I just finished this brief article for our Stephen’s MInistry newsletter and I thought I would share it here. It’s a reflection on my first experience of Pastoral care.
I had received many calls from individuals in the church who needed to talk to my Dad; so many that I could often tell when the call would require my Dad to leave to see someone who had suffered an accident or was experiencing a medical emergency. I sensed the fear in George’s voice that day when he called. Jackie had been rushed to the hospital. She was in critical condition. George was scared, and I was as well.
Dad wasn’t home, and Mom was out of town. He didn’t have a cell phone number to call, and I wasn’t sure when he was going to be home. About the only thing I knew at that moment was that George was scared. His wife was very ill, possibly near death, and nobody was there to help me help George. So I did the only thing my 17 year old mind could think of to do. I left my Dad a note, and I got in my car and drove to the hospital in town that was only a few miles from my house. I had no idea what to expect. I was scared. I didn’t know what to say or do. I knew where I could find George but once I found him, I didn’t know what would come next.
When I arrived at the hospital, George was sitting in the emergency room hallway all alone. He had brought his bible with him and he was reading through the Psalms. When I sat down, he started to share with me the passage from Psalms that he and Jackie had read together that morning. I remember him saying to me again and again, “She’s got to be OK. She’s got to be OK. She’s got to be OK.”
But Jackie wasn’t OK.
Jackie never made it out of ICU. She had suffered a massive stroke, and it was quickly apparent to the doctors that they would not be able to save her. I was sitting there with George when the doctor brought him the news that his wife had passed away. I held him as tight as I could and I cried with him. I cried because I didn’t know what else to do, and even though I knew I couldn’t really understand the depth of the emotion that George was experiencing, my heart hurt because I knew George was hurting too.
It wasn’t too much longer before my Dad showed up to the hospital. I remember feeling a great sense of relief because I knew that Dad would know what to say and what to do. At the same time, I remember thinking that I had in some ways failed because I had said very little at all. I had gone to the hospital to help. As I left the emergency room that night, I couldn’t help but wonder if my presence had made any difference at all.
But it was in this very raw experience of unqualified care that I learned the incredible power of being present in the midst of another’s pain. When we had the chance to talk that evening, my Dad helped me see the gift that I had shared that night. When George called me the next day to thank me for sitting with him and asked me to participate in Jackie’s funeral, I felt a sense of affirmation that maybe my presence had made a difference.
It certainly wasn’t my words. It wasn’t because of any training or skill. I hadn’t been to seminary yet and the call that God had placed my life was still undefined for me at that time. It was simply being present in the midst of another’s pain.
Experiences like that night with George remind me that words are overrated, that in many cases, the greatest gift we offer to one another is the gift of our attention, our empathy, our presence, our time, and even our tears.
Jesus said it this way. “Where two are more gathered, I am there.”
Maybe that’s what makes the gift of our presence so remarkable.
