow believers is a great asset in one’s faith journey.  I hope Carmen can find that in the faith tradition that means so much to her.

In awe of the complexity of motherhood, and with admiration for all who pursue this path …

My pager buzzed as I was leaving the chaplain’s office.  “Patient in 935 could benefit from a chaplain visit.”  I see that Dean, age 39, has been admitted for fever and difficulty breathing; he’s COVID-negative, but has an underlying disease that makes his health precarious.  No one is at the nursing station, so I head into his room.  Dean is sitting up in bed.

“Greetings, I’m chaplain Greg.  I’m making rounds and offering conversation, company, or whatever folks might want …”

“Chaplain, huh?”  Dean pauses, staring straight at me.  “I suppose they told you about my sister.”

“Not a thing.  What would you like me to know?”

“Right after I got into this room they put through a call from the Medical Examiner,” he says in a flat monotone.  “They just found my sister dead in a homeless camp in Seattle.”

“Oh, Dean, I’m so sorry.  What was her name?”

“Clara.  They said it looked like she hanged herself.  They found a notebook with her stuff where she’d written that she was done with humans.”

“That’s so hard … how are you doing?”

“I’m OK.  We weren’t close.  I haven’t heard from her since my wedding day in 2010.  I tried to get her to come and she said she would, but she didn’t.  Later she called and said I probably got some nice gifts and she needed money.  I told her no and she hung up on me, and that was the last time we spoke.”

Dean’s tone remains unemotional but his eyes connect intensely with mine.

“Do you have other siblings or family?”

“She’s it.  Three years younger.  My parents are not good people.  When I was a kid, they grew weed in the basement and cooked meth in the living room.”  Dean proceeds, in a matter-of-fact way, to narrate a litany of abuse and neglect.  He concludes, “I’ve seen a lot of things I wish I could unsee.”

“Are your parents still alive?”

“They are, though they split when I was 10.  They move around, I never know where they are.  I need to notify them about Clara … I’m not looking forward to that at all.”

Dean hands me his phone.  It displays an obituary, with a picture of an old man sitting by a lake, fishing.  “That’s my grandpa.  He and my grandma never turned their backs on me, no matter what my parents said about me.  I would ride my bike for miles just to be with them, to get away.”

Dean takes his phone back, fiddles for a minute, hands it back to me with a picture of a young couple.  “Your wedding day,” I say with a smile.  “Yep,” he affirms, “and now we have two great kids.”  More pictures follow, displaying the life Dean has built for himself as a handyman in rural Washington.

I return the next day to find Dean in street clothes.  His RN enters after me, tells him his discharge orders are complete, and asks him to coordinate a pickup time with his wife.  “You call her,” he replies, “I don’t need to get in the middle.”  The nurse, a bit flustered, agrees and exits quickly.  Dean flashes me a wry smile.

“Looks like you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah, but …”  He pulls out his phone.  “I’ve texted both of my parents, telling them I have important news.”  Dean shows me a text containing two dates, which I infer correctly are Clara’s dates of birth and death.  “I thought that might get their attention, but neither of them has replied, so I guess it’s up to me to figure out what to do with her ashes.”  He’s clearly thought about this a lot since our first visit; he’s committed to honoring Clara’s life, and to giving his parents their best shot at doing the same.

Dean then asks, with sincere interest, how my work has gone since we last spoke.  I say I’ve seen the whole spectrum, from an old man all alone in the world returning to the streets (Gideon), to a man my age with advanced cancer, surrounded by family and friends, making plans for his final weeks of life.  “So often it comes down to having good people in your life,” I conclude.

“I agree.  I’ve seen a lot, and I consider myself fortunate.  We don’t have much money, but money doesn’t do it.  I’ve seen people with lots of money and the hardest hearts, and I’ve known people with nothing at all who will give you the shirt off their backs.  I’m not religious, but religion doesn’t do it, either.  Some of those religious types are so busy being holy they don’t have time for people in need.”

Just then Dean’s phone buzzes with a text message.  He looks at it and grins, then hands it over to me.

“Your nurse says I can come get you.  I’m jumping in the car right now.  I so f***ing love you! ❤️❤️❤️“

◊

Few things inspire me more than stories of resiliency like Dean’s.  The childhood he related to me was horrific by any standard, but not uncommon, especially among people whose lives have been marked by prison, addiction, or homelessness (e.g., Hector).  What’s remarkable, but also not that uncommon, is Dean’s escape from this life.  But it wasn’t easy …

Dean struggled with addiction and homelessness in his teens, though by his own account he’s been clean and sober for 20 years, and living a stable family life for a dozen.  He seems to have sensed early on that he needed to get away from home, and he did so as soon as he could; living on the streets as a teen rarely goes well, but somehow he escaped that, too.  Dean’s demeanor was low-key and laconic, but I quickly sensed a core of steel that could push through the most difficult obstacles.

Dean’s grandparents were positive influences—they often are in stories like these—but they don’t seem to have intervened actively, just offered a place of refuge.  There may have been others along the way—a teacher, a coach, a social worker—but Dean never made any such mention.

And then there’s Clara …  I can only wonder about the factors that propelled her life and Dean’s to such different outcomes.  This kind of divergence in families is hardly rare, of course, though their situation seems particularly stark.  I didn’t sense that Dean was uncaring towards Clara, more that he was simply a pragmatic survivor who knew his boundaries and knew he had to maintain them with Clara, too.

What rises for me when I think about Dean and Clara is mystery, humility, and grace.  My own life gives me at best an inkling of what it would have been like to grow up in their family of origin.  I have no idea whether I would have been reduced to ashes like Clara, or risen from the ashes like Dean.  I celebrate Dean’s resiliency as an example of what the human spirit is capable of, but I do not condemn Clara, or the many like her, who cannot find a way forward after such a traumatic childhood.  There, but for the grace of God, I might have gone. 

My sense is that Dean understands that, too, and lives each day with deep gratitude for the life he has been granted.  And that, for me, is truly inspirational.