Author: MASadmin

I can’t believe that I just completed my seventh week of CPE. The week was, probably, my hardest week “academically” but not emotionally. The kids in the PICU were in good spirits, with most there for post-op monitoring. No one yelled at me. No one paged me during the day I was on call. I did have to pray at the bedside of one woman who was actively dying and I did run into my first experience trying to minister to a family where the mother and father were not on speaking terms, but none of that really bothered me. I did have a cold through much of it so trying to talk to people without coughing was a bit of a challenge. Luckily Sudafed/Muscinex are a hell of a drug.

Academically, however, I had two verbatims, I had to plan an interfaith service, and I had to write a paper about an aspect of my operational theology. After reading my seven page paper out loud, I was then grilled on it. It was tough but not totally uncomfortable. I noticed that I spent most of my time responding to questions with my eyes looking down or away from the people I was speaking to. I felt a tad vulnerable so my response was to disengage from eye contact. I found that experience to be a little neat because, even though my body language was uncomfortable, I actually could tell exactly what I was doing. Every time I broke eye contact with a person, I knew I was doing that. I wasn’t able to stop myself from doing that but I could at least note what I was doing. I’m getting much better at parallel processing on the fly it seems.

Folks described my paper as a little heady, so I was grilled in an attempt to see how my operational theology was tied to my experience. I revealed some things to some folks, people understood me a tad better, and I made a few folks feel sad. To be quite honest, I’m a tad happy that none of what I wrote/or said is going to be forwarded to my candidacy committees. It was emotional but I learned a lot so, all in all, I had a good time.

One of the many things that stuck out at me was that people experienced my writing as something completely different how they experience myself in real-life interactions. Where they found my writing to be harsh, they all said that they experienced me as a very kind and tender person. Where my paper seemed a tad cold, they said that I’m the exact opposite of that. Ever since they mentioned that, I’ve been pondering what that means. If I am a kind and tender person (and I think that I am – too many people tell me that for me to discard it), how do I write in that way? Do I talk about rainbows and puppy dogs? Or is my inner spirituality tougher than that – reflecting the spiked leather jacket I use to wear? Is my outside persona a mask for what I really am? And is my operational theology at odds with my tender personality?

The idea behind the whole exercise was to see if what we profess matches with our thoughts, our actions, and our developing pastoral theology. There was no right and wrong answer (and there can’t be since every individual’s theology belongs to them). I’m not sure if my operational theology matches my pastoral presence but I’m hoping it gets there. My theology begins in a place of brokenness because that’s where faith found me. But it isn’t the only place where faith can be found. So one of my life-goals is to, somehow, create space for theologies that start from somewhere else. I’m not sure how to do that yet but, well, I’ll figure it out somehow.

Today, I wore my collar while at the hospital for the first time.

One of the nice things about being Lutheran is the access to the accessories. Besides the stole and the cope, seminarians have access to quite a bit of the “traditional” clergy attire. My Episcopal friends are not so lucky. So, today, I decided to come to the hospital decked out in a black clergy shirt and a plastic collar. On the subway, I also donned my gray newsboy hat, my aviators, and my red chucks. Like one of my colleagues said, all I needed was a goatee and I could be “that” pastor. You all know the type I’m talking about. Luckily (or maybe sadly), aviators are not allowed in the hospital so I put my chucks aside, busted out my Ted Bakers, and went to town.

And I must say, I loved the experience.

My colleagues thought I looked nice. My supervisor called me Padre. I had to tell the story of Lutheran access to accessories several times. But besides the looks and support I received from my colleagues, I noticed that I seemed to take myself a tad more seriously and playful while I wore the collar. I had no need to worry about my authority as I was wearing it on the outside. Doctors recognized me, nurses who ignored me now took notice, and patients seemed to open up easily. No longer was just the word “chaplain” my entry way into the spirituality of those in the hospital. When I walked into the room, the patients saw spirituality and responded in kind. It was quite lovely.

There was one specific event where I feel, had I not been wearing my clergy shirt, a ministry opportunity would have gone unfilled. One of the Patient Care Directors on my floors asked me to see a patient who was dying. The food intake was being turned off and the family had been gathered for two days, waiting for the end. I walked into the patient’s room and began my speech. They all nodded along but it wasn’t long before I realized that they had very little idea what I was saying. They spoke Spanish. I spoke English. We both literally were not speaking the same language.

One of the family members came into the room and spoke to me. He spoke English and he pulled me out of the room to chat. I could tell that he was trying to push me out of the room (he revealed some family dynamics and his own personal religiosity that looked down on a chaplain being in the room) but I stood my ground and offered my services. As I turned to walk away, the spouse of the patient (who came out of the room to talk to a doctor) stopped me. Through a translator, the spouse asked if I was a pastor and asked if I could pray at the patient’s bedside. I said yes but I could only pray in English. The spouse did not hesitate for a minute and asked me to enter the room. So, there, in front of the patient’s family, I prayed. I acknowledge the harshness of the time. I acknowledge the pain that the family felt. I acknowledged that death was coming soon (though I went about that in a circular way – I need to get better at saying it more bluntly). I prayed with the family. I read Psalm 23 and Psalm 121. I offered my condolences. Some of the family cried; some just kept their heads bowed. But as I left, the spouse shook my hand and said “Thank you.” And I think he, and his entire family, meant it. If I had not been wearing a collar, I would not have been able to pray with them, there, at the bedside.

There is only five more weeks of CPE but I think I’ll wear my clergy shirt at least once a week. It is an experiment that I am having a lot of fun with. Maybe too much fun. This is CPE after all – there’s only so much fun that I should be having.

I’ve had quite a trip since I wrote last; lots of things have happened. CPE has been very intense; I moved; I visited Ikea; I saw the Brooklyn Cyclone play; I wrote; I saw The Book of Mormon; I preached; and if putting together Ikea furniture was a requirement for ordination, I would be bishop by now.

I am exhausted.

I woke up an hour ago and all my joints hurt. My feet hurt. My spine hurts. My shoulders hurt. I don’t even really remember falling asleep last night. I know I laid down in the bed and then BAM, I was out. I didn’t hear the dog get comfortable. I don’t know what the cat did last night. And if there were any illegal fireworks in the morning, I missed them. I was gone like donkey kong.

CPE has been going well but it hasn’t been easy. The last ten days or so has been rough in the PICU. Many long time patients died. I was with one family for quite awhile over two days. I watched the mom and dad say goodbye and I did my best to comfort the entire family. But I made one big missed connection – I wasn’t able to connect with the mom. I wasn’t able to be the pastoral presence she needed me to be. She wanted me to be loud, to be controlling, and to distract her from the pain she felt. She wanted me to talk of miracles, of the power of God, of the restoration in the life to come. She wanted my theology to be brash and powerful. But that really isn’t me. I couldn’t create a sacred space that felt like it was running away from the reality around me. It’s not my theology nor did I have a set of tools that could turn off what I was feeling and what I needed in that moment. Although I did not know the child, I was mourning. I was feeling loss. I felt sad. And, try as I might, I couldn’t be an instrument of care only for the mom. I was ministering to an entire family (grandma, family friends, etc etc) where everyone (including me) needed a different presence, a different sacred space. I juggled but was never able to include the mom.

I know I failed to reach the mom because she called me out at one point. During a forty-five minute session of praying in tongues (which was a first for me), at one point she said that God wanted to speak to me. And she spoke, loudly and aggressively, criticizing my Lutheranism, my faith, my presence, and everything about me. At the time, I fumed. I got angry. But I kept it in check. I let her say her piece. She felt better afterwards while I did not. It was an interesting experience to have.

Most of my CPE experience has been similar in emotional impact as the death of that child. I’ve met people with loved ones are dying, children who are suffering, parents who are so angry that they no longer want to speak to anyone. CPE has been going well but it is really emotionally draining. The workload has increased. I’m sitting with patients longer. The required readings are a tad excessive. And the group analysis portion of the whole thing can get downright silly. But I really do enjoy my group mates. They really are the best. I don’t think it would be going quite as well for me as it has unless they were with me. Thank God for that.

Part of also why I’m so tired is that I moved. I’m no longer in Astoria but am now back in Washington Heights. The move went well – much better than I expected. We currently only have about 1/4 of our stuff in boxes. Our new apartment is filled with lovely new Ikea furniture. The apartment actually has windows (I can see the sun sometimes!). We’ve literally moved on up. But with the moving, the unpacking, and the shopping – my body, my brain, and my soul is just exhausted. And it shows. Yesterday, I preached at Trinity Long Island City. The gospel reading was Matthew 11:16-19,25-30. It is a weird little text where the context is left out of the scripture reading for the day. The epistle reading was that famous bit in Romans where Paul wrote about not doing the things he wanted to do. I preached mostly on the gospel reading but I wasn’t happy with it. I thought my presentation was good – my voice was strong, I wasn’t nervous, and I tried looking at the audience. But, while in the pulpit, I realized a few things. My transitions were weak. My main points were too buried. And what I really should have preached on, I spoke too little on and left to a snippet at the end. And halfway through the sermon, in the back of my head, I asked myself, “who am I really preaching to? Is this to them or to me?” I’m not sure the answer to that question yet. But I think the conflicted nature of my sermon is a reflection of just what’s going on in my soul right now. Everyday at CPE, I’m confronted with suffering. Everyday, I see something that shocks me. Everyday, I learn the story of a lovely person who fills me with joy. Many times, the only thing that really seems to keep me going is the presence of Christ’s wounded hands and pierced side. Holding onto that allows me to enter the next hospital room, walk to the next bed side, and confront the next image of the fact that we live in a broken world. If I didn’t have that, I really don’t think I could keep doing this.

Today, I presented my second verbatim at CPE. So far, I’ve been enjoying the verbatim process. I analyzed a visit, drew some conclusions from it, thought I did a good job, and then was shown that I had been triangulated, undergone some transference, and lacked a curiosity that would have helped with the visit. I did fine but I could have done better. For over an hour, we talked about what I could have done better and the group brought up things they struggle with that was related to what I had done. I had missed some important cues and part of my summer will be spent trying to hear those cues, get curious about them, and then see if the patient I am talking to has an image of God or any sort of spirituality that plays a role in what bringing them hope, meaning, and connection. I just hope that, during the next few days, someone will actually take me up on my offer to talk with them. It’s been two days of “no, I’m fine” or “I’m not into religion.” That can get old after awhile.

In other news, I witnessed something at the hospital on Monday that horrified me. It’s interesting because, of all the people I’ve seen, with all the tubes and medical devices, nothing had really thrown me for a loop yet. However, what I saw near the end of the day was just haunting. It’s an image that I’ve been carrying with me since and that still just hangs in the air around me. It doesn’t cause me to lose sleep or to stop talking with individuals. I’m still able to laugh, make jokes, etc. It doesn’t feel to be holding me back. But what I saw did truly frightened me in a new way. And, for the moment at least, I’m not trying to explain the feeling away nor am I trying to process past it quickly. Rather, one of my learning goals this summer is to try and stay with the feelings I’m having, to acknowledge them, sit with them, and bring them into the present. I have shared this image with my colleagues and mentioned my feelings about it – but I haven’t tried to process it away just yet. And I’ve discovered that, even though it repulsed me, I’m not really afraid of going back to the place where I saw it. I am taking time away for myself, but, in reality, I could easily go back to that place. By holding onto the feeling and the moment, I’m actually still able to function and live in all my present moments. What horrified me didn’t hold me back even though, four weeks ago, I would have told you it would. I keep surprising myself in very tiny ways.

Yesterday, I was the day on-call chaplain at the hospital. My role was to be the emergency contact person for the hospital. If someone called the information desk and asked to speak to a chaplain, I would be their man (or I would farm it off to whoever is the chaplain assigned to their floor). If someone requested a Roman Catholic priest, I would call the local church. I would check the pastoral care request book and phone line every few hours. And my beeper would be set, ready to scream bloody murder at a moment’s notice.

My day started out fairly normal. I visited many different families in the pediatric ICU and various patients on other floors. I had a few long conversations but most were very short and didn’t last very long. Most were fairly polite. Not many conversations felt very theological – even the conversation with a man about how can someone believe in the midst of a suffering world wasn’t really a conversation; the man just wanted to monolog for awhile. A colleague had been the on-call chaplain the day before and their beeper barely beeped. I was hoping for the same.

My summer CPE group and I gathered after lunch to go over some IT stuff. None of our logins to access electronic medical records were working (way to go IT). But two of the students were unable to gather due to deaths that had happened on their floors. And as I sat at the computer desk and my supervisor called IT, my beeper buzzed for the first time. A number flashed on it. I called the number right away and a nurse answered. I told her I was the emergency chaplain on call and was calling the nurse back. The nurse thanked me for the quick response and then spoke the magic words: “We have a patient who is actively dying.”

I found out the patient’s name and their location. The pastoral care department does not make a guarantee to fulfill all religious faith/denomination requests (except for Roman Catholic) but the family did request an Episcopalian. I am not an Episcopalian but one of my colleagues is. He asked to tag team on the call with me. We gathered our things and head to the elevator. On the elevator, we went over our game plan and he showed me where in the Book of Common Prayer the rites at the time of death were located. We entered the floor, met the head nurse, and put on gloves and a gown. We were on a bit of an adrenaline high. We pulled back the curtain, entered the room, and saw an elderly patient’s daughter crying.

It wasn’t easy being in that room but I was amazed at how calm I was. We spoke various prayers. We spent time with the daughter. I was amazed at seeing how the rites and prayers affected the daughter and the patient. Tears flowed but calmness had more face time. Pictures were shared. And I think I saw the moment when the patient truly died but the machines said otherwise. The daughter seemed thrilled that we were both “Episcopalians” and, in the midst of grief, I decided it was best not to correct her. After forty five minutes, we left and made a promise to return later to check up on them.

We went upstairs and gathered with the other students. We all decompressed and told our stories. Lots of death and other painful situations dominated the conversation. We talked about the weight we felt. We named our emotions. We tried to get out of problem solving mode and just be in the moment as a way to center ourselves. I talked about how calm I felt – a calm that surprised and shocked me. In the midst of death, I didn’t know how I would react. But the very words I read from the BCP – words I never saw until that day – seemed to have a soothing effect on me. Just preforming the rite seemed to help. I felt slightly energized and ready to go into that room later in the day.

My colleague and I met again before the end of the day. The game plan was modified so that the true Episcopalian would take the lead. We entered the room and met more family. We prayed more prayers (the Litany on the anticipation of heaven was very nice). The prayers helped quite a bit again and, in the midst of suffering, I honestly felt like we did some good. It wasn’t perfect (we might have held onto silences a little too long) but I thought it went well. And I am really glad that I had the backup that I did.

I doubt this will be the only death that I see during my unit at CPE but it was no where near as scary as I thought it could have been. And even though it went smoothly, I do feel changed by the experience. A few months ago, I helped baptize a young newborn. Yesterday, I preformed the last rites for someone who had lived a long life. I’ve book ended life, so to speak. Now I just need to learn how to deal and minister to all those folks located in the middle.