A Glimpse of the Divine Behind the Veil
This week on Mosaic, we’re sharing stories from chaplains in our community. Their experiences offer a window into a unique kind of ministry, and we think there’s something for all of us in the words they have to share.
As chaplains, our role is to serve as ambassadors for human dignity, stepping in to remind patients and staff of their inherent worth whenever they lose sight of it. These reminders take many forms: sometimes they are traditional, like a prayer, blessing, or ritual. Other times, they are simple acts of presence – sharing an adult coloring page, watching a Thanksgiving football game with a lonely patient, or offering a safe space for someone to share their story. Ultimately, our daily hope is to weave these reminders of dignity throughout the building.
I felt certain for years, particularly in the aftermath of the pandemic, that I truly grasped the profound depth of that statement. If clinical chaplaincy were a vast, unfathomable ocean, I was convinced that I had journeyed all the way to its deepest floor. However, I was reminded by a young woman not too long ago how false that assumption was.
I’m using the pseudonym “June” to share this story. The hospital's Palliative Care Team first introduced me to June, a young, terminally ill patient, who likely had only hours or days left to live. Entering her room, I immediately noticed her intense physical discomfort and the obvious symptoms of her illness. After introducing myself and the role of Spiritual Care, I pulled a chair close to her bedside, wanting to avoid standing over her. As we grew more comfortable with one another, I began to sense that her spiritual suffering was just as profound as the physical writhing I witnessed.
Reflecting on chaplaincy, retired Board-Certified Chaplain Fred Grewe once shared a fitting lens: "A metaphor that has helped me over the years to serve folks in the midst of disorientation is to view chaplaincy as being a midwife to reorientation." With that perspective in mind, the next hour was dedicated to gently birthing June's narrative. This labor was far from smooth, as June’s narrative was deeply entangled with a history of abuse, trauma, and conflicted relationships. Over the course of her lifetime, these dark chapters of her narrative gained authoritative power. Left untamed, such forces nurtured and gave rise to overwhelming fields of shame and regret. June felt entirely convinced that neither the love of God nor peace after her eventual death was something she deserved.
Through the process of giving life to story, however, she seemed empowered to embrace virtues she held to be true regarding both the Divine and humanity collectively. June found the strength to declare that God’s inclusion is radical and absolute, and that the fundamental elements of human nature are rooted in empathy, love, and compassion. As time passed, a faint belief began to take hold within her that she, too, belonged and was grounded in love. This moment of reorientation was immediately followed by an extended silence, which then gave way to deep, unstoppable crying. We shared a quiet space amidst those tears for a long while before she finally spoke through her sobs, telling me, “I have $12.55 on my SNAP card.” I was completely caught off guard by what she asked next. She continued, “I have always wanted to help someone who lives on the street, but I kept picturing a future where my life was stable and I had more money to give. Now I know that day won’t come. Could you please take this money and use it to help someone for me?”
Even though I rarely cry during patient visits, I felt tears streaming down my face. I gave June my word that my three-year-old son Lincoln and I would act as her “delivery boys” to carry out her request. I clarified to June that, while I couldn’t directly accept her card for the purchase, we could gather supplies from my pantry to build a care package, serving purely as the instruments to carry out her generous gift.
Knowing that June had very little time left, it was clear we had to act quickly to ensure her final wish was fulfilled before she died. That evening, we assembled several care kits and loaded them into my truck, hoping to encounter someone in need during our morning commute to school and work. The next morning, while waiting at our first stoplight, we spotted a man barely standing, clearly worn down by a long time on the streets. Lincoln noticed him first and said, “Daddy, there’s a guy. A guy we can help.” As we handed over the bag, I told him, “This is from June. You don’t know her, but she wanted you to have this.” Before the traffic light shifted to green and we continued on our way, the man offered a smile to both my son and me. Within the sudden quiet of the truck, it seemed as if time itself had briefly paused, leaving me with the sense that the two of us had shared a uniquely sacred experience. Breaking the silence, Lincoln spoke with a quiet assurance: "Dad, that guy is our brother." Hearing his words, tears filled my eyes once more, deeply grateful to June for giving me an unforgettable experience with my son.
Upon arriving at the hospital, I hurried straight to her room, filled with hope that she had survived the night. Stepping inside, I found her looking serene. The moment she caught sight of the excitement written across my face, there was no need to say a word – she knew instantly that her package had been delivered. Reaching out her arms for a hug, she began to cry. Twelve hours later June died peacefully.
Thank you, June, for trusting me with your sacred last wish and for allowing my son and me to share an experience of the Divine through your story. Thank you for challenging me to remember how endlessly beautiful, messy, and mysterious humanity is and always will be. I have not reached the depths of that ocean; I've only dipped my toe in the water.
On that morning, Lincoln caught a glimpse beyond the veil, and I am certain that the profound impact of that moment will shape his life forever.
