Of course my "I am an invincible warrior chaplain" phase could only last a day or two. Today the universe conspired to level me back to humility.
I was on call. So between classes and visits, I was summoned to four deaths. A beloved elderly man, a long awaited death of a father, and an out-of-the-blue massive heart attack on a 50 year old woman. Three families in pain, lots of tears. I was pretty spent when I got the fourth call. A Hispanic couple had just had an emergency c-section and the tiny baby had lived one hour. I spent the across-hospital walk trying to gear up.
When I entered the room, it was buzzing with nurses, a doctor and a translator. I was hovering against the wall, straining to catch a familiar word amidst the Spanish phrases and medical dialogue. I didn't understand what had happened. I was overwhelmed by the parents' evident grief. What could I offer this couple? I didn't speak their language. I had no answers. I felt inadequate and helpless.
In a wave, the room cleared out. Dad pulled a chair over to the window, wept and made calls to family on his cell phone. A nurse readied an area to bathe the baby. She came to the mother, speaking soothingly, took the baby from the mom and walked back to the sink. I watched mom's face begin to quiver.
Suddenly it became clear. My lack of language abilities, spiritual wisdom and emotional composure no longer mattered. I am a mom who is crazy in love with my kids. So is she. We spoke a universal language. Mom. I was next to her bed in a second, holding her hands, heads pressed together, tears running down our faces, as we watched her beautiful tiny daughter getting bathed, footprinted and dressed. The nurse brought the baby back, and we unwrapped her and memorized her loveliness. Through halting words in both languages and gestures, we noted that the baby had her daddy's nose and her mom's eyebrows. We counted her fingers and traced her ears. We sniffed and coo'd.
"Dios sabe mejor. Dios sabe mejor." I smiled at her questioningly. "God...knows... best." Her husband attempted to translate from his window seat. "She sick", mom said. "Los médicos no podían arreglar le. Ella habría sufrido. And you here. They come. Hi. You fine? Buena. They go. You stay. You here." She squeezed my hand. I squeezed back.
I think about all the great things I have learned this year. In theology, pastoral care, intrapersonal reflection, communication, etc. The things that make me feel like a confident chaplain. In this room I could not summon any of it. But in a mom's broken heart and broken English I did remember my very favorite name for God. Immanuel.
...and they will call him Immanuel" —which means, "God with us." Matthew 1:23
Many years ago, young Scandinavian warriors had to go through an initiatory rite called berserker or berserkergang where they had to symbolically transform into a bear or wolf before they could become an elite Viking.
In the 21 century berserker continues. Marines have to endure a rite of passage called the crucible. This is the final test in recruit training, and represents the culmination of all of the skills and knowledge a Marine should possess. Throughout the crucible, recruits are faced with physical and mental challenges that must be accomplished before advancing further.
Today I was initiated through a chaplain version of these rites. I watched a hip replacement surgery. OH YES I DID. Me! The one who used to get light headed when people removed their band aids. The one who had to put her head between her knees when people talked about the scratch in their throats. In the words of Jenn and Barb "Who are you?"
Each of the chaplains were invited to spend a morning in surgery so we could get a better sense of what our patients had just been through. It started with a 30 minute video on every possible aspect of a germ, and dressing in scrubs, cap, shoe coverings and a mask. I figured if I did faint, at least no one would know who I was.
My first surgery was a lapriscopic gall bladder removal. Though I was standing next to the patient, I could watch the whole thing on a large, flat screen TV that the doctor was looking at. I got an inside view of a kidney, the stomach, some fat and some muscle. And then the problem gall bladder. I counted eight stones on the xray, luckily none in the gall tube. (come on medical people, what is it really called?) Then, amazingly, through one of the little incisions they had made in the abdomen, out came the gall bladder. Here's the cool part. I got to hold it and feel around for the stones.
The second surgery I was a bit more leary about. But I thought it would be interesting to see what my husband, Steve's patients go through. (physical therapy after hip surgery.) I could write pages about it. But here are the headlines. Knives, a saw, a pick, a hammer, blood dripping, blood spurting, a tiny blow torch, lots of scraping, the head of the femur put on the table 6 inches from my face, cement, screws, many needles, lots of thread, staples. It was like halloween and armeggedon and the crusades and a Wes Craven movie all rolled into one little sterile room.
And there I stood, yep, just stood quietly, in awe of the team work, admiring the doctor's skill, aware of the sleeping patient, and then amazed that I wasn't faint or queezy or gagging. I survived! I realized that I had really gone berserker and survived the crucible and become a bona fide hospital chaplain.
He will rescue them from oppression and violence, for precious is their blood in his sight. Psalm 72:14
Since the beginning of this CPE program I have been asked if I've eaten at the Beacon yet. And when people hear that I'm in Spartanburg, they tell me about their trips to the Beacon.
For sixty years the Beacon has been a regional landmark, a Carolina tradition, and famous for serving more tea than any other restaurant in the world. Many of the restaurant's more than 60 employees are long-term veterans of the Beacon, some with more than 50 years of service. Like J.C. who greets you at the counter barkin "Talk" (order) and "Walk" (keep moving). Everyone down here has a Beacon story - of being yelled at by J.C., of eating til they were sick, coming here on dates or after church.
The Beacon was a topic of discussion at our ethical journal club with two fun female medical residents. None of us had been. We decided that we must go.
I ordered a grilled cheese a'plenty. (it was that or a fried banana/mayonaise sandwich.) The a'plenty part covers the sandwich with a heap of onion rings and french fries. COVERS. I now believe the ascertation that each week the Beacon uses three tons of onions, three tons of potatoes per week and four tons of beef, chicken, and seafood. EACH WEEK. Three of us shared my a'plenty and didn't finish it.
Even though I ordered the special Beacon lemonade, (and don't like ice tea) I was fascinated to find out that the Beacon is the largest single seller of iced tea in the U.S. They use 3,000 pounds of sugar per week making 62,500 gallons per year (that's enough to fill 24 tanker trucks)!
We had a great Beacon lunch. We joked about handing out guest passes to the heart center and wondered if we would ever be hungry again.
And in a world where we pinch pennies and count calories, there is something God-like about this level of abundance, bounty, fullness and a place where you can have plenty, just by asking for it.
You will have plenty to eat, until you are full, and you will praise the name of the LORD your God, who has worked wonders for you; never again will my people be shamed. Then you will know that I am in Israel, that I am the LORD your God, and that there is no other; Joel 2:25-27
Gowned and gloved, booted and masked, I stood in a small labor and delivery room ready to watch my first non-Miller baby enter the world. I got light headed as the giant epidural needle was jammed into mom's back. I can still remember how that felt. But the rest of the experience was foreign to me. I winced as an incision was made in mom's abdomen. Then another layer was sliced. Then another. I gagged a bit as amniotic fluid geysered out. (sorry squeemies) But then, out of all the scalpels and clamps and blood, out came a beautiful baby boy. 6 pounds 7 ounces. 10 fingers, 10 toes. Perfect ears, big feet, and a sprinkling of dark hair. He was given the rub down and immediately got pink and indignant. I got to motion dad over, from behind mom's anesthesia curtain, to come see his son for the very first time.
WOW. Let's just pause at that for a minute.... WOW.
Really, it is a miracle. Two people created a baby. It grew inside of her. Into a perfect, unique human being. And then, at the right time, he emerged, one minute breathing liquid, the next moment breathing air. WOW.
And then I thought about how God seems to have a lot of plan B's. There is the way it is "supposed" to go. And for some people it does. But other times there are complications, problems, disasters.
And then there is plan B. Not the end or hopelessness. Just a good doctor and a good clean knife. A creative solution. A new way through.
This year has been my c-section. Painful and messy and not at all what I had planned. But also necessary and life saving. And if an earthly mom will go through all this for her baby, maybe I can trust that God will keep making a way for me. WOW!
Hey precious little baby. It's my Birth Day too!
For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Jeremiah 29:11
Sometimes I miss the creativity of pastoring. Coming up with a fun, new way to teach a familiar topic, putting together a worship service with fresh, unexpected elements, teaching a children's baptismal class with active learning or starting small group with a crazy icebreaker.
I was thinking about this last night as the pager went off and I trudged out to the great unknown to answer the call. What would I find when I walked into room 252? One person or 20? Hysteria or depression? Would I be viewed as the grim reaper or the blessed hope? I would soon find out and improvise my response to any possibility.
The visit went well. As I was walking back it hit me - How much more creativity do you want?
The most creative people in the world - like actors at Second City, The Groundlings and TV's Whose Line Is It Anyway, do improv regularly to stay sharp and fresh by "ad libing and on the spot acting from scripts which contain a minimal outline of each scene and no predetermined knowledge about the props that might be useful in a scene." Sounds like part of a chaplain's job description.
So flex your creative muscle. Quick improv. Respond to these scenarios:
*You walk into a consult room and an older woman screams "No, no, no, if you are here, he must be dead."
*In the middle of a conversation a mom says "my son was paralyzed in this car accident, my husband just left us, I have inoperable cancer.....but I guess God knows best!"
*you get paged to Neuro ICU and then are asked to get 20 grieving family members to leave their loved one's bed side and go sit in the waiting room.
*A man on 4H sits in bed with tubes in his chest. After you introduce yourself, he says "I don't believe in God. Faith is ridiculous."
You still with us? Flow creativity flow!
Do not be frightened. But in your hearts set apart Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect. 1 Peter 3:14 and 15
