A chaplain's grief

I'm still surprised by it after all these years

The grief I experience as a chaplain is a funny thing. I have experienced the deaths of patients that have laid me absolutely flat. Particularly in my years working in pediatrics, there are some things I can’t unsee, some injustices I will never be able to resolve or understand. Too, there are deaths of adults I’ve experienced in general hospital care that felt devastating because of all they left behind, all that would forever remain unfinished.

Chaplaincy is so often one-directional. By that I mean the care extended is usually from the chaplain to the patient. Unlike a friendship, chaplains are careful about self disclosure and focus on providing presence to those in our care rather than receiving any or connecting personally over shared experiences.

This makes the grief of our work hard to place. I’ve grieved the loss of life for people I didn’t know prior to the hours before they died, whose stories are largely unknown to me. I’m not grieving any sort of personal loss or a future without that person. I’m grieving from a place of empathy for their own loved ones or perhaps at the cruelty of their death or the cumulative weight of suffering carried from one shift to the next.

I’m grateful that in twelve years of this work I haven’t lost my tenderness. I have learned many ways to cope with the sadness and it rarely disorients me the way it did in the beginning, but I still feel the sadness of each situation. Repeat exposure hasn’t hardened me to this reality. If anything, it has deepened my practice of memento mori and awareness of the sanctity of our everyday, ordinary lives.

Recently, however, I experienced the death of a resident in my care and it did disorient me. I’ve grieved this person’s loss more than most I’ve known in these years of chaplaincy work. I’ve wondered why that is. Why this death? Why not others?

As I reflect on their life and the nature of our relationship, I’ve realized that ours was unique to others in that the care provided in this case was two-directional. They were insatiably curious about my life, my children, my process toward ordination, and my ministry more broadly. And this curiosity was expressed with a depth of care, belief, and support that was unlike any I’ve felt in previous chaplaincy relationships. This person was not only my patient or my parishioner. This person was my friend.

When I first started in this role, I asked some residents in assisted living what they wanted from their chaplain. One woman said to me, “We want you to bring the world to us. We don’t get out anymore. We want you to bring your world to us.” Until then, I had been cautioned as a chaplain against talking about myself.

We are here to listen, not be heard. We are here to offer care, not receive it.

And yet that’s exactly what spiritual care would look like for her. She wanted to continue to have her world expanded, and she wanted to do that through me.

Chaplaincy is so often a delicate dance of hospitality. We invite people into our organizations, patient rooms, and offices. And then we knock on their doors and wait for them to invite us in. This woman wanted to be my dance partner. I’m so glad she taught me that was an appropriate avenue of spiritual care because it opened the door for me to receive the care so many want to offer as an expression of their own spirituality, values, and all the love they still have to give despite their changing circumstances.

Years ago in my research on disability theology, I learned that one of the biggest keys to helping people feel like they belong is inviting them to be involved in acts of service rather than only being recipients of it. How often do we welcome people and assume they only have needs? How might our relationships grow if we allowed ourselves to be vulnerable enough to receive their care, too?

This week I’m grieving the loss of a friend who did that for me. Our welcome for one another was mutual, and over time I learned to see that sharing my own story was a form of care I could easily provide. In our beautiful dance of mutual care, it was my willingness to let my own walls down that helped them to be themselves and offer the care they had been so diligent in providing to others across the course of their life. In so doing, my own life was immeasurably enriched by the care I received.

So today my grief isn’t one born of empathy, injustice, or questions. It is grief for my friend who held me in unconditional positive regard as I held them in the same.

I carry in my heart their deep belief in my call to the priesthood, and I hold their affection as I continue expanding my vision of care for those who may come into my life next.

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