When the Chaplain’s Heart Breaks

            If I were to say I love what I do every single minute, I would be stretching the truth a bit. The reality is, sometimes I have some really hard days, with some real tough stuff to help families and staff through. Don’t get me wrong, I would not choose to do anything different with my calling, but some days my heart is stretched a bit. Add to this the unavoidable personal tough stuff and my heart gets stretched even more.

            I would really like to believe that all my skills as a chaplain have equipped me to handle all this heart-stretching with grace and in a healthy way that puts me at the other side of it all, completely whole. However, this is not always the case.  Sometimes my heart gets stretched too much and it breaks. I find the burden of grief comes pouring out because it is just too much to continue carrying it all. Sometimes it is awkward and uncomfortable and almost never at a good time. Sometimes it is a challenge to find the space to let the grief pour out, because ministry does not always allow for me to create this grief release on my terms.

            I have had to learn, and am still learning, that sometimes I just have to step away, ask for help and let the grief happen. I have had to learn there is no timeline on grief, that grief can come back even years later, maybe different, but still screaming for attention as loudly as the first day I experienced it.

            What is ironic is that these are all things I tell my patients and families routinely, but yet my own heart still has a hard time learning it. It is impossible to be a chaplain to yourself. This is where it is important to have a good community of colleagues and friends who can gently show me it may be time to seek out help. Those who can help me remember that I am human. That I can’t always do this grief thing on my own and it is ok to need help.

            It is easy to fall into the trap of trying to always seem like you have it together. But that is far from the reality at times. Just maybe, it is okay to have times where I really don’t have it together, feel a complete mess, and don’t know how to get myself pulled back together. I don’t have to like it, but maybe these times are necessary in helping me be better in my understanding and my compassion.

Love is...Bright Red Toenails

Once during my ministry I was privileged to know a family consisting of an elderly gentleman, elderly woman and their children. The man and woman had been married for over 60 years and he had been her primary caregiver in their home for many years. During one of several visits with them I noticed that the woman’s toenails were painted bright red. Knowing that she was in the last stage of dementia and was therefore unable to care for herself in this way, I asked her husband who had painted her toenails. I thought, perhaps, that a female member of their family had done this. His matter of fact and gentle reply was, “Well I did, because she always did like to look nice.” He then smiled and patted her hand. To him this was not a big deal. It was one, of many, practical declarations of his love for her and his way of honoring who she has been throughout their lifetime together.

To me, this is a wonderful illustration of what love is. Love is being together and caring for each other in ways that are unique to that person. Love is the tenderness of an eighty-something man painting his wife’s toenails bright red. Love is honoring and respecting who someone is and has been, even though the ravages of dementia have stolen that person away. Love is continuing to walk beside someone, because of who you and they are together, not because of what they can do for you now.

It was a privilege to be knowledgeable about this moment of tenderness between them. It reminded me of a time when I was pregnant and my husband painted my toenails because I no longer could and it was one practical way for him to show he loved me. For us, it was full of laughter and joy, for the reason I could not do that for myself was one of excited anticipation. (He did a GREAT job by the way!) For this man and woman, it was one more indication that their time together was coming to an end.

Not to be maudlin, but, one day the journey my husband and I share will also come to an end. We feel as if we have a lifetime to live between now and then, that we are still in the beginning of our journey (yes, 17 years is still the beginning!) but the reality is, that day will arrive. It is my hope that our children will be able to tell stories like that about us. About how we loved each other, cared for each other, how we did crazy, sweet, beautiful things for each other. How through our example they learned to love others, that they learned compassion, and how to honor those they love through little, but important acts.

Dancing With My Grief

October provides the opportunity to focus our attention on many worthy areas of awareness, but the one closest to my heart is that October is the month for awareness of pregnancy and infant loss. It is a cause close to my heart because not only am I a mother, but I am also a bereaved mother. My second child Hope died at 14 weeks gestation, four years ago this past July. And so, as yesterday was the actual day in October for this awareness and remembrance, I find it hard to stay silent.

It is hard enough being a bereaved mother, add into the equation the fact that I am a bereaved chaplain mother and sometimes it gets complicated, particularly since one of my areas of ministry is the maternity unit. I do feel privileged and called to be present to these mothers in their times of celebration when all goes as expected, but also especially when these mothers are simultaneously saying hello and goodbye to their little one(s). But this also means that I am working in the face of my own remembered grief on a regular basis. It is a very careful dance with my grief that I do some days. I am grateful for a staff that understands when I find a corner to wipe away the tears after I leave a room. I am grateful for coworkers who recognize how hard some days are. Sometimes it is the only way I survive. I am still in the process of trying to figure out how to do all this well, but that is not the purpose of this blog post.

Today I am writing to give voice for the mothers and the families who share this grief and loss. You may notice that I mention families. It can be very easy to focus on the mother who has carried the child, but in taking this journey myself I have come to realize it is the whole family who is affected. Fathers grieve a child, children sometimes very young are trying to figure out how to miss and grieve a sibling; grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins – all are affected. I discovered I could not care for my family in the first days; I needed others to minister to my family. I needed others to minister to me. Even now, sometimes this is the case. It goes back to you the simple truth that you cannot be a chaplain to your own family.

There are no easy answers here, just the simple truth that I still grieve and I still minister to grieving families. It is a dance I will always do. And I am grateful to know that I have God and Spirit as my dance partner. And it is in this spirit that I will carry on as a Bereaved Chaplain Mother.

“Sit Still, You’re Fidgeting!” Reforming my Pastoral Identity

About a year and a half ago I ended a congregational ministry position and began a new ministry in palliative care chaplaincy. While I am sure I made the right decision, and working as a chaplain had been a goal of mine for several years, the transition was still challenging and surprising.

To say that these are vastly different would be underestimating how my ministry has changed.  But, that isn’t what has made me the most uncomfortable.  Becoming a congregant has been what’s most uncomfortable. 

The church we left was my first ministry position and we were there for ten years. It is the only church my three children have ever known.  Two of three were born into and dedicated into that community.  My oldest was baptized in the small concrete baptismal in the basement (by me).  It’s the community that supported my journey through seminary, watched my children grow, and wholeheartedly participated in their formative Christian education.  It’s the community that helped me when I had cancer.  It’s the community that held its breath and lifted its prayers through a very difficult, dangerous and joyful pregnancy. 

We belonged there—all of us.  Everyone knew who we were and they welcomed us in a way that only those that belong somewhere understand. Was it perfect? No, but it was home. 

So, I was anticipating that of course we would all grieve what we had known.  What I was not anticipating was how difficult it would be for me to begin somewhere new. I never have difficulty “chatting people up” as my husband says.  But this new church felt so different, so unfamiliar, so…new.  And newness is uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to do with myself, how to act, what to say (quite a change for this extrovert!)

Everything felt out of place and all wrong. The sermon was in the wrong place, communion was different, the songs were strange…and they sang the doxology all wrong. I didn’t know when to stand or sit, I had to shake hands with folks I didn’t know. I’d try to look like I belonged, but really I felt glaringly out of place.  AND, eventually at some point in the service, I’d have to sit still. In the pew.  Like everyone else. As if there was nothing else I could do. One Sunday my husband looked at me and whispered “sit still!” “What?” I said.  “Sit still, you’re fidgeting.” I didn’t even realize it.  I didn’t know what to do, so unfamiliar was I of being in a pew.

I’ve realized, after some time has passed, that I’m reforming my pastoral identity. What does it mean for me to be an ordained minister who is a congregant…who does not have an active staff role? Who am I among them? Where do I belong? What can I offer my new community that will fill both the need for me to minister and their need for my skill set?

Because it’s not easy to figure out…I’ve had to re-learn what it means to be a participant in the life of the church in an entirely new way.  And, I’m getting there. After a year and a half it’s better than it was, the songs are more familiar, I’ve found a few niches, and know a few names.  I’m beginning to feel that I belong.  But, it’s still hard to sit still…and I’ve learned that it’s good to be uncomfortable sometimes…