Live and let go:
The many fronts of a chaplain’s recovery
The pandemic wasn’t merely unlike anything I’d ever experienced as a chaplain: It felt like war, and often a losing one.
Deaths soared to the point where refrigerator trucks were parked on the hospital grounds to store the bodies. There was no recovery time as I dashed from one crisis to the next. The urgencies pressed and pressed on the staff until most if not all of us felt nothing but numbness. When I did let the patient and family stories in, they overwhelmed me. I was not equipped to deal with the trauma. Secondary though it was, it still rained on my being and my spirit. No amount of training could’ve prepared me for this.
One of my very best resources before and during the pandemic (and ever since) was a group of female Presbyterian pastors. Since the mid-2010s we have done bi-yearly retreats and these amazing women were the first people with whom I could share my chaplain stories. When I told them about the death of Maria and how I felt I’d failed her, they listened without judgment.
These wise women, my valued and treasured guides, offered me the gift of their collective wisdom. One pastor spoke up: “Can you ask Maria what she thinks of your care? You may feel you lied to her, but maybe she thinks otherwise. Can you take this to prayer and meditation?”
I found a sacred space on a southwest Michigan beach, Lake Michigan stretched before me, and began. Now usually in meditation I sense peace and calm. I can feel my body relax. But I was unprepared for this experience.
As the waves rolled in and out, my breath calmed and my meditation took me back to my conversations with Maria. Rarely do I dream of seeing myself in a dream. This felt like watching the interactions from the outside, looking at both of us in conversation. Waves of tears coursed from me and I clearly heard her voice:
“Amy, there’s nothing to forgive. This is not your burden to carry. Let it go. Be at peace.” And an overwhelming sense of serenity washed over and through me. As the sun shone on my face, it felt like nature had enveloped me in a warm embrace.
I can’t say how long I spent at the water’s edge but the sun had set by the time I got up. Back in my cabin that night, questions swirled in my mind: “Can I accept this forgiveness? Can I forgive myself?” Doubt set in as well: “Did that really happen?” I could only describe the overarching answer as a deep knowing, a lightness of soul, an enveloping quiet that felt truly peaceful. Worry had dissipated and in the calm I knew I was safe. I could let go of my guilt.
Could I accept I was a good enough chaplain to Maria at the time? Could I allow space for my own humanity to be touched by the grief and emotions of others?
And if so, how could I integrate this deep knowing into my work as a chaplain?
Variation on a guilt theme
My experience with Maria paralleled on some level with my struggles as a parent and the nagging feeling that I hadn’t done enough.
I remember talking with my husband about our adult children as we asked ourselves, “How badly did we screw up our kids?” We took this to a good friend and therapist who challenged us to entertain a different question: “Can you accept you were good enough parents?”
Today, both of our adult children are accomplished. Our oldest graduated Summa Cum Laude from DePaul University and has begun to follow his writerly aspirations. Our daughter is junior at the Pratt Institute in New York City, doing amazing work as an aspiring graphic artist. We are proud of them – even though we made mistakes along the way.
Yet neither kid wants for anything and we tried out best to nurture and grow them to be responsible, loving human beings.
Again, the question: ““Can you accept you were good enough?”
‘Life feels lighter’
Years after Maria’s passing, and my beachfront meditation, life feels lighter when I let go of taking on other peoples’ burdens.
When I revisit the “a-ha” that led me to become a chaplain – walking alongside people on this human messy journey – the realization hits me. “Alongside” does not mean “in lockstep.” I am at my best, for myself and those around me, when I let go of carrying others’ issues, shouldering their heavy loads and solving their problems. I’m better able to become present in the moment. And when that moment is done, I try not to take it into my personal life. Just as the voice said to me so clearly, the burdens are not mine to carry.
I continue to live into this new view of my work: chaplain as fellow human “journey-er,” fully present in the encounter with the person. If possible, I problem solve with them; other times I just sit and listen. I honor where they are, leaving aside any judgement or angst over finding a solution. In this I am re-learning the meaning of compassion – being with (com) someone in their pain (passion) without taking on their troubles as my own:
“Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your soul. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”
Integrating this verse into my being goes something like this:
Jesus invites us to not just be a “follower” or a “believer” but “doer”: to live out our faith and make love visible. He taught us to care for the Samaritan on the side of the road. Yet in caring for others, we are invited to learn Jesus’ way of humility. To me this means that even as Christ “emptied himself,” I must take ego out of the encounter: IT’S NOT ABOUT ME!
This Jesus of the easy yoke doesn’t need us to take on heavy, oppressive burdens. It’s not mine to solve all ills but instead to shine a light in the darkest of crises and traumas. I am not a beast of burden tasked with the impossible. In being present to the cries and ills of others in the moment of they arise, I am good enough.
Because ultimately, the outcome is beyond my control. This is both freeing and frightening, to have lived through the pandemic – the war without – and survived the war within.