What I'd Say

Visiting with family and friends over the recent Thanksgiving break I spoke often about my challenging job as a hospital chaplain. It's not uncomming during these conversations for someone to ask me, as Ray Charles once said, "What I'd Say."

What do you say when you walk into a room where one has recently died? What do you say when worried parents wait in the trauma bay waiting room? What do you say while standing with someone facing life threatening surgery? What do you say?

I could say, "It's going to be alright," but you know things may never be the same. I could say, "God needed him more than we did," but that offers virtually no comfort to grief. The same goes for, "God needed another flower for his garden." I'd also never say, "He wouldn't come back now if he could," because that just sounds wrong. Silence is always a better option than these.

These are just a few of the phrases of attempted comfort we hear from others offering comfort to grieving and hurting families. At their worst these phrases only do theological damage and cause pain, and at best they fall on deaph ears. Perhaps most often I hear, "This must be part of God's plan." I hate to break it to you, but God did not plan on a drunk driver killing your sister and daughter like that of a woman I sat with some time ago. I don't think God planned that. I do think God's heart breaks with ours.

So, while I won't offer you a feeble attempt to deal with my own anxiety around your grief, I will sit with you. I will hurt with you. I will listen to what she was once like. I'll laugh at his pranks. I will cry with you. I'll carry the burden with you for a while. I will pray when you have not words. I will acknowledge your pain. I won't shrink back. I'll do my best to climb down inside the dark whole of your grief for a time and offer you the only thing I have - myself.

That's what I'd say.

Fresh Christmas Music Alert!

In an older post I introduced you to an old college buddy of mine, Gary Mitchell. Gary, a musician, writes inspiriational lyrics inlayed into an always funky groovin' rhythm.

This post is to alert you to his latest project entitled "Give Love Away," a compilation of familar Christmas songs set to a new Gary-style groove. The album also has an original song, "Christmas Stories" which I think is superb.

The grinch in me: I typically first grimmace my face when corporate merchand

isers begin playing Christmas music way to early (before Thanksgiving). I am slow to get into the spirit of over-played Christmas tunes blarring out the sound of cash registers ringing.

However, Gary's new set of songs brings life back into five of the season's classics. Gary, I want more! You can go to this website and download one song or the entire set. I recommend all of them as they each have their own bit of original flare.

You can also download his last full album of original music called "Everything and Nothing." I have this album, it's one of my favorites! Gary has a knack for writing lyrics which speak to the human condition with music that keeps your head bobbing.

Thank you, Gary, for bringing some fresh Christmas mucis to my season and my soul.

Check out his website and all of his music, I promise you won't be disappointed.

Book Reviews

It's been a while since I finished them, but I'm just now getting around to publishing my thoughts on two books I've recently read.

Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye, awarded the Nobel Prize in literature, is an honest look into the harsh world of black culture in 1941. Morrison is a gifted poet to state it blithly. Her affinity for carefuly placed language which intentionally discomforts her readers gives the book a somber yet highly intriguing aromoa. The texture of her words is so rich they quickly become pictures which then become songs gritty with reality so much so that I could taste the ice cream which two the of young girls were too poor to purchase.

Don't look for a feel good or happily ending story. The Bluest Eye is about the harsh reality of young Pecola's life which changed forever when attacked unthinkably as a young girl. Accepted into a better off family, which is also dirt poor, Pecola deals with the reailty of being a poor, ugly, pregnant, black girl in Ohio.

Sure to change your understanding of the black perspective, this book is a gem needed in any respectable home library. It is one that has stuck with me in a bothersome way that will continue to inform my compassion for all people and to illustrate the potential of human wickedness.

____________

Enrique's Journey is a powerful documentary which chronicles the plight of one Honduran traveling to the United States in order to re-unite with his mother who left him for better paying work when he was five.

Nazario is a journalist, a brave one at that, who after conducting countless interviews traveled herself and retraced the same steps and train rides of Enrique. Written by a journalist, the writing style is dry and clunky. Yet the accuracy and detail with which she describes the conditions and dangers through which migrants must travel will challenge anyone's view toward immigrants no matter what your politics.

Migrants, many of them not Mexicans, travel through most of Mexico on the tops of dangerous trains. Having to run alongside after the train has left the station they run the risk of being sucked under the wheels and losing limbs or being killed. "El tren de la muerte," the train of death, it is often called. Once upon the chugging beast they must avoid local ganges which frequently rob, beat and rape migrants. Also, Mexican immigration officers (La Migra) are after them, and if caught migrants are shipped over the boarder of the nearest country, Guatemala, after having been robbed by The Migra as well. Enrique, carrying only his mother's phone number makes no less than eight attempts to get to the USA. Many attempt more times than that.

Reading Nazario's accounts of people and places that helped or hindered Enrique on his quest leaves readers wondering how many more calamities can come his way, as well it showcases some of the deepest most Christ-like compassion of which humans are capable.

Enrique's Journey will no doubt take you on a journey which will challenge your compassion to be deaper, your hate to be more forgiving, and your attitude toward those illegally among us to be more hospitable.

Are you Catholic?

We chaplains had a little treat this week when we got to sit down with the CEO of the hospital, Ingo Angermeier. Together, the 5 of us talked about practical jokes, heard much of his life's journey and even played with play-dough. Together we formed this stunning Bat-mobile for the plastic Batman behind it.


Born in East Germany (this explains the name), Ingo is what hospital administrators call "Mr. Fix-It." He comes to the aid of hospitals in need of some help and works to put them back on track. Building a culture that works together in an uplifting environment is his goal. Rather than tell others what to do, he makes effort to empower employees with a sense of pride in their job and then, "get out of the way."

During the conversation he shared a delightful story of a particular pastoral care department (not from this hospital) that needed some help.

When new to a hospital, Ingo likes to "play patient." Under the radar he has himself admitted to a bed just to see things from the patient's perspective. One day a kindly old man, priest so-and-so opened the door, popped his head in and spouted, "Are you Catholic?" "No," replied the patient incognito replied. The door closed. Momemet later it reopened, "You wanna be?" rapped back the preist.

This is not exactly quite how I've been trained as a chaplain, but I can take a lesson from this priest's frankness. Thank you, Ingo, for your shared wisdom and life lessons. I'll design a Bat-mobile with you any day.

Happy 9th Birthday!

Today my relationship with my wife is 9 years old.

On Nov. 18th 2000 at about 4:30 pm in our high school band room I, a senior, asked a cute sophomore girl if she'd be my girlfriend. She was only 15 years old and I 17.

That was 108 months, or 3287 days, or 78,888 hours, or 4,733,280 minutes or 283,996,800 seconds ago! And we're still together.

We were married May 20, 2006 after five and half years of dating, and in two more days we will have been married for 3.5 years.

We have two daughters, Dakota and Lola. Each have four legs and tail and floppy ears. They are beautiful and we love them so very much.

Birthdays are days to celebrate the beginning. And today, I am celebrating the start of the most precious, loving, intimate, worthy relationship of my life.

Together, Heather and I have skied mountains, flown on planes, visited other countries, bought Christmas presents for a struggling family, enjoyed an eight day cruise, supported each other through college and grad school, cried together, and been an integral part of one another's life development.

I wouldn't have it any other way. Thank you, Heather, for being my girlfriend, high school sweet heart, bride and life companion. Happy birthday to us!

Daring Dakota

To the right you can see a picture of my older dog, Dakota. She's a 4.5 year old hound mix who found us when she was approximately 8 weeks old.

Dakota is a smart puppy. She learns tricks very quickly, is highly motivated by food, follows voice and signaled commands and knows when she's in trouble before I do.

Sometimes she's too smart for her own good. In our last apartment when she would eat dirt from our house plant strewing it along the carpet she would often run into her pin as soon as I got home before we dicovered the dirty carpet. A self-punishing dog.

Recently, her cleverness has resulted in added frustration for her mommy and me. Dakota has never been allowed on any furniture. But being left alone during the day to rome the apartment by herself has apparantly led her to believe she has certain newfound priviledges.

Dakota always greets us at the door when we arrive home with an excited and adorable wagging tale. But when she's done something she shouldn't have there is no greeting. When this happens our routine is to search the apartment for a warm spot that is crinkled and matted like a furry 60 lbs something has been sleeping there.

First, it was our bed. So we began leaving things on the bed of which Dakota is afraid. She's terrified of motorcycle helmets so those worked for a while until she overcame her fear and the warm spot one day was right beside a big scary helmet.

Then we placed my hand drum on the bed. Everytime I even graze it with my hand walking by and it sounds, Dakota goes running. But, eventually she braved the dangerous drum to enjoy some bed time. Now, every morning we cover the bed with various things-drum, tool kit, clothes-just to keep her on the floor.

Thwarted from the bed, we began finding warm spots on the couch. She is wiley. This one was easy. Remembering to do it is the hard part. I plop a bar stool longways on the couch and she has no space to curl up. Thinking we'd fixed her, I came home recently to the absense of a greeting not knowing why, because the couch and bed were both dog-proofed. That's when I discovered that she had discovered the sofa chair. Yarrr!

So, because of this daring dog, before leaving the house we must cover the bed with stuff, block off the couch and sofa chair, and close the second bed room door to keep her off that bed. It's a lot of work each morning when I'm in a hurry.

Reflecting, I wonder how often God sees us like I see my dog, constantly pushing the limits trying to get away with things even though there's no chance of actually hiding it. Does God ever look at us and think, "Bad dog!"? More likely, I think God's heart responds like mine toward Dakota, eventually calling her gently and loving on her with a good rubbin, telling her I love her and that she'll always be my dog.

(And yes, the third picture is underwear on her head!)

Tired

One week ago, Saturday the 7th I was on call. I came to the hospital at 8:30 in the morning and stayed until 8:30 Sunday morning-a 24 hour shift.

Monday: Regular work day (8 hrs)

Tuesday: Regular work day (8 hrs)

The following Wednesday (11/11) I was again on call. I worked a regular day (8:30-5) and then stayed on at the hospital all night working through half a day Thursday. (28 hrs)

Friday: 1/2 day because I would work Sat. (4 hrs)

Today: Another Saturday on call totalling 24 hrs

So here I am, blogging in between calls for the chaplain. I was wondering why I feel tired but, when I add up these numbers my question gets answered. Come tomorrow morning I will have worked a total of 96 hours in 8 days! Arg!

Before I took this job, I knew the residency year would be tough and include a number weeks of this kind of punishment. So, I don't want to sound like I'm just complaining; rather laying out my recent work schedule helps me regain my sanity back.

Why have I been going to bed earlier all week? Why have I not wanted to do much once I got home recently. Why is my energy level low? 96 hours is why.

What I need is a shabbat, a day of rest, or better yet two days! Let me encourage you, yes you, the one reading, to take some time for rest. I've never heard anyone on his death bed say, "I wish I had worked more." And I've talked with plenty of people on their death beds. It's what I do. Something to think about.

Jesus Tears

The shortest verse in the Bible, most people know, is John 11:35 which states, "Jesus wept."

I've run across a phenomenon a number of times while visiting patients in the hospital. Every so often someone will become easily teary when telling me about his or her church, religious history or story of how he came to be a Christian. Some stories are more dramatic tellings of transition from a rough life of drugs to getting clearn with help from a church, and some are a simpler, milder tales of nurtering by their faith community. Along with many of these stories come tears, and I for the life of me cannot figure out where the tears come from.

I've come to call these, Jesus Tears.

In Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) we deal with tears all the time. Often they are tears of grief from those losing a loved one. Many times they are our own tears as we learn more about ourselves in CPE's own sick version of therapy. We are quickly promted to identify from where our tears come as someone asks, "What are your tears about?" In my experience, it's usually pretty obvious. We talk about them, and it's the weirdest thing, somehow healing happens.

I can't explain it, but as much as I don't want to-crying is healthy, darn it!

So when I come across Jesus Tears in a patient visit I have been known to ask, "What are your tears saying?" Most often, people don't know, or just won't say. Trying to fight them hasn't worked but they're determined not to talk about them.

Perhaps their tears are from feeling overwhelmed by their condition in the hospital. I imagine I would feel this way in the situation that so many patients find themselves. Perhaps these tears are the expression of past pain that was never dealt with but is now coming out. Perhaps they're tears of joy because of such a meaningful relationship with God. But it could be any of these explanations or others. They always catch me off gurad, and I never know why they are there.

So where do Jesus tears come from? They're often some of the sweetest tears I see. They show up when people don't seem to have words with which to articulate their thoughts.

Have you ever cried and not known why? Have you ever had Jesus tears?

Any thoughts?

Basura Blanco

The title of this post is the best Spanish rendering I can find for "White Trash," a home made candy that our supervisor has brought to share with the chaplain department. The candy is also commonly called 'People Puppy Chow,' I think. It's made up of chex mix, pretzels, peanuts and other crunchies covered in chocolate and then white confectioner's sugar. Well, we like the concoction so much that the four of us residents decided to weasle our way into getting more.

A few weeks ago our boss went out of town for the week. And it was during this time that we orchestrated a plot to ransom his beloved wooden parrot (loro in Spanish) which prominantly stood atop his file cabinet.


When boss man entered his office the next Monday morning he found an inter-office mail envelope containing a CD. Playing the CD, he watched a video of a quivering parrot including a background voice narrating a ransom note in Spanish, which he speaks. Along with the video there were pictures of the loro loose in the hospital.

The ransom demanded that he deliver lots of white trash candy to the resident's on call suite within 48 hours, otherwise the pitiful parrot would never wear his little tie again. The video ended with a maniacal laugh which I wish I could include on this blog, but for now you'll have to do your best to image a high pictched voice with a Columbian accent trying to literally pronounce, "Muahahahaha" with little maniacism in his inflection.

Playing along, our supervisor posted signs around our area of the hospital stating, "Missing, Large Parrot, Lost/Kidnapped. Please help with any information." We then orchestrated a number of random employees and volunteers to call his office leaving messages of parrot sightings. One caller caught him in his office so our boss ran upstairs to see if the parrot was still there. Alas, he came back empty handed. The parrot had evaded once more.

Nearing the deadline, and no white trash in sight, a message was left on our bosses phone of a parrot screeching in the back ground. Later, the same ransom narrator's voice left a brooding reminder on the answering machine threatening parrot demise if he didn't fulfill his end of the arrangement.

It turns out, that "basura blanco" doesn't translate well to mean White Trash candy, so our supervisor wasn't even sure how to pay the ransom. On Wednesday he finally figured it out, and by Thursday the goods were delivered to the drop location. So, later that day while we were all in a meeting with our boss there was an innocent knock on the door, and the parrot was delivered safely back home. Attached was a happy note written by the captive bird exclaiming, "Estoy en mi casa," (I'm home!).

It was an epic prank in our department, orchestrated by the mastermind Chaplain Cathie, that will likely go down in the annals of chaplaining and candy eating.

You know it's bad when...

Here is a picture of Heather's and my Halloween outfits. Officially, our costume was supposed to be, "Country as all get-out." My name was Melvin, hers Melva. We used to be cousins 'till we dun got hitched.

You know it's bad when your Halloween costume is made up of fake teeth and old clothes.

You know it's bad when we shopped through someone else's closet to find all the clothes. Mind you these are clothes they still wear regularly.

You know the costume party we attended was bad when we arrived to find about 8 people, none of them dressed up of course, huddling in a teepee-tent outside in the dark while it's raining. Mind you we were sitting in the drive way of a perfectly good house. Why we weren't inside the house, who the #&$ knows?

You know it's bad when you have nothing better to do than dress up in a lame costume made from other people's clothes and go to a lame 'party.'

While we ended up having a good time this Halloween (after we left the party), all I can say is, we knew it was bad before we started, and we should've known better.

Hope you had a happy Halloween.