One of the funny things about being a chaplain resident is that my life is very much intertwined with a piece of 1990s technology. If a member of a medical team wants to contact a chaplain about a patient—especially if it is an immediate concern—they page us. I will hear a chirpy beep, check the number, and call back to see how my assistance is needed.
My initial reaction to that pager was fear. Actually, my initial reaction was amusement. Then as I started my first shift on call, I was anxious. I did not know what was going to be on the other side of that chirpy beep. I just knew that it was not going to be easy and that was scary.
In a weird way, I have come to appreciate the pager because I am required to answer it. It’s my job. I cannot run and hide from it. If a chaplain is needed and I am on call then I have to dial that number. I have to show up in that hospital room to try to listen to the emotions and needs of that patient or family member whether I am ready or not, whether my last visit was deeply meaningful or horribly awkward. You get the page and you show up.
The fact that a portion of my life is now ruled by this pager has been helpful as I have started this journey of chaplaincy. It has also been useful since confidence in my ministerial ability was fairly well decimated in the fallout of stepping down from a church position. The pager does not care. There is a human being on the other end of beep. I can’t get in my head about it. I say a quick prayer, ground myself, and go. I get out of the boat and either sink or swim.
This morning feels like one of those pages. Half the country is jubilant. The other half of us believe that what lies ahead is not going to be easy and that is scary. Yet the call to go out and love our neighbor still goes off. There are people hurting and we need to do our level best to be there for one another.
I should say that it is okay if you need to take a moment. I once had three consecutive impending death pages in a row and afterwards I felt so drained and helpless, that I went into one of the prayer rooms of the children’s hospital, lied down in front of a stained glass window of squirrels and butterflies, and groaned at God for half a hour. Then I spent 45 minutes answering questions from two children who thought that chaplains and doctors were the same thing.
All of which is to say: take care of yourself. You need to do that to truly take care of others. If you need to mourn, grieve, yell, rest, or whatever else you have to do before you get back to the challenging work of (gestures around) all of this then do that.
And then, when you can say a quick prayer, ground yourself, and go. Show up, listen, and help the best you can. This is what we have the privilege and responsibility to do.