Truthfully, it is impossible to put into words much of what I experience as a chaplain. This series is an attempt.
Today, I saw your daughter’s brain. With her depressed skull fracture. Where the crushed bones and matted hair
opened up into the space that makes her who she is. She came in wearing
rhinestone jeans, a grey satin bra, and a sheet soaked through with blood.
Blood filling the stretcher. I want you to know that I saw her purple painted
toenails. I want you to know that I saw your daughter. I saw a teenage girl.
I waited at the doors of the emergency room to meet you when
you arrived. I saw you and your wife and your son running across the parking
lot. I knew it was you. I felt your desperation. I saw it in your eyes. I heard
it in your voice. I felt it in your hands when I took them into mine.
I want you to know that I saw your beautiful daughter. I
prayed for her in the midst of the trauma room. And though my surgical booties
and gown and mask and cap covered me and made me look like any other person in
that room, my only job was to hold the hope of her soul. To will her into
staying with us.
And as I stripped off my surgical attire, to meet you in the
emergency room, I meet you like I would want to meet someone if I was in your
position. Calm, kind, exuding gentle strength. A guide to accompany you through
this hostile foreign land where you never wanted to be. To hold your hand and
bring you cool water and saltines after you throw up in the wastebasket in this
tiny and airless room. And to let you
know with my presence that I will go with you wherever you need to go.
I’m a chaplain. A
nurse for the spirit and the soul.
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