When not even Bon Jovi can calm my nerves, it is time to dig a little deeper into my why . . .

Three hours into my shift (as a hospital chaplain), two of my long-term patients died, one had an unexpected brain bleed (and would soon die), and another finally got discharged home two months to the day after coming in for a transplant (bittersweet moment). In addition, August 23 marked the five-month anniversary of Bailey’s (my beloved dog of 16 years) death. I took an early lunch break to combat the onset fatigue.

Just as I sat and exhaled, my work phone chirped – a patient I saw earlier in the day requested a visit. Shocking since he seemed hyper antagonistic toward a visit earlier in the day.

During our brief second encounter, in which he made it abundantly clear that the request did not originate with him, I experienced emotions toward a patient I never felt before.

In my years of Krav Maga training followed by 9Round workouts, I have developed a strong left hook – my favorite punch. This patient sat on the corner of the bed. As he spoke, I imagined giving him my best left hook on the chin to shut him up.

As he continued to speak, I felt a verbal punch rising up my esophagus.

Instead of instigating an assault, I put my hands in my pockets, plastered a smile on my face, and waited for him to take a breath so that I could make a gracious exit – leaving him feeling like the self-righteous hero of his own imagination.

Thank God for exit strategies.

Before the end of my shift, I vented with a coworker. He shared a similar experience and let me know that, although rare, these kinds of encounters do stick. When a similar incident happened to my colleague, he vented his frustrations with a doctor friend who responded, “You are old . . . but she is dying.” The doctor’s words never diminished the hurt, but it put the patient’s tirade in perspective.

I have no idea why my patient was admitted but I do know he was not one of my critical care patients. Still, my colleague’s words of encouragement gave me pause and peace . . . I thought.

Until I woke up the next morning still seething . . . so much so that listening to Bon Jovi on the way into work could not stifle my anger.

Was it my experiences prior to this particular visit?

No. I have had much more tumultuous days followed by obnoxious visits before that never phased me.

Was it his self-righteous smugness?

No. I have been verbally attacked by patients many times before.

I have had my politics questioned by Christian patients who worship Trump above Jesus. (I never discuss politics with patients.)

I have had my religion questioned by Christians certain that their way of thinking is the only way of thinking. (I never argue theology with patients.)

I have had devout Catholic patients say, “No offense, but I’d rather see a male chaplain or Priest.” (No offense taken.)

I have had patients find joy in trying to (and failing) to get a rise out of me by declaring their love for Satan.

I find all these sorts of visits to be highly entertaining and somewhat of a personal challenge to disarm them or change the subject in peace.

No. This felt different, and I struggled to understand why.

Then it became clear.

This man, who claimed to be a high ranking official in his church attacked me as a woman while simultaneously questioning my calling and my relationship with Jesus. It was more than just personal. It was intended to “put me in my place.”

What is even worse is that he prided himself on being a Holy man able to read people and lead conversations based on his reading of them. “After all, we do not want people to leave our presence and five minutes later not only hate us but hate the message of Christ’s love we intended to convey.”

This man obviously failed to read me:

I should be married.

I should have children.

I don’t look like a woman should look.

I should not be wearing what I wear.

I should not have hair shorter than his.

This last “should” was the only time I could not control my mouth. I robotically pointed to my head and coldly responded, “CANCER.”

This was the moment I realized I needed to get out.

Still, why would someone attacking me like this get me so fired up? So what? I’ve heard it all before.

It was the condescension in his tone and way he looked at me. It’s because these are sore topics with me:

This man has no idea why I am not married, nor why I do not have children.

He has no clue why I dress the way I do, nor why I keep my hair so short.

I have no qualms sharing my “whys” with people who genuinely want to know, but this man had no right to criticize what he knows nothing about and did not earn the right to find out.

But his tirade did more than challenge my femininity. He stirred up deep seated resentment toward men in authority who tried to silence my young faith and dreams for no other reason than my gender.

In him, I saw the Priests who, in my childhood, patronized me when I asked why a girl could not be a Priest.

In him, I saw the 6th grade football coach tell me that, even though I was good at it and was still bigger than the boys, I could no longer play football because I am a girl.

No more explanations than that – ever – you cannot because you are an inferior girl. You are not capable of doing what a boy/man can do.

Worse – the unspoken translation: God would never call you into ministry. You are not capable of being the hands and feet of Jesus because you do not have male genetalia.

In him, I felt the lifelong bullying – trying to pigeon-hole me into some man-made design about what a woman should be, misusing scripture to argue their ignorant point.

And, all my life, never quite fitting into anyone’s mold – the heterosexual girl who loves sports, doesn’t wear makeup, and feels most comfortable barefoot wearing jeans and a t-shirt. A girl who simply loves Jesus and wants to help people. A girl loved by Jesus just the way she is.

As my why became clearer to me, the speech of America Ferrera in the movie, Barbie came to mind and turned my anger into laughter.

Yep, it is fun imagining a left hook to the chin, but the truth is, that would solve nothing.

What matters is that different though I may be, I am beautifully and wonderfully made. (Psalm 139:13-14). What I do – who I am – matters. And that’s enough for me.

The significance about this encounter was the reminder of the importance of practicing what I preach. I often say that I am not called to judge. I am called to love. This saying must be about more than mere words. It must be how I live.

That man does not know me well enough to judge me, but neither do I know him well enough to judge him.

The best I can do is admit that his behavior towards me hurt me – forgive him – – and remember how this moment made me feel the next time I find myself wanting to be critical of others.

Matthew 5:43-48 – The Message translation of the Bible

“You’re familiar with the old written law, ‘Love your friend,’ and its unwritten companion, ‘Hate your enemy.’ I’m challenging that. I’m telling you to love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the supple moves of prayer, for then you are working out of your true selves, your God-created selves. This is what God does. He gives his best—the sun to warm and the rain to nourish—to everyone, regardless: the good and bad, the nice and nasty. If all you do is love the lovable, do you expect a bonus? Anybody can do that. If you simply say hello to those who greet you, do you expect a medal? Any run-of-the-mill sinner does that.

“In a word, what I’m saying is, Grow up. You’re kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you.”