One of the best pieces of advice I received from a mentor when I began my discernment process was to take affirmations of the calling seriously. It sometimes becomes a balancing act between remaining humble when people are complementary, and being too self-deprecating to the point where you almost deny the call. The bottom line that is important--and difficult-- to keep in mind is that while God participates with limited humans in the work of the Kingdom, the call is real, and it does not make one superhuman or elite.
I don't think it is too much of an exaggeration to say that I would not have been able to finish CPE without two things: prayer and affirmation. In CPE, the batteries run low, the problems do not get fixed, tragedy weighs heavy. Affirmations serve as a form of recharging. The path of one's life--and God's role in the life--becomes clearer when fellow pilgrims, even people you may have never met before, stop to tell you that you are on the right path.
One of those moments came at the best possible times.
It had been a long, long night and morning. My own morale was running low. Three patients passed. One at 10pm, another around 3am, the last at 5:30am. I was frustrated because I wasn’t paged to come to the first two deaths. I think it very important to be there, and was sad that with all the time I put into the family and the unit staff, the staff didn’t call. I found out about the deaths about 20-30 minutes after the fact and because I went to check on the family who had left soon after the passing.
Because of this, I stepped in those rooms to read the commendatory prayers long after the family was gone. Once while the nursing staff was preparing the body to transport. I guess I needed the closure.
At 5:30am, a nurse called to tell me that the patient's death was imminent. Indeed it was, the patient passed in the five minutes it took me to walk to the unit. The nurse met me and told me that it was unlikely that the family would come in. No one should die alone. I walked into the room and offered the commendatory prayers and prayers for the absent family.
Come to help, you saints of God;
Hurry, you angels of the Lord;
Take up this soul {your servant}
and offer her before the face of the Most High.
No one should die alone. I believe it’s the Christian community’s responsibility [actually, a human responsibility--not limited to the religious--to be present when a fellow human is at their most alone] to accompany our sisters and brothers as far as we can in this life, and prepare both them and us for their departure to whatever afterlife there may be. The image of us letting go, and the past saints and angels taking hold for the rest of the pilgrimage bears heavily upon me. I still feel a person’s death deeply, even if I’ve just walked into the room, yet I feel privileged to be part of their journey into Light Perpetual or the arms of God.
I was emotionally, spiritually, and physically drained when I was called to the oncology ward. A patient, a woman in her 50s, was on 'comfort care.' Stage-four lung cancer had ravaged her lungs, and blood was filling them. She was in and out of consciousness, but still lucid when she was awake. With her lungs filling, she could not speak above a whisper.
"They're getting ready to say goodbye," the nurse told me before I walked in.
As I walked in, I drew the attention of a man standing at the foot of the bed. It was the patient's brother; the patient was asleep at the moment. He and I spoke briefly after I introduced myself. The family, led by the patient Grace*, had jointly made the decision to stop fighting. To end the pain. To die well.
Three women walked in shortly afterward, Grace's sisters and one of the sisters' daughters. We spoke briefly, little more than introductions and where they had traveled from to be bedside. It was immediately clear that this family was close, and that there was no conflict in what was going on here. The noise of five other people in the room and the conversation woke Grace. I walked to the side of the bed and introduced myself to her, taking her outstretched hand.
"The nurse said that y'all would like a prayer." She moved her mouth, but nodded 'yes.' I asked that they bow their heads.
"Eternal One, in your Word, we are taught that those who know love, know you. The love in this room is so apparent between this family, and we know you are present. Keep us mindful of your presence in this difficult time. Grant us peace with the decisions we have made. Give us grace and forbearance with each other in the days ahead. Meet us in our grieving. Lord, bring Grace into your presence when the time comes, and until then, keep her in the sure knowledge of your love. Amen"
Was I done, my purpose served? Everyone looked up, but Grace did not release my hand. I knelt next to the bed.
"Grace, would you like some time alone with your family, or would you like me to stay?"
"Stay," she whispered. She removed her oxygen mask, "Would you tell my family a few things?"
I spent the next fifteen minutes passing some last words from Grace to her family, with me bending down to put my ear near her lips to hear the whispers, and then relay the words to her family.
Be strong.
Remember their love for each other.
Keep the prayer shawl (which she received from another chaplain), and give it to other family members when they are ill or in trouble.
For about 15 minutes I helped her talk to her family in words of wisdom, comfort, and memories, until she was too tired to continue and closed her eyes to rest. It was a privilege for me to witness and participate in these acts of love. When I was about to go, her sisters and brother thanked me profusely. But what has stuck with me are the words of one of Grace's sisters.
"Robert, I am a hospice nurse. I wish I had you as a chaplain."
Moments like this, when in weakness I re-found the path which God put in front of me through others, when something was clearer to another person than to me, were what kept me going.
They still do.
Take affirmations seriously. They are a way God talks to us.
_______
*Not her real name. Grace passed away later that evening, while I was off duty.
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