I walked into my office at the VA Medical Center in Marion, Indiana, that August morning at 7:30 a.m. and glanced at the sticky note on my desk with my current prayer list. I always took a few minutes for solitary prayer before I began my rounds to check in with patients—my congregants.
I went through the list, then finished with the same prayer that I said every morning.
Lord, let me see you work in one small way today.
It was breakfast time, so I walked through the dining rooms on a couple of the wards, greeting my long-term patients by first name or nickname. They responded with their usual friendly banter.
“Hey, Padre, what are you doing up so early?”
“Pastor, do you want my yogurt?”
“Chaplain, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
I chatted with them and noticed that some of my congregants were not in the dining room. I headed to the hospice ward.
My first stop was Steve’s room. He was a long-term resident in his seventies who had been seriously ill for almost a week. I squirted on some hand sanitizer and walked in, calling out, “Good morning, Steve! It’s Chaplain David.” Steve lay in bed breathing slowly, his face blank. He didn’t respond to my greeting.
I’d met Steve three years earlier, and we’d become fast friends. He was mostly paralyzed and struggled with moral injury, the deep psychological and spiritual distress that can arise when a person faces situations that go against their values or beliefs. He had served in Vietnam and carried a lot of guilt and shame over what he’d done and seen in the war. He said he relied on God just to make it through each day.
I would push his wheelchair to the hospital store—the canteen, as the residents called it—where he’d always buy a Dr Pepper. We would sit outside together, sometimes talking, sometimes just enjoying the sunshine.
Now there were long pauses between Steve’s breaths. I knew he didn’t have much time left. I sat by his side and took his hand. I sang “Amazing Grace” to him. Then I closed my eyes and prayed aloud. “Jesus, thank you for Steve’s life. Will you wrap your arms around his spirit now and carry him to an eternity with you?” When I opened my eyes, Steve was gone.
The nurse and doctor confirmed he had died. I headed back to my office. I needed to be alone. I cried over the loss of a man who had become so much more than a hospital patient to me.
I knew I could go to one of my good friends, a fellow chaplain on the ward, to talk if I needed it. We leaned on each other during times like these. Learning to process grief was a part of working in hospice.
I talked to another hospice patient, then went to visit a man who had just been admitted to the acute mental health ward. I made sure to meet with new arrivals to see if they had any spiritual needs or just to chat and get to know them. This gentleman told me he had been drinking and having suicidal thoughts. When I asked him to tell me more, he got up and walked away. Visit over.
His reaction made me think of another patient, one of the first ones I’d met when I started working here. He too had walked away. He’d even yelled at me. A rough start, but after I told him I was a veteran as well, that I’d served with both the Army and Air National Guard, he opened up. Perhaps it would be the same with this new patient once we got to know each other.
Next was the long-term geriatric psychiatry unit. I entered one room with my usual greeting. “Good morning! It’s Chaplain David. How are you doing today?”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” the man in bed shouted. “Get out of here!”
Most of our residents were receptive to a chaplain visit, but some weren’t.
This patient was grouchy and kicked me out on most days. I left his room, reminding myself that he and the other men in the unit dealt with serious mental health issues. It wouldn’t be helpful to take their words personally. They needed grace. There were days when that grouchy gentleman did want to talk. I’d try again next week.
I visited some residents in the dayroom. One man asked me to pray with him. I talked with him for a while, then decided to take a break. It had been quite a morning.
After lunch, I heard a knock on my office door. It was Chris, a patient from our drug and alcohol rehab program. I’d become the lead chaplain for the program at my supervisor’s suggestion.
Chris was one of our younger veterans, in his mid-thirties. He wanted to talk one-on-one after hearing me speak to his rehab group about moral injury. Chris had served as an Army mechanic. He told me he harbored a lot of bitterness toward the military for making him fix airplanes that went out on missions that resulted in civilian casualties. He felt he had played a part in harming people who didn’t deserve it, which violated the moral code he lived by. He hadn’t been raised religious, but he was curious whether the Bible could shed some light on his situation.
“Have you ever heard the story of the prodigal son?” I asked.
Chris shook his head. As I told him about the prodigal son seeking and finding forgiveness from his father, his eyes went wide. “You can’t hear this story and not be moved!” he said.
“Who do you need to forgive?” I asked him.
“I need to forgive myself,” he said.
“Who else?” I asked.
Chris thought for a minute, then realized that he also needed to forgive the pilots, his commanders and the military leadership. We talked a little longer about forgiveness and then prayed together. “You’ve given me a lot to think about,” he told me before he left. “Thank you, Chaplain David.”
As I typed up notes on the spiritual care I’d provided, I recalled why my supervisor had suggested I take on work with the rehab patients. He’d hoped it would balance out my hospice work—endings and new beginnings. Today I had sat with Steve, a struggling older veteran, as he found peace in his final moments. And I’d sat with Chris, a younger veteran starting his journey of healing from his own moral injury.
In my morning prayer, I had asked to see God work in one small way today. I never see less, but some days I see much more than one small work of God.
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