Pastoral Care 101: Get out of the Car

My first experience with being with a dying person happened when I was in seminary a couple years ago. I was taking Pastoral Care and Counseling and we had just finished the class on "grief" when someone from the church where I was on staff called me.  "My neighbor's wife is dying," she said, "and they need someone to come see them. I prayed about it, and I think it's supposed to be you." I protested in a thousand different ways. "I'm only in seminary. We have so many 'real' pastors and they are all fantastic. I've never...you know...done that before...and so I'm sure I'd say the wrong thing. This is a BAD idea."  She listened patiently and she said, "Her husband would never want 'clergy' there. She's a Methodist so she would, but he's just...NOT RELIGIOUS. I prayed about it and I think you are the one to go." She sounded sure. I reported this to my "real" pastors and they said, "Go."

So early the next morning I got in my car with my Bible and an apple for breakfast. I drove to the local hospital and sat in the car, munching on the apple and praying through my fear, which was all knotted  up in my stomach with Granny Smith juice. I remembered my professor's words, when he had said just the day before to our class, "Here's the funny thing. When the call comes, when the beeper goes off, you will not want to go. You will come up with a thousand excuses for why you can't go. It is normal, and doesn't make you a bad pastor. But you must NOT give in to that feeling. When you feel that way, GO. Showing up is the hardest and most important part."  So when I felt that urge to run, I thought, well, I don't know what I'm doing but I do know that I'm getting out of the dang car.  Take that, Satan.

The woman, who I had never met, lay in the bed, unconscious. The monitors glowed and beeped. Her husband looked tired and stricken. I introduced myself.  Because I didn't know her, her husband told me about her, how she loved her bright yellow car, the one he bought her. How she looked when she came down the stairs in a certain dress, and how she always took forever to get ready. He would stop and then say, "I can't believe this." He was angry and sad and silent and laughing. The ping-ponging of grief--the shock and the crying and the laughing, the stories and the numb repetition, clinging to the sheer face of grief and searching blindly for a rock to plant a foot on that can bear the weight of this.  I listened. I said very little. I offered to leave and he asked me to stay longer, so I did. Time went by very fast.  My entire contribution vocally was just about as follows: I told him she could probably hear him, that hearing was there even when it appeared she could not hear, often right up to the end. I told him this way he felt was normal. It was normal to be angry and crazy and up and down. I observed he had many people who loved him and loved her. I told him grief was hard work, that it was important to be gentle with yourself,  and that he should eat something, even though he wasn't hungry. I suggested eggs. (Hot, protein, easy to swallow). I asked if he wanted me to pray. He said, "I want you to pray for her. I don't want to be here when you do. I will step out and have a smoke." We made a circle with me and the woman and two friends who were visiting. We prayed and I noticed he hadn't left. He was standing in the open door of the hospital bathroom, out of sight, in a dark corner, listening to us pray about light and life eternal, and grief and the loved ones gone before, that would reach out to her, to help her with this journey to be with Jesus. When I left, he seemed grateful and I thought, "For what?" I was the one who was grateful, and stunned at the presence of the Holy.

I left around 11 a.m., shaking my head at how quickly the time had gone, and seeing that God was in the room, that it was a holy space I had been in. I had been a witness, someone to stand by and watch and occasionally point out the presence of God. This preacher who loves to stand and proclaim about the gospel learned about the joys of "presence" and the mysterious judo of pastoral care. Nothing I do in this world is less about me, or more about God.  Nothing I do is more important, though.  Because the Spirit is at work most palpably in these moments of life and death, I am able to get out of the car, or walk into the hospital room, or speak at a funeral or stand in the mud at a graveside service. Because it is a God thing and I'm not God. It is a holy privilege to show up and to be in the room, to hold hands and speak about love and pain and offer both a Suffering Savior and a Risen Christ.  So, if there are any scared folks out there, eating an apple in a hospital parking lot and not wanting to go in,  let me assure you that God is in the room already.  Jesus has conquered death and the grave; Jesus makes it possible for us to love well in the midst of pain.  Take a deep breath and go.  Get out of the car.