Nothing To Do

In the mid-1980’s when I worked as a chaplain in a midsized suburban hospital, I would sometimes get paged to the ER. Such a page usually meant one of three things: 1) someone had died or was about to, 2) family members of the sick needed attention, 3) the ER staff didn’t know who else to call. On one particular afternoon I got a page to the ER for what turned out to be all three reasons.

I found a young woman in her mid-20s in the trauma room. She was standing next to the stainless steel table and a body covered in a sheet. The ER staff introduced us and explained to me that her husband had just died. Her red-rimmed eyes were still wet. Her name was Laura. I introduced myself and asked her if she would like a quiet place to sit and talk. She wrapped her arms around me and put her head on my shoulder while we stood next to her husband’s body.

I escorted Laura down the long hallway to the lobby, and through the crowds to the small chapel, which was located just off the east entrance. It was a small dark room with six upholstered pews facing a stained-glass window. We sat in the hush for a while and then I learned that Laura had been married for less than a year. That afternoon her husband was flying a one-seat plane when he went over their house and dipped his wings to say hello. Laura was in the backyard pulling weeds. Twenty minutes later she got the call. He’d hit a nearby mountain.

I asked Laura if there were any people I could call for her. She told me she’d already spoken to her parents in Arizona, and his parents in Illinois. Her sister who lived in Los Angeles was on her way. So there was nothing to do. We sat for a while. She told me about how they met and married, she told me they got a chocolate Labrador retriever and painted the bedroom of the house they rented a very soft baby blue. She told me he liked listening to baseball on the radio, and eating Red Vines and flying. They would wait a couple of years before trying for a baby. She cried hard for a while.

Her sister arrived after another hour. Laura and I stood in the aisle of that little chapel made holier by her tears. We hugged before she left.

I got a note from her a month later. She moved to Arizona, at least for a while. Her dog, Dusty, loved riding in the car with his head out the window.

I was struck that day that sometimes there’s nothing we can do. We hope to help, and to heal, and to make a difference. But that afternoon taught me again: sit still and listen. Could it be that a high and holy calling is to sit and bear witness to the wonderful, terrible, beautiful, tragic unfolding of this life of ours?