Brian
Certified Member
Share an example of when spiritual care made a meaningful impact
She was 78. Shocking white hair contrasted by the ebony skin of a 40 year old. When I got closer, I could see fingers more congruent with her age - twisted with the wisdom of arthritis.
Arlene was referred to me by the nurse. Tearful and shocked by her injury, Arlene asked for a pastor. Checking the chart, I noted, “Pontine stroke with likely metastatic deposit”. Inquiring of the chart further, I learned she was a devout follower of an expressive denomination.
Pulling a chair beside her, Arlene turned to look at me hard in the eyes. Then they softened - even smiled - and the large lady whispered, “God is so good . . . You da pasta” matter of factly, in her thick Jamaican accent. She took my hand and squeezed. I explained the difference between chaplain and pastor. She worked so hard to express herself - her fears, her joys, her hopes. Word salad. Aphasia - not receptive, but expressive. Frustrated, she tried again. Still handheld, I said, “Arlene, it’s ok, God understands you perfectly. It’s so frustrating to know what you want to say . . . and can’t”. Tears. Suggested this, “Arlene, I have an idea, how about we sit together and not talk - how about we simply make ourselves aware that God understands everything in us - all our jumbled up words and thoughts. When I think we’re done, I’ll pray. How about that?” She gripped tighter in assent and wept.
10 minutes, 15, 25. The sobs subsided to deeper breathing and 30 minutes in, she was done. Her firm clasp, now sweaty had eased, and with her free hand she petted my arm. With my free hand I pulled out my phone, tapped and swiped to a worship song and moved the phone close to her ear. 2 or 3 notes in and she was word salading to the beat. I was in close accompaniment, butchering the high notes and melody in general.
So there we sat for quite some time, Arlene now releasing my hand altogether to lift them high above her bed. Arlene, unintelligible words, and me, intolerable verse. After a few songs, prayer was natural, and the goosebumps on her arms gave away the presence of the Holy. Then in clear English, Arlene said, “You come back chaplain”.
Arlene was referred to me by the nurse. Tearful and shocked by her injury, Arlene asked for a pastor. Checking the chart, I noted, “Pontine stroke with likely metastatic deposit”. Inquiring of the chart further, I learned she was a devout follower of an expressive denomination.
Pulling a chair beside her, Arlene turned to look at me hard in the eyes. Then they softened - even smiled - and the large lady whispered, “God is so good . . . You da pasta” matter of factly, in her thick Jamaican accent. She took my hand and squeezed. I explained the difference between chaplain and pastor. She worked so hard to express herself - her fears, her joys, her hopes. Word salad. Aphasia - not receptive, but expressive. Frustrated, she tried again. Still handheld, I said, “Arlene, it’s ok, God understands you perfectly. It’s so frustrating to know what you want to say . . . and can’t”. Tears. Suggested this, “Arlene, I have an idea, how about we sit together and not talk - how about we simply make ourselves aware that God understands everything in us - all our jumbled up words and thoughts. When I think we’re done, I’ll pray. How about that?” She gripped tighter in assent and wept.
10 minutes, 15, 25. The sobs subsided to deeper breathing and 30 minutes in, she was done. Her firm clasp, now sweaty had eased, and with her free hand she petted my arm. With my free hand I pulled out my phone, tapped and swiped to a worship song and moved the phone close to her ear. 2 or 3 notes in and she was word salading to the beat. I was in close accompaniment, butchering the high notes and melody in general.
So there we sat for quite some time, Arlene now releasing my hand altogether to lift them high above her bed. Arlene, unintelligible words, and me, intolerable verse. After a few songs, prayer was natural, and the goosebumps on her arms gave away the presence of the Holy. Then in clear English, Arlene said, “You come back chaplain”.