The Rev. A. Meigs Ross on the challenges of being a 24/7 chaplain

A Hometown Chaplain

I heard the siren in the distance and knew it would be minutes before my own personal siren, my pager, sounded. I was right, just as the ambulance came barreling down the street in front of my house, my pager went off and I called in. “Chaplain, we have a trauma coming in, a teenager, her heart has stopped.” I went into automatic pilot and was out the door, leaving behind my own two teenagers. The distant fear in their eyes barely registered with me. I was in chaplain mode. Hours later, after caring for the devastated family of a beautiful teenage girl who died suddenly and mysteriously, I finally took a few stolen moments to reflect.

I didn’t know the family or the girl, but they lived just down the street, next door to my sons’ best friend. I knew now every time I went down that street, I would remember the family, the girl’s face, the scene of shock and horror. It wasn’t just this street, it was now every street in town that contained for me a story of shock or death or trauma or long, drawn out illness. Being a chaplain in my own small town was becoming a heavy burden. How could I contain the sadness when I was reminded everywhere, everyday?

I grew up in a very small town and over the course of my childhood there were two different doctors in town. One doctor loved the people but found, after a few years, that he could no longer bear the burdens of caring for his friends, knowing that each time he was giving bad news he was delivering that news to a friend. The other doctor was just as devoted to his community and friends, but he carried those burdens differently. He was able to keep a healthy distance between his medical practice and his life and friendships. This allowed him to spend years practicing medicine in a small town where he knew every single patient. He enjoyed the connection between his work and his community.

I knew that I wanted to be like the latter physician; I wanted to be able to offer spiritual care and give of myself fully to people at the hospital in my town, and yet not carry the burdens with me. I also knew that I needed to work at doing just that. I began to do what I called a driving meditation. Each time I drove to work or drove to the store or to pick up my kids and I passed the home of a former patient, or the site of a trauma, I offered a prayer. I allowed any images of the trauma to come and then let them go. My prayers were wordless ones. I held each person, each trauma, “in the light” as the Quakers say. I imagined a golden light bathing the person, the trauma and me. Soon, rather than seeing the images of the emergency room or the ICU each time I passed the home of a former patient, I began to feel peace instead. The peace calmed my spirit and flowed from God to me and to those who had gone through the traumas.

I brought this same practice to the hospital as well. Each time I walked by the “quiet room” in the emergency area, I silently imagined the angels waiting on those who had been there. I let God’s love flow through me and bathe the area with light. Now it is that peace and light that I remember as I move through my neighborhood and reflect on being a hometown chaplain.

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