Yesterday, this Caucasian, American, Midwestern Christian who now practices his faith in a Lutheran church, who grew up a Methodist, who had a spiritual awakening in a Southern Baptist church, who went to a non-denominational Bible college and an Evangelical Free Church seminary, who served as a pastor in American Baptist, Bible, and Community churches, went to work.

I spoke to a gay colleague who attends a Methodist church.

I tried to call one of my supervisors, who is a member of a Nazarene church.

When I couldn’t get her, I phoned a Mormon coworker.

I prayed at the bedside with an African-American family whose loved one had died.

I greeted my white, African-American, Latino, and Asian co-workers at the hospital.

I read an email from an administrator whose husband served as a pastor in the Christian and Missionary Alliance.

I texted a Roman Catholic co-worker about a personal situation.

I phoned a Mennonite friend and inquired about having lunch together.

I offered to give some pastoral counsel to a friend who grew up in the Church of Christ, but is now looking for a church home because she never really felt her parents’ church was her own.

I also sent an email to a United Methodist friend.

I sat at the bedside of an unchurched person and prayed for her.

I had a brief conversation with another chaplain, who is Catholic.

I visited the home of a woman who had grown up Southern Baptist, but who most recently has been part of a Church of Christ congregation.

I tried to set up a visit with a lady who was once part of an independent Baptist congregation, another to a lady who attends a Wesleyan church, and yet another who is a member of Disciples of Christ church.

I made a pastoral call to the home of a man who has no church, but who had a local Pentecostal preacher he knows officiate his father’s funeral.

Then I visited a young man whose family has been part of an independent Christian Church congregation.

I emailed a pastor who will be seeing some patients for me when I’m off. He’s a Wesleyan.

I communicated with a couple of fellow team members who are active in the Church of God.

I will be participating in a charity golf tournament today in memory of a young Roman Catholic man.

• • •

At the end of day, we go to our separate rooms. And like most everyone, I feel strongly about the rightness and suitability of the room wherein I dwell.

But during the day, I am happy to spend time with all of these interesting people, as we try to help each other and serve together in our little corner of the great hall of humanity.

The three of us sat together and talked, as we had many times before — the old WWII vet, his daughter, his son, and me their pastor. They had designated me such, ever since I had been hospice chaplain for his wife and their mother Mildred, a lovely woman with Alzheimer’s disease. Upon occasion, when I visited, she would sing and “dance,” her body swaying to a melody in her mind the rest of us could not hear.

Her husband George, wheelchair bound, has had health problems of his own. He also has the most positive, sunny spirit of anyone I’ve met, despite having faced challenges I could not imagine. After two solid years of war zone action, hopping from island to island in the Pacific in WWII, seeing the majority of his companions killed, witnessing untold horrors, he came home to Mildred a broken man. It took him three years to stop having vivid nightmares, to be able to think, to be able to plan their future. With faith and sheer force of will he went into business for himself and became successful. They raised a family and experienced the post-war prosperity of middle America.

At one point, his business burned down. George turned to the insurance company, who called the fire suspicious and never did pay off. Somehow, they survived, rebuilt their lives, and went on. They had each other, loving children, a spirit of optimism, and Mildred’s music. She played the organ in church, and at home around the house was always singing. At times they had little more than that music to carry them through.

When they grew older and more frail, it became clear that Mildred had dementia. The songs in her mind were the only sounds that made sense. George was heartbroken. The two of them had been through so much together, and now she seemed far away. He could touch her, see her, talk to her, but Mildred was somewhere else. And so it it was George in his chair and Mildred swaying back and forth, a caregiver insuring her safety and supporting both of them in their final season of life together.

Continue reading “George, Mildred and the Thin Places”