I haven’t written in quite a while. I’m not sure if I have had nothing worthwhile on my mind to write or if I had too much. In addition to the global crises causing people to speculate about the end of the world or World War III, I have been dealing with my own homestead headaches. Still, nothing poignant enough to cause me to want to crack open the laptop and get my thoughts and emotions out. That is, not until today.

I currently work as a chaplain in the CVICU (cardiovascular intensive care) unit of my hospital. I absolutely love spending time in this unit because 1) since these are long term patients, I often get to know the patients and families intimately well, creating a bond that lasts beyond their hospital stay and 2) I often get a front row seat to miracles in action.

I have often heard people use science as a reason to not believe in God. For me, science continually increases my faith. It baffles me how anyone could witness what the human mind and body are capable of and truly believe there is not a divine creator. No way this just happens spontaneously.

Working as a chaplain in CVICU allows me the opportunity to celebrate huge victories with patients and families such as successful heart transplants or miraculous healings.

Sometimes, I also have the honor of walking beside families in their grief.

Today was one of those days.

Yesterday, the family was given the news that their loved one would likely not survive. The family made the noble decision to donate the body so that others may live.

In instances like this, hospitals honor the sacrifice of the patient and family with an honor walk from their hospital room to the operating room, after which, we gather at the flagpole to raise a flag in their honor. During the walk, staff and visitors line the hallways to pay silent tribute. I brought up the rear of this solemn parade. It is an honor and a blessing – to be allowed to participate – and it is impossible to NOT be moved to tears.

There are no words.

Before they left the room, I met with the family to offer one final formal prayer. During end-of-life prayers, in addition to praying for the dying one, I pray for the family. Even though my prayers are spoken to God, my words are meant primarily for those gathered. During this time, I acknowledge their grief and give them permission to grieve. I have found that so many, especially Christians, feel like somehow their strength or their faith is in doubt if they give in to grief. When I give them permission through prayer, I often hear their groanings grow louder.

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I enjoy taking breaks in the staff break area of the CVICU unit. Although a lot of foot traffic comes through from the guest waiting room to the unit, there is a wall of windows looking out over the city. Not only does a table by the window give me a view of the activity at the front of the hospital, but the topographical greenery gives a false sense of being in nature rather in the middle of a vibrant, congested, and busy medical and city center.

As I sat in my favorite spot after the events of the afternoon, I looked out at the raised DONATE LIFE flag. It lay limp in the sky under the American flag.

The moment the family walked by to return to the room to gather their loved one’s belongings, the flag began to wave. It stopped again once they entered the unit.

When the family walked back by again, the flag waved with gusto – a final salute goodbye.

Sitting on the table was the book I am currently reading, It’s Okay That You’re Not Okay: Meeting Grief and Loss in a Culture That Doesn’t Understand by Megan Divine. I read one paragraph, then read it again before putting it down:

“There is a quiet, a stillness, that pervades everything early in grief. Loss stuns us into a place beyond any language. No matter how carefully I craft my words, I cannot reach where this lives in you. Language is a cover for that annihilated stillness, and a poor one at that” (Chapter 6. pg 67).

I could not read anymore because I thought of this family in their early grief. I thought of what I like to say about how useless words often are and how harmful they can often be – how the ministry of presence (simply being there without saying a word) is more helpful in times when words fail.

As the family walked by, I looked at each one. Some returned my look; some kept their eyes focused on the ground. For those who were able to look up at me, I said nothing. I simply met them eye to eye and nodded my head, letting them know that I see them, and I acknowledge their grief.

I am giving it space.

I am giving it life.

I am giving them what no word can.

I cannot take away their pain and it would be foolish of me to try. But what I can do is acknowledge that it exists. It is real. And it hurts.

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I have been on both sides of donation – families making the ultimate sacrifice of letting go and families rejoicing because their loved one got a new organ and lived.

The sacrifice is never lost on a recipient. They know that someone had to die in order for them to live. We cannot reconcile the why of it all. What we can do – what recipients often want to do – is honor their donor and their families in some tangible way. This, too, is a different kind of grief – one that must also be acknowledged.

It is a beautiful testament to life and love.

And I am thankful that I get to play my part.

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My shift ended with a blessing over a healthy newborn and the elated new parents.

Death and life – grieving and rejoicing.

Someone’s worst day and another’s best.

All in the same breath.