lessons i learned in cpe: #5. it's easy for other people's baggage to get caught on your own baggage

During my unit of CPE at St. Mark’s I spent a lot of time in hospital rooms, but also with my peers and supervisor in group sessions twice a week.  We each processed our experiences of chaplaincy in detail.  As it turned out, we ended up talking as much about our own stories, flaws, and fears as we did the patients.  It was enlightening and terrifying.  But it taught me another important lesson when it comes to vulnerable conversations…
 
It’s easy for other people’s baggage to get caught on your own baggage.
 
I definitely hadn’t expected this going in.  I’d done a fair share of processing my own emotional and spiritual baggage before this internship began—learning about my personality, my strengths and weaknesses, how my childhood experiences with addiction and divorce and being the oldest child shaped my coping mechanisms and social habits, etc.  I thought I had a pretty strong sense of who I was… enough to “keep myself out” of the conversations with patients and just focus on them. 
 
Big mistake.
 
The truth is: no matter how hard we try, we bring our whole selves—baggage and all—everywhere we go, including conversations with other people.  As I wrote in “Lesson #1,” everyone has a story, and our stories shape who we are (in both good and bad ways).  When other people’s stories remind us of our own, it impacts how we feel and how we’re able to respond. 
 
One of the most formative—and informative—exercises we did as part of our CPE group work was called a “verbatim.”  Each of us, several times over the course of the internship, wrote out word-for-word (as best we could recall) a spiritual care conversation we had with a patient during our clinical hours.  We then brought these verbatims to our group and spent an hour evaluating each one together.  The patient remained anonymous, but we noted in the written assignment:

-          Some basic demographic information,

-          Our first impressions when we walked in the room,

-          Our thoughts and feelings throughout the conversation based on the verbal and nonverbal interactions,

-          Our assessment of the individual’s spiritual care needs, and

-          How we thought we “did” as spiritual caregivers (our strengths and areas of growth).

 
That final evaluation of ourselves also included a reflection on how we related to the individual or their story, which turned out to be a major factor in the quality of the conversation!  For instance, the first patient I wrote out a verbatim on was a woman that reminded me significantly of my mother.  As I processed the conversation with my supervisor and group, they helped me see that the ways I interacted with her—including the topics of conversation I leaned toward or away from—were heavily influenced by how I relate to my mom.  Despite my best intentions in keeping the conversation focused on this woman, I indirectly channeled my own assumptions and habits based on my own experience, which (to my later disappointment) kept me from engaging in certain ways that may have been helpful and healing.  To their credit, my group was incredibly gracious and supportive, but we didn’t hold back on one another.  I went from feeling like “I did a pretty good job” to “you’ve got to be kidding me—how did I not see that?”

Since that experience (and many others like it), I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on the reality that my history has affected me in the past, but is also still affecting me now in ways I might otherwise prefer to ignore.  No matter how much work we’ve done to grow through our experiences, they still have an impact on how we relate to the world—“who we are” in relationship to other people—for better or worse.  None of us can truly be an unbiased third party.    
 
And the best response to that is not to “try harder, stupid.”  That goes back to “Lesson #3” about how burying our baggage or pain is ultimately damaging.  You won’t being able to receive others’ thorny personalities and stories any easier by pretending your own thorns don’t exist—they’ll just get tangled on one another regardless.  BUT we can learn to have grace and make space.
 

When you notice that someone’s behavior or stories are making you uncomfortable or hitting raw nerves, let that show you where you still have work to do in addressing your own baggage… and then learn to practice self-compassion. 
 
Give yourself permission to feel whatever’s coming up in those moments.  Ask yourself what’s behind it.  What assumptions did I make about that person?  Why did that comment make me angry (or sad, or scared, etc.)?  Why did I feel like I needed to react in that way?  Who taught me to believe whatever I just said?  Be gentle with whatever you discover.  Then, even if there’s more to work through, your ability to identify and be compassionate with yourself in whatever is coming up will make it much easier to receive whatever the other person is bringing to the table. 
 
I realize that could sound overly simplistic, but it’s not.  It’s hard to be fully aware of yourself when you’re trying to keep your focus on someone else.  But it can and does make a difference.  I’ve still got a long way to go, but it certainly has for me. 

lessons i learned in cpe: #4. showing up is more important than knowing what to say

        Since the start of January when my chaplaincy internship at St. Mark’s Hospital began, I’ve been in a process of reflection about how we as humans relate to one another—and particularly how we deal with grief and pain.  There were some wonderful “lessons learned” through that experience, and hopefully they’ll be as helpful for you as they have been for me.    
 
If you’re interested in Lessons 1-3, please click here, here, and here (respectively).  And without further ado... Lesson #4:
 
Showing up is more important than knowing what to say.
 
You know the situation that’s implied here, right?
 
Someone lost a loved one.
Someone lost a job.
Someone got a bad diagnosis.
Someone got divorced.
Someone is suffering with depression.
Someone’s kid just got incarcerated.
Someone’s humiliating secret just got shared...
 
That kind of situation.
 
I heard about a lot of these from patients in hospital rooms.  Even if it had nothing to do with why they were there, they needed to talk about them anyway.  And it’s nice when someone shows up to listen or pray or help process.
 
It’s possible that this lesson’s phrase may not be new to you, but perhaps the practice of the phrase still is.  Some individuals are loving comforters by nature (these people are saints—don’t take them for granted), but many of us struggle when the people around us are in pain.  We may feel sad or awkward.  We don’t know what that person needs.  We don’t know what to say.  We don’t know whether to acknowledge the elephant in the room or try to make them feel better about it or avoid it altogether.  We don’t know if it’s rude of us to be happy or “normal” around them.  We worry about saying the wrong thing, so we choose to stay away.  We “give them time” or “let them have their space.”  We don’t show up.
 
Let me tell you a little secret: that kind of avoidance speaks more to your discomfort than it does to their suffering.
 
I’m not judging anyone here, by the way. I do the same thing all the time.  I’d rather people think of me as a kind and thoughtful person so if there’s a chance that I’m going to accidentally offend or burden someone, it’s safer to save our interactions for circumstances that are more predictable.  At the very least, it’s easier for me.      
 
But it’s precisely that ease that makes it very lonely for the person who is experiencing the pain.  I can tell myself it’s about them, but odds are it really isn’t.  Unless they’ve specifically asked for space or time, it usually means a lot to people to know that someone is willing to sit in the boat with them and ride out the storm.  We humans are relational creatures.  One of the first things God said is, “It is not good for the man [or humans in general] to be alone” (Genesis 2:18). 
 
Don’t kick yourself if you’ve messed this up in the past.  I think it’s safe to say we all have, and still do.  And over-bearing concern (the other end of this spectrum) doesn’t help a lot either. It’s not your job to fix them or their situation.  Seriously, not your job.  Empathizing to the point of taking on someone else’s pain is not going to help them.  It’s just going to make them feel like they need to comfort you and that’s not their job.  You’re not their Savior.  That’s Jesus’ job.    
 
But please, when you see someone you love—or even someone you know—who’s in pain or struggling with something, don’t walk in the other direction.  Just show up... even if you don’t know what to say.
 
And in case you’re really bothered by that and are looking for some pointers to keep in your pocket, here are a few suggestions:
 
Please DO NOT say:
 

“Everything happens for a reason,” or “It’s all in God’s will.”  Even if this is part of your theology, it is not what they need to hear right now.

 

“At least… [fill in the blank here].”  Looking on “the bright side” will not help them work through their pain; it just encourages them to bury it.

 

“Just give it time.”  While the expression “time heals all wounds” may carry some truth, they’re still in this moment when it still hurts.  Acknowledge that instead.   

 

“You’ll get over it.”  No, no, no, no, no.  People don’t just “get over” things.  But they can learn to incorporate them into their larger stories if given the opportunity to do so.

 

“Let me know if you need anything.”  This one may sound surprising (and there may also be times for an exception), but in general, when you say this, you’re putting the burden on them to reach out for support if they need it.  The truth is, they do need it.  And by showing up before being asked you’ll be doing a lot more good. 

 
Please DO say instead:
 

“I don’t know what to say . . . but I’m here for you regardless.”

 

“I know this sucks, and I love you.”

 

“It’s okay to be sad/angry/confused/numb/[whatever it is that they’re feeling].”

 

“Do you want to talk about what happened? (And, if not, that’s okay, too.)”

 

“Here, I brought you food.  Would you like me to stay?  If not, I’m happy to drop it off and check in again some other time.”

 
This is not an exhaustive list, but somewhere to start.  If you’ve been in a tough situation and have other “please don’t” or “please do” suggestions to add, you are welcome to share them.  It’s always helpful to hear it from someone who’s been there.  And if you’ve been subject to loneliness or painful comments by others in your time of grief, please forgive those of us who’ve made your difficult situation harder.  We know not always what we do.  But we love you still. 
 
 

“For if they fall, one will lift up the other; but woe to one who is alone and falls and does not have another to help.” 

–Ecclesiastes 4:10 

midway between heaven and earth: a sermon from psalm 8

If you’ve never been to Utah before, here is my shameless plug that you should come visit.  Seriously.  Northern Utah, southern Utah—it doesn’t matter.  You either get incredible mountains or gorgeous red rock canyons.  It’s all beautiful.  See for yourselves:

Lake Blanche in the Wasatch Mountains

Angel's Landing in Zion National Park

This is our second time living in Salt Lake City; and while I miss Washington and everyone in it so much, it’s always a treat to be less than 20 minutes from 4 different ski resorts and 30+ different hiking trails.  And it’s in that context that when I was invited to preach at First Presbyterian Church in Logan, I chose Psalm 8 as the text for the sermon.  I’ve edited it a bit (writing and speaking have their differences), but here was the Word for the day…
 

*****

 
If you were to take a Bible and flip it open right down the middle, odds are that you would probably land yourself in the book of Psalms.  This book is a wide collection of poems, songs, histories, and laments that the people of Israel used in their worship.  It is basically the prayer book of Judeo-Christian tradition.
 
There are several different forms of psalms in this book, but one of the most predominant (along with prayers for help) are hymns of praise.  And the first of these praise hymns that we find in the book is Psalm 8 (also called a creation hymn), which goes a little something like this:
 
¹ O Lord, our Sovereign,
              how majestic is your name in all the earth!
 
You have set your glory above the heavens.
²             Out of the mouths of babes and infants
you have founded a bulwark because of your foes,
              to silence the enemy and the avenger.
 
³ When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
              the moon and the stars that you have established;
⁴ what are human beings that you are mindful of them,
              mortals that you care for them?
 
⁵ Yet you have made them a little lower than God,
              and crowned them with glory and honor.
⁶ You have given them dominion over the works of your hands;
              you have put all things under their feet,
⁷ all sheep and oxen,
              and also the beasts of the field,
⁸ the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea,
              whatever passes along the paths of the seas.
 
⁹ O Lord, our Sovereign,
              how majestic is your name in all the earth!
 
When we look at this psalm, there are two important poetic features we should take into account to start.  Why?  Well, because I’m a nerd who finds the technical literary aspects of Scripture fascinating (and this is my blog so I can call attention to whatever I want 😉).
 
But more importantly, it’s because understanding some of the elements of Hebrew poetry in the Psalms can give us not only a deeper appreciation for how beautiful they are, but also insight into what the psalmist was trying to convey in the poem itself.  And that can help us interpret the significance and meaning of the psalm for our time and place.  
 
So, poetic device #1: the inclusio. 
 
Psalm 8 starts with an emphatic shout-out of praise to God:
              “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”
 
And (you may have noticed) this is the same way the psalm ends.  Verse 9 repeats:
              “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”
 
This repetition is a handy device in Hebrew poetry called an inclusio.  What it means is that the first and last verses “include” or “bookend” the rest of the text.  So the whole poem begins and ends—and contains—praise for the majesty of God “in all the earth.”
 
Notice the psalm doesn’t just say “in all of Israel.”  It says, “in all the earth.”  This stakes the claim that Yahweh (who is called “the God of Israel”) isn’t just the God of one nation, but the God of all the nations.  He isn’t just one God among many that deserves praise, but the only God—the Creator God, the Lord, the one who rules over everything that has been made from “above the heavens” to “whatever passes along the paths of the seas.”  Look out the window at whatever landscape surrounds you.  The God who created that is the God we’re praising in this psalm.   
 
Here in Salt Lake City, I can see the Wasatch Mountain range right outside my door.  Just two weeks ago, I was on top of Grandeur Peak with a 360-degree view in every direction.  We miss that beauty most of the time—take it for granted, even—but the ways in which creation echoes the majesty of God is exactly what the psalmist is calling attention to in this psalm.  It’s so important that he (or she) says it twice, at both the beginning and end of the song: “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!” 
 

View of Mt. Olympus & Salt Lake City from Grandeur Peak

In between this inclusio, there are many other themes that the psalm highlights…

There’s the creation language of “heavens and earth” that reminds us of Genesis 1 and 2.
There’s the royal language of “Sovereign” and “majesty” that establishes God’s rule over the earth.
There’s the role of humans in having dominion over that earth and the works of God’s hands.
 
But without looking at the poetry of the psalm, we could miss another important clue into what the focus of the psalm is in the midst of these themes.  Which brings us to…
 
Poetic device #2: the chiasm. 
 
A “chiasm” is a second form of repetition in Hebrew poetry that’s used for clarification and emphasis in a text.  The term is based on the Greek letter “chi,” which looks like an X.  And what it means is that somewhere in the text there is a central “inversion point” where we can read what’s been written in the text thus far… then somewhere in the middle it hits that central point… and then the text begins to reflect (or repeat) itself backwards with the same concepts as before but in opposite order… until what you’re left with is a mirror image of the beginning.  The two halves are symmetrical—and it draws attention to what’s going on in the center (almost like an hourglass). 

When we look at this form in Psalm 8, take a look at what we find directly in the center:
 
V. 1: The majesty of God (“O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”)

Vv. 2-3:  Elements of God’s creation (“the mouths of babes and infants… the moon and stars.”)

Vv. 4-5:  The glory of humans (“What are human beings… a little lower than God.”)

Vv. 6-8:  Elements of God’s creation (“the beasts of the field… the birds of the air.”)

V. 9: The majesty of God (“O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”)
 
It’s us.  We find us. 
 
In the midst of the magnitude of God’s glory and all of creation, the psalmist points us directly inward and begs the question:  Who are we? 
 
Who are we, God, that you would think of us, much less care about us?  
“What are human beings that you are mindful of them?”
 
Truthfully, humans are like tiny specks of dirt in the middle of the vast and wild universe.  We have very breakable bodies, and an almost insignificant lifespan in the context of history.  And, if we’re honest, we’re a little bit of a mess at least some (if not most) of the time.  There is plenty of reason for us to have no more value than any other living thing God created.
 
And yet… we stand at the very center of God’s creation, having been made “just a little lower than God, and crowned… with glory and honor.”  Midway between heaven and earth.  A little lower than God and with all creation under our feet.
 
We start and end this psalm by giving glory to God, and yet what we find is that, for some unfathomable reason, God has given it back to us.  One of the reasons I love this psalm so much is that it strikes at the core of our human identity—our relationship with God and the rest of the world.
 
So, what does that mean then?  What does it mean for how we’re intended to be in the world?
What does it look like to “have dominion” over the works of God’s hands?
How do we recognize each other as having been crowned with God’s glory and honor… especially if we’re different from one another, or don’t agree with what the other believes? 
 
If there is one thing that this psalm reminds us, it’s that God is Sovereign over all of creation, but that he has also set us in the center of it and that what we do with that unique position matters.  
 
The problem with being the broken human beings that we are is that we’ve had a tendency to take this glorified role and abuse it.  Our “dominion” has turned into control and exploitation rather than the love and care and stewardship that it was intended to be.  We see this in our relationships—in the ways humans constantly fight with one another.  And we see this in the way we’ve mistreated the rest of creation and we are now finding ourselves in an environmental climate crisis.  We clearly have not lived up to the honor and dignity that this role assumes.
 
Sometimes I just want to throw my hands up and say, “I don’t know, God… I don’t know how we can make such a mess of things.  I read this psalm of praise and I’m baffled by it.  Remind me again… What are human beings that you are mindful of them?” 
 
You and I may not feel powerful, but this psalm reminds us that we are in the midst of the praise of God (in the middle of the inclusio) and at the center of creation (the crossroads of the chiasm).  We have been gifted a ridiculous amount of power for good and evil in this world… but how do we stand in that holy place in the way that God intended?
 
In verses 5 and 6, the psalm says:

“YOU have made humans a little lower than God,

and crowned them with glory and honor. 

YOU have given them dominion over the works of your hands;

YOU have put all things under their feet.”

 
What this tells us is that before we can even consider the work that is ours to do in the world, we have to consider the One who gave us that work in the first place. 
 
Before we can stand in right relationship to one another and the rest of creation, we have to stand in right relationship with our Creator.   
 
He is the one who has crowned us with glory and honor and calls us “Beloved.”
 
If we don’t know where we stand with God…what our identity is as his Beloved… and what our worth truly is in his eyes, we will abuse the rest of creation trying to define that worth for ourselves.  If we try to determine our identity from anything less than God, our concern becomes how those people and things serve our need, and not the other way around. 
 
But, as this psalm says, when we recognize that our identity and glory comes from God, we can humbly receive it.  We can stand in this place that’s midway between heaven and earth, and we can reflect that glory and honor out into the rest of the world and say, “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”   

Amen to that.  

Photo credits:  Lake Blanche (here) and Angel's Landing (here)

lessons i learned in cpe: #3. it's okay to acknowledge pain

       My CPE (i.e., chaplaincy) unit at St. Mark’s Hospital ended a month ago.  It’s amazing how much time has already flown by.  That said, I’m pretty sure these “lessons” I learned in the process will stay with me for the rest of my life.  Some of them are harder than others, and they may resonate with you or not—it’s okay either way. 
 
For previous posts, please see:

Lessons I Learned in CPE:  #1. Everyone Has a Story 

Lessons I Learned in CPE:  #2. Everyone Deserves to Tell Their Story

 
Here is my lesson #3…
 
It’s okay to acknowledge pain.
 
Physical pain.  Emotional pain.  Psychological and relational and spiritual pain.  Even cultural and historical pain.  They exist and they matter.
 
If I pricked you with a needle, you’d feel it—and it wouldn’t be pleasant.  That’s because you’re a human being in a surprisingly resilient, but also squishy and mortal body.  And you can’t always control what happens to that body. 
 
The same is true with your mind and emotions.  Sure, you have the power to respond to the thoughts and feelings that crop up in day-to-day life, but you can’t always control when and how those thoughts and feelings arise in the first place.  They just do.  And many of life’s experiences are painful.  Some of them are even traumatic. 
 
“Trauma” is the Greek word for “wound.”  It refers to physical injury to the body, but can also be used to describe other types of woundedness.  For example, verbal abuse from a parent can cause psychological trauma to a child.  Or rejection by one’s religious community can amount to spiritual trauma for a person of faith.  We may think of “trauma” as a too strong a word for most circumstances (I certainly did before this experience), but it happens to apply to a lot of situations, and rightly so.  Traumatic experiences, big or small, have the ability to embed themselves in our lives in ways that can affect us years down the road.  If you can remember a painful comment someone said about you fifteen years ago, that remark was traumatic.  It stayed with you.  And it deserves to be acknowledged and healed.

Let me be clear:  if I could flip a magic “off” switch and never again experience pain, I would.  Who wouldn’t?  But we can’t.  We might try—and, in fact, I think most of the time we do try—but I don’t think it’s helpful in the long run.  In fact, I’m convinced that denying our pain and pretending everything is fine is inevitably damaging, for at least three reasons:
 
First, it doesn’t actually reflect true human experience.  Everyone feels pain, period.  Denying it robs us of the opportunity to connect with this facet of our shared humanity.  Our particular pain is unique, but the experience of pain is universal… and it may as well be something that brings us together.
 
Second, we often use coping mechanisms to numb our pain, and the effects of those strategies eventually wear off.  You finish all seven seasons of the show you’ve been binge-watching.  You hit the bottom of the ice-cream container.  You can only give 110 percent at work for so long before you run out of steam.  Even the “good” distractions (like compulsive exercise or volunteering) have their limits, and the more sinister ones can lead to serious addiction and behavioral health struggles.  I became even more aware in CPE that my strongest coping mechanisms have historically been self-criticism and perfectionism.  Like I said: it’s a universal struggle and we all have our weaknesses.  But they’re no real substitute for addressing pain head on.
 
Third, as Franciscan priest and author Richard Rohr has masterfully observed, “If we do not transform our pain, we will most assuredly transmit it—usually to those closest to us.” [1]  This can be a hard truth to swallow.  We like to think of pain as something we can conquer or deal with by ourselves without having it affect others… but unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that.  
 
We wouldn’t tell someone with cancer to ignore the doctors, avoid chemo, and figure out how to resolve it on their own.  It would only get worse.  An illness needs to be diagnosed and treated for healing to happen.  The same is true for other forms of pain: if they aren’t acknowledged and transformed, they can fester.  Suppressed pain has the potential to lead to fear, mistrust, exhaustion, isolation, and aggression.  Despite our best intentions (including “not wanting to burden” other people), these are not a recipe for healthy relationships.  Instead, we end up unintentionally transferring that pain to the people around us—including our spouses and family members, our co-workers and neighbors, our friends, and our children. 
 
Even grief over loved ones is not something we just “get over.”  I visited with patients who shed tears talking about family members who passed away decades ago.  It isn’t because they were weak; it’s because those losses were traumatic, and they didn’t often feel permission to talk about them.   
 
I’m not suggesting that acknowledging pain makes it go away.  But hiding it will make it linger, and can even let it grow.  Alternatively, bringing it out of the shadows can invite our pain into a space of compassion and restoration.  We don’t have to “go it alone” or “sweep it under the rug.” (We all know those were never great solutions to start.) 
 
This lesson left me with two lingering questions:  Can I see whatever pain I might be holding on to?  And what would it take for me to bring it to light?  

---

[1] Transforming Pain — A Daily Meditation by Fr. Richard Rohr (cac.org) 

lessons i learned in cpe: #2. everyone deserves to tell their story

This is the second “installment” in a series of reflections, or lessons, from my experience in hospital chaplaincy.  For the intro post, please see Lessons I Learned In CPE:  #1. Everyone Has a Story, which leads to lesson #2…
 
Everyone deserves to tell their story.
 
Before CPE even started, two of the long-essay questions on the application had me reflecting on my own story—both spiritually and in life in general.  In keeping with Lesson #1, it’s amazing how much there is to tell when you begin sharing about your life.  The sad part is that most people rarely get that opportunity (at least not in a very real and vulnerable way). 
 
In a time of social media showcasing, we often like to put on our happiest and most successful faces, both online and in person.  When’s the last time someone asked, “How’s it going?” and you felt the courage (or the gnawing compulsion) to admit, “This week’s been really shitty.”?  For many of us, it doesn’t happen all that often. 
 
It’s easier, and far less threatening, to pretend to have everything together and stick to surface-level conversations.  But not everything is flowers and rainbows, and it likely hasn’t been in the past either.  Even if you’ve mustered the strength to look at and work through some of the hard parts of your story, we’re all still shaped—for better or worse—by what’s happened to us and the choices we’ve made.  Context always matters. 
 
The truth is, though, that being able to tell someone about how you’re really feeling, or open up about the tough parts of your past, or process through something that you’ve been struggling with is incredibly healing.  A former mentor once said, “it’s like taking out the trash”—you get to physically release it from your body.  And even if the problem isn’t solved, you often feel better after. 
 
The caveat to this is that people aren’t always kind in response.  Not everyone will be trustworthy with your vulnerability.  Most people still need to earn the right to hear your story.  I was amazed at what people were willing to tell me (a complete stranger) as I sat with them in a hospital room.  Maybe it was because I wasn’t in a position to judge or try to “fix” them, just to hold space for their stories as they told them (case in point:  I once had a woman share with me for an hour and a half, and I hardly had to say a word).  Or maybe they had a lack of others willing to listen compassionately in their actual lives (not that people didn’t care, but perhaps they assumed they already knew, or didn’t have the time, or had trouble hearing without judgment).  There’s no way to know for sure, but still… food for thought.
 
In any case, my point of encouragement to you:  consider your own story and how it’s shaped you, practice sharing it with others (it is truly a gift), and learn to love yourself as the protagonist.  No interesting hero is perfect, and neither will you be, but it’s still your story and you deserve to tell it. 
 
And also:  be the type of person who is willing to listen to someone else’s story.  You don’t have to judge or fix… just listen.  The depth of their experience could astound you, and more importantly, you have no idea what it could mean to them.

lessons i learned in cpe: #1. everyone has a story

“Clinical Pastoral Education” (i.e., “CPE”) is a fancy name for a formal internship as a hospital chaplain.  It involves 100 hours of educational training—including group learning, written reflections, and one-on-one supervision—and 300 hours of clinical training on-site at a hospital with patients and staff. 
 
In my PC(USA) denomination, it’s a required program for any pastor hoping to be ordained as a Minister of the Word and Sacrament.  Why?  Because part of a pastor’s job is to offer spiritual care and support to church members who are experiencing crisis, whether that’s illness, the passing of a loved one, marital difficulties, job stress, loss of a home, parenting struggles, spiritual turmoil—you name it.  And that kind of care is hard.  Harder than you might think. 

St. Mark's Hospital (photo credit here)

I started my CPE program in January and finished at the end of April.  Most of my clinical hours involved either knocking on patients’ doors and offering to visit, or responding to traumas and hospital deaths in my overnight on-call shifts.  In those four short months, I encountered so much pain, suffering, and grief, and many resilient human beings.  And alongside all of that came an incredible amount of personal growth. 

 
In the spirit of reflection (which we newbie interns so often practiced in our small group), I thought I’d share some of the lessons I learned in this CPE process.  And because this could turn into a massively long post all-in-one, I decided to split them up over the next couple of weeks.  I hope that whether you’re in pain yourself, or in a position to support someone who is, you find some of these lessons as meaningful as I did, starting with…
 
Everyone has a story.
 
People enter the hospital from all walks of life:
Behind door #1 could be a white, middle-age, upper-class, Latter Day Saint woman who was just diagnosed with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. 
Behind door #2 could be a Polynesian, evangelical, 40-year-old man with pneumonia. 
Behind door #3 could be a mixed-race, gay, 20-something who’s “spiritual, but not religious,” and is detoxing from a heroin overdose… or a teenage girl who just tried to commit suicide… or a 63-year-old former vet who’s experiencing homelessness… or a mom of three with terminal cancer.
 
Some of these people have supportive families, and some don’t.  Some have great medical insurance, and some don’t.  Some grew up in abusive families.  Some have lost their kids or grandkids, or a spouse, or a sister, or a parent.  Some pray to Jesus, and some pray to Allah.  Some are conservative, some are liberal, and some are sick of politics altogether.  Some have traveled the world, and some had just enough money to buy a bus ticket from Alabama looking for work in a pandemic.
 
Before you walk in a room, you just don’t know.  And if I saw these same people on the street, I wouldn’t have a clue.  But if there’s one thing I learned from CPE, it’s that everyone has a story.  Every random person you see in your daily life—from your next-door-neighbor to the woman bagging your groceries—has had some unbelievable things happen to them, and they still had the courage to get out of bed in the morning. 

This applies to you, too.  You are more complex than anyone else knows.  There are moments in your life that have been wonderful, and others that have sucked abysmally.  Congratulate yourself (and someone else) every so often.  The paths that wander through life are hard, and each of us is walking our own as best we can, one step at a time. 

birds and bells

I sat in bed this morning with my journal to have some quiet time with Jesus.  This has become a healthy habit for me over the last several years—something a mentor of mine recently likened to “taking out the garbage,” or letting the emotional clutter escape the body into prayer on a page.  That image works for me.  And I’ve had plenty of clutter lately to think about, like nearing the end of my CPE internship at the hospital… writing my final evaluation… prepping to teach an upcoming Sunday School class… planning a trip to Washington soon to see my family for the first time in nearly a year… among many other, smaller things.
 
As I opened the blank pages, I had a random song stuck in my head—one from a movie I watched days ago that wasn’t exactly conducive to quiet, reflective moments (it’s always the worst ones that get stuck on a loop).  I grabbed my phone off my nightstand and found the Peaceful Hideaway playlist on Spotify to quiet the mental clamor.  That oughta help.
 
Slow piano tunes mixed with birdsong began to play softly.  I lifted my pen, creased the journal pages open, and flipped my devotional book to the scripture for today.   
 
It took me a second to realize that I was now hearing bird chirping not just from the phone to my left, but also through the window to my right.  I reached over to pause the music and peaked through the cracked blinds.  Sure enough, several tiny birds sat on top of the bushes outside, chattering up a storm.  Birds from further away chattered back.  I hadn’t noticed at all until now.
 
Then bells rang in the distance.  I have no idea which nearby church they echoed from.  I glanced at the clock—it was 9 AM—and I listened to the bells.  I couldn’t believe I’d never heard them before.  Why hadn’t I heard them before?
 
I looked down at the text in front of me.  “…with minds alert and fully sober…”
 
There it was.  Heavy on the clutter, missing the alert. 
Pretty simple, actually:  I didn’t hear because I wasn’t listening.  I was distracted.
 
We’ve lived in this apartment now for eight months, and I’ve never once heard those bells.  Apparently, I’ve had other things on my mind.  The TV has provided background noise.  My brain has routinely glazed over looking at my phone screen.  In and out of these walls, life runs along in a perpetual state of diversion and thinking about “the next thing.”  Presence and paying attention are oft-neglected virtues.

I took three deep breaths while the bells faded out and the birds chirped on.  Those simple sounds were good for my soul.  How many other unassuming, yet God-given moments was I missing on a daily basis?  I live in a spacious world, but regularly only occupy the portion of it that exists between my ears—and that area gets cramped quickly.   

 
I copied the words into my journal: “with minds alert and fully sober.”  At 32 years old, I hope I have a lot more life to live… but heaven help me, the time goes by fast, and I rarely inhabit the moment I’m actually in.  I’m more anxious than alert, more distracted than engaged.  The future comes sooner than expected and the past gets blurry. 
 
There’s no way to change the time that has already come and gone.  But perhaps a prayer for today will suffice:  God, help me to see, hear, feel, and appreciate the abundant gifts you offer—the birds, the bells, and everything else—rather than miss those little moments of grace simply because I'm too distracted to pay attention.