keep doing what you’re doing

I recently visited a patient along with his wife and young adult son standing bedside. He was facing a high-risk surgical procedure, but was having to wait a few days before it could be done. They were lovely people—all with polite smiles, courageous hearts, and trusting souls. And yet, their nervousness was almost tangible. After we talked and prayed, their faces looked more relaxed and their smiles looked a little more genuine. We said our goodbyes, but as I left the room, the patient’s wife called out to me: “Keep doing what you’re doing!”

I’m certain God gave me those words, because there have been many days since when I felt like quitting. Not because I’m disgruntled, or even wishing I could do something else, but because sometimes I’m just tired. It is in those moments that I hear those words:  keep doing what you’re doing.

I’m thinking we all need a place or time or words that we can revisit over and over in order to persevere.  Maybe it was a conversation, a dream, an experience—something that led us to do what we do. We knew in that moment that we had a plan and a purpose. That is the thing we must revisit in order to stay focused and carry on. It is something divine, given to us by a loving God, that through our remembrances tells us, “Keep doing what you’re doing!”

“For I know the plans I have for you….” (Jeremiah 29:11)

the night before Christmas

One of my favorite times in the hospital is at night. Among the beeps and chatter, there is a serenity that prevails. I wrote this poem this week while working at Emory University Hospital. I dedicate it to the patients, families, and staff; past and present; and Emory and DeKalb where I serve as chaplain.

Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the hospital
Patient care continues
Every bed is still full

The tasteful decorations
Grace every hall
But the fact still remains
There are challenges for all

Staff that care desperately
Trying to save
Loved ones staying vigilant
To hope and to pray

Patients whose bodies
Are letting them down
Are sad and downtrodden
Little joy to be found

Even still, rising up
From an unsettling scene
Beauty abounds
Through so many things

Hearts of compassion
Tender words that console
A touch that is careful
Prayer for the soul

Laughter that prevails
Hugs that connect
The best of ourselves
Will not be unset

God, hold your children
Give them your light
Merry Christmas to all,
And to all, a quiet night.

 

 

the Bible and Bingo

One of the things I love about being a hospital chaplain is that behind every door or curtain, there is a story.  A world-class athlete in an intensive care unit, a homeless woman in the critical decision unit, a retired magician in the stepdown unit. Every patient, a story.

Such was the case with Cindy, a 40-year-old woman with physical and mental disabilities as the result of a childhood illness. When I met Cindy, she was past the point of being able to communicate. I was asked to come pray with her family as they transitioned her into hospice care. 

Surrounding her bed were her mother, father, sister, brother, aunt and uncle—all of whom were smiling through tears. Smiles that couldn’t be helped as they shared stories about Cindy; and tears that couldn’t be helped as they knew they were about to say goodbye.

Before I prayed, I wanted to know more about this special woman named Cindy. I learned that she had been living in an assisted living home for many years where she brought energy and joy to her fellow residents, particularly through her smiles and backrubs!

I asked if there was anything in particular that she enjoyed doing. The family all agreed there were two things she loved:  (1) Hearing people read the Bible, and (2) Bingo!”

It was my turn to smile through tears.

I was overcome with joy at the beauty of this special needs woman finding such happiness in hearing the Word of God. That God, in His mercy and grace, and through His Spirit, would be able to touch the soul of Cindy in some sacred divine way far beyond anything I could comprehend.

I was overcome with sadness as I considered how many people have never experienced such joy in hearing the Word of God. Either because they have never had access to it…or because they have opted out.

I was overcome with pride for a family I had just met. A family that had remained by their loved one’s side through many difficult years—with her to the end—and testifying to her love of “all things God.”

I was overcome with awe at the way God could connect my heart so quickly with a patient named Cindy, whom I would never speak with and would only know in the last hours of her life. Yet, in an instant, I could experience a bond with this woman who, like me, loves the Bible…and Bingo!

Doors.

Stories.

God.

I’m just thinking…what could be more beautiful?

Featured photo: Door seen within the streets of Paris.

because sometimes you feel like quitting

In addition to regular hours in the hospital, chaplains take turns being on-call or on-duty during nights and weekends. At some hospitals, chaplains remain onsite while on-duty. At my hospital, we go about our normal routine at home, but keep our pager with us at all times and respond as needed by driving to the hospital. Some nights/weekends are rather quiet, but then sometimes, they are not.

A few weekends ago, I was on call. And that weekend was a “not.”

I tried to participate in Saturday activities with my family, but received several calls that interrupted plans. To be sure, I consider responding to a call to be an honor. To represent hope and healing in difficult situations is my calling and what my heart longs to do. But, I would be lying if I said it wasn’t sometimes difficult to leave what I’m in the midst of doing with family or friends. However…I did respond…and (eventually!) with a glad servant heart.

But then, there came a call around 10pm that same night just minutes after I’d climbed into bed. Jumping into my car with a glad heart suddenly became more challenging.

And, finally, the next night…the call at 2am. I grabbed some clothes, brushed my teeth, combed my hair…and off into the dark of the night I drove to the hospital. As I drove, I began to pray. “God…you’re really, really going to have to help me tonight. I want to help this family…but I’m TIRED! And my spirit is weary! I don’t feel like I have anything left to give. Maybe I’m not cut out to be a chaplain!? Maybe I should just quit!!!”

The next morning, as I wallowed in my weariness, I received a call from a chaplain peer that began to encourage me. Through his words, God began to show me truths about being steadfast. I thought about how many times/things I’d quit in my life. Some I should have, some I shouldn’t have. Some too soon, some too late. But, above all, God wanted me to think about what it means to be steadfast.

When I stay steadfast…
I fulfill my purpose. I have no doubt that my calling is to be a chaplain. This is what I want to do and what I feel God has purposed me to do. When I think about that…it seems ridiculous that I would ever consider quitting!

When I stay steadfast…
I have the opportunity to impact the life of another person. Even when I’m weary, I can make a difference in any crisis. A family member is consoled, a patient holds a little tighter to hope, a staff member feels appreciated.

When I stay steadfast…
I continue to grow personally. I think we always believe we have to LEAVE to grow. But, sometimes, I think more growth happens when we STAY.

When we stay…we learn to deal with difficult situations
When we stay…we learn to deal with difficult people
When we stay…we discover more about ourselves
When we stay…we become a rich resource to others

I think all these principles apply not only to my professional life…I think they also apply to my spiritual life.

A very well-known verse of scripture is found in Psalm 51, the 10th verse. The first half of the verse is what we most often focus on:  “Create in me a clean heart, Oh God.” But recently, it’s the second half of that verse that stands out to me:  “And renew a steadfast spirit within me.”

The psalmist reminds us through his prayer that our spirit must remain active; firmly fixed; constant; devoted; faithful. And when our spirit is steadfast, the benefits are not unlike the benefits I considered by keeping on with my work.

• I will fulfill my purpose
• I will have the opportunity to impact others
• I will grow personally

It’s not always easy to keep on keeping on in our work.

It’s not always easy to keep on keeping on in our spirit.

But we are not without a Helper for either. With God, we are able to remain steadfast. And only He knows what’s in store for us when we do.

Featured photo:  “Hotel of God.” Hospital in downtown Paris, March 2016.

why we need hope: the hospital

Frank and I attended an Easter service at our church last night. As we sat and waited for the service to begin, five men and two women entered the row in front of us. They were impeccably dressed, looking like young professionals who had dinner reservations in Buckhead Atlanta following church. One young man in particular looked around the large auditorium and said, “Wow!” It was in that moment that God prompted me to begin praying for him. I have no idea what his life story may be…but I am certain that God wanted me to pray…and I’m certain how He wanted me to pray. My prayer is that this man would know the hope that can only come through the hope of a risen Savior. I began to think how I would express this to him–how I would describe what hope in Christ means to me. As long as the thoughts flow, I want to write some of the ways…almost as a prayer for this young man.

Hope in the hospital.

I was born to a Christian mother and father. I spent my whole life in church, worked for a denomination, and earned a Masters of Divinity. But nothing in all my Christian journey has encouraged my faith as the days I spend as a hospital chaplain. For it is in those days that I see real faith in people who are experiencing real trials.

People like Ms. B, a 63 year-old African American female diagnosed with pancreatitis. As I entered the patient’s room, I found her lying on her side, writhing in pain. Ever-so-slightly, I could hear her speaking…and when I told her I was the chaplain…she tried her hardest to speak more loudly. “By His stripes, I have been healed.” “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help comes from the Lord.” She continued to quote scripture as she winced and stopped for intense pain to pass. We had the most precious prayer together…but most assuredly, on that day, she was the one that blessed me.

Every week, I see people in the hospital who are not just “hanging on” to hope.  They are legitimately embracing hope. Hope for healing, hope to see a loved one again in Heaven, hope for reconciliation, hope for a better life.

But, they aren’t just hoping…they are claiming the promises that come from a risen Savior.

I pray the young man God laid on my heart would know this kind of hope. Maybe not now…but someday…he will need it. We will all need it.

And by the grace of God…we can have it.

Featured photo: Foggy Easter morning, Tucker, Ga.

 

what makes a great daddy?

In honor of my Dad on his 92^nd birthday.

The first women’s topical Bible study I ever led was titled, In My Father’s House, by Mary Kassian. In that study, Kassian explores the idea that the way we experience our earthly father impacts the way we experience our heavenly father. Of course, we are not limited by these earthly experiences—God is greater, and higher, and…well…Divine, for goodness sake! But, I did find in my study that my daddy paved the way for me to have a wonderful perspective of a spiritual father.

Now, to be fair, there were things my Dad was not.

My dad was not a playful father
–but I didn’t need a play-daddy…I had friends for that.

My dad was not an outdoor adventurer
—but I didn’t need him for adventure…I could muster up my own!

My dad was not “Mr. Cool”
—but I didn’t need him to be popular…I liked that he was home with us on nights and weekends.

Here are the things my Daddy was.

my PROTECTOR. There was no doubt that Dad was the man of the house and led the family. He drove the car, he checked us in the hotel, he gassed up the cars, he locked the doors before bed, he spoke to the maître d’, he carried the heavy stuff—including me! His being in control made me feel safe.

my PROVIDER. Dad was a trustworthy and dependable businessman. His dedication to his company combined with his work ethic resulted in his ability to always provide financially for our family. We didn’t live in excess…but we were never without.

my PLANNER. My dad left nothing to chance. For everything there was a checklist or a system. Before anything was purchased, there was research done. He led our family decisions by way of purpose and reason.

my PROUDEST. The place I picture Dad at every special event in my life is at the back of the room or the end of the line. Always staying out of the limelight, he would patiently wait his turn to love on me. But when he did, it was the most tender of hugs and the most heartfelt words that he shared. And his pride would be written all over his face.

These are the things I treasure from my earthly father. And, consequently, these are things I treasure from my heavenly father. Protection, provision, purpose, and pride.

I’m just thinking that my dad’s 92^nd birthday is a great time to reflect on these things and be grateful.

Featured photo:  Family birthday celebration for Dad, November 2015.

the beauty of being there

I suppose for most people, the hospital is not a place they think of in regards to beauty. For me, it has the potential to create some of the most beautiful and sacred sights to behold.  Surprisingly, quite often I find beauty in a patient’s hospital room. It happens when I open a door and see a person sitting quietly by the bed of their loved one. A child, a spouse, a sibling, a forever friend, maybe a grown grandchild.

The room may be dark…the patient may be asleep or not even conscious…the only sound to be heard might be the signal that an IV bag is empty, or that a medical device is giving assistance. In that moment, there is not really anything to do—no meals to bring, no conversations to carry, …no more “what can I do’s.” All that’s left to do is to just be there. I believe that’s the point when a caregiver becomes most helpful and where the beauty begins.

As I witness that kind of “being still” love, I am always reminded of God’s presence. I often find myself praying that the patient would be reminded of God’s love and presence when they look into the face of their loved one sitting bedside. My hope is that they will be reassured of God’s promise that He will never leave them nor forsake them. That He sees, He knows, and He loves.

I’m just thinking, to be able to represent that?…It’s a thing of beauty.

I will never leave you nor forsake you (Deuteronomy 31:8)
I am with you always (Matthew 28:20)
In your presence there is peace, love, hope, joy (Psalm 16:11)

Featured photo:  Alabaster glass window, Duomo de Orvieto, Italy

easier to forget

Having had cancer is something I rarely think about. Until I do.

It happens on the days I wake up to go in for my every-sixth-month mammogram/ultrasound or MRI. It happens when I pick up my prescription refill for Tamoxifen. It happens when people ask me to “share my story.” And, last month, it happened when I was asked to attend a Cancer Survivors Luncheon.

It was at the hospital where I work as a chaplain. My original intent was to attend in support of the cancer center staff and their patients. As a hospital staff chaplain, I stood at the door and welcomed a line of men and women, all sporting their particular “cancer colors,” and all happy to be reunited with those who had tended to their medical needs, held their hands, and listened with concern during a critical time in their lives.

I thought, “Isn’t this nice! What a great way to acknowledge and celebrate these people’s journeys!” It wasn’t until one of the staff came to me and said, “Janet, go fix your plate and come over here where we’ve saved you a seat,” that I remembered I was one of them.

I started to protest…“No, that’s okay. I’m fine.” But the Spirit said, “go”…so I did.

I sat down at a table of seven other survivors and asked them one-by-one to tell me about their cancer. We laughed, we commiserated, we gave advice, and we encouraged. It was just what it was supposed to be. A celebration of surviving cancer. And I was one of the survivors.

It’s much easier to not think about hard times and struggles in life than to remember. To revisit in your mind what it was like. To wonder again about the uncertainty of the future.

But I think it’s good for me to remember. Because when I let my mind “go there”…God always meets me. Encouraging me, loving me, and letting me know He is ever-present. And sometimes, He wants to do all this for me around a table full of cancer survivors…just like me.

“You make known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand” (Psalm 16:11).

Featured photo: Celebrating one year cancer-free at DeKalb Medical Cancer Survivors Luncheon, June 2015.

what’s to love about the Bible?

The late great Charlie “Tremendous” Jones mentored scores of men and women throughout his lifetime. My husband Frank was lucky enough to be one of them. No matter where they met, Charlie would bring out a Bible, kiss it, and then hand it to Frank to read to him. After Frank would read a passage, Charlie would say, “Read it again!” This exercise would make Frank laugh every time. It also gave him a beautiful picture of revering the very words of God.

My love for the Bible is something that has grown over a lifetime. I vividly remember the pride of reciting my memory verse each Sunday to women like Mrs. Thomas that sat at the door of my children’s Sunday School class ready to receive me. I still have my Good News Bible I received as a teenager—an updated version that helped me progress beyond just reading a verse here and a verse there. It was actually Frank that taught me to get out of my New Testament comfort zone and to discover the riches of the Old Testament. Of course, in seminary, my view of the Bible grew exponentially. But honestly, it wasn’t until I read the Bible through chronologically in the New Living Translation that I fell in love with it—hook, line, and sinker. When I read the Bible as one big story, it was life-changing.

I love it because:

• When I feel like giving up – I can gain perspective. God’s story is a story of love…but it’s a long story, and it’s not over.
• When I’m surrounded by opinions from every side – I can know what is beautiful, pure, and true.
• When I’m frustrated with humanity (myself included) – I am reminded that the result of sin on man is as old as time.
• When I’m restless and discontented – I can feed my soul with scripture and gain some peace.
• When I’m out-of-line and need to be rebuked – I am convicted, loved, and forgiven…all within the context of scripture.
• When I want to know what God thinks – I don’t have to use conjecture…I just have to read.

I know some would think me foolish for believing the Bible to be true…to be the inspired Word of God…to be the story of God. But, that’s okay. I’ll be a fool for God’s Word, because I love it. I’m just thinking in honor of Charlie, I might even give it a kiss!

 

“Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I entrust my life.” Psalm 143:8

the sound of my back door

For 50+ years of my life, I visited Aunt Boots at her house on Bedford Road in Jacksonville, Fla. She no longer lives there, but sometimes when I’m in town, I drive by to see the old house. Within a few blocks of her street, I begin to relive the feelings I felt as a little girl when my family would go visit.

Sitting in the backseat of the family car, I would bust out in a big grin as we turned onto Bedford Road. I knew in a few minutes, I would see Aunt Boots running out the front door squealing “Jan!,” and I would get a huge hug and a sloppy wet kiss planted on my face. I knew she would have lemon ice cream in the freezer, shrimp thawing out to fry, and a lemon pound cake on the counter. We would spend hours sitting on her stoop out back talking and laughing; we would pick pecans and oranges from trees in her yard; and, if we were lucky enough to be there for July 4^th, we would run around the house with sparklers screaming at the top of our lungs.

Those days are only memories now…but they are powerful memories. So powerful that I can still taste that shrimp, still feel her hand in mine, still smell the cedar chest in the bedroom, and still hear the sound of her back door that led to the stoop.

Last week I drove by to see the old house. Sitting in my car by myself, I cried a few happy tears on behalf of sweet memories and a few sad tears for a time gone by. Maybe it was in the emotion of the moment…but I began to wonder,

“Will anyone remember the sound of my back door?”

I’m just thinking that would be the greatest thing ever.  That this might even be the most important thing I could say of my life. That something I did, or said, or shared made a memory for someone else. A memory that would always remind them of being happy and feeling loved.

 

Featured photo:  “The stoop” at Aunt Boots’ house, Easter 1962.