Clinical Pastoral Education

Hello, friends -

It is finished. My clinical pastoral education (CPE) experience this fall semester has come to it's conclusion. I thought I would post a poem that I wrote specifically for inclusion in my final evaluation.

This is the first piece I've written since I graduated college. I wrote this to hopefully capture some of the poignant and difficult moments that summed up the experience.

The road was flanked in green that day

as I drove in anxiety. I was missing things.

My dog, the way the corn stalks waved

in the hazy midafternoon light. I wanted

I wanted nothing more than a cup of coffee

on the porch and to listen to my brother’s laughter

as he says you bastard.

I don’t know what I have left, you know, to live for

she told me. Machines whirring, air hot and too stuffy.

I say something, what, I don’t remember.

I leave that day, shutting the door, face warm.

I’m not made for this.

How are things?

They were really shitty this week.

Yeah?

Yeah. Sat with a man who had chronic pancreatitis said his world was crashing

down around him and he doesn’t know what else to do and there’s nothing but

silence.

I’ve never known grace, at least not like this woman does:

I’ve got a year left. I wanna go plant a garden and sit in the sun

and be with my grandchildren because they can’t be without me

and I want them and my husband and we bought a house

and I have all these questions about God but in the end

I know that God does love us. Loves me.

A garden. Sun. Family. Despair. Liver cirrhosis. Grace.

The woman struggles to breathe.

Thank you for your presence.

I see her five more times. I’m joyful.

I guess I’m thankful you wanna be my friend.

Yeah, me too.

The road was flanked in orange that day,

as I went to class. Listen to voices on suffering,

Psalms. Lament. Crucifixion. My mind,

it wanders. I want to go home, to the cows

and fields and dusty hay.

They don’t carry sorrow.

Do you have any fresh words for us, chaplain?

Ragged breathing stopped, expectant eyes gaze.

I speak words of promise and hope and grief

but in the moment I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.

I stay later. Give more hugs. Drive the way home, in tears.

The road was flanked in brown that day,

a sign that winter is here but not yet.

I leave, I breathe, I rejoice. It’s all becoming clear:

I’m made for this. 

In other news - I've bought 10 pounds of flour and a giant jar of yeast. Time to begin Christmas break bread baking! 

God's peace, friends - 

Dean 

Waiting

Dear friends - 

Grace to you and peace from God our Creator and God's Son Jesus the Christ - 

It's been a whirlwind, these past few weeks. I haven't updated lately for the sake of finishing papers, completing classes, and being at the hospital. It's been busy. 

I hate that. I hate using that excuse, yet I do it all the time, as many of us do. As 21st century Americans who are working, in graduate school, invested in living our privileged lives as it is - we're busy. We're tired, we're overworked, we're exhausted, we're sick. We're tired of it all, and just are hoping for a break. 

I've been reflecting on Advent - on how Advent is supposed to be this season of hope and expectation and waiting and patiently waiting and waiting some more for the Christ child to come to Earth God incarnate - Emmanuel, God with us.

Let me ask – how many of you are actually waiting? How many of you are waiting in hopeful expectation? I’ll be the first to admit I’ve failed at this.

It’s difficult it is for us to do that. We can't wait. We can't sit. We have a really hard time dealing with expectation. We want things now; we’re rushing to get the next thing done or crossed off our to-do-list, we want instant gratification, because we're busy. 

I ask you to pause for a moment. Consider these:

My last weeks of my clinical pastoral education experience have been involved with a 21-year-old boy who is dying of bone cancer. I read psalms with him and held his hand for over an hour, have prayed with him, and have simply sat with him. The boy, who has become the adopted son of us staff at the hospital, has gotten every wish: friend plantains, Chinese food, a new computer. His family isn’t able to come from Nigeria as he passes, and it’s looking like he has a matter of days.

I read Psalm 6 to him the other day, and it puts his situation in a new light: where it talks about anguished bones and how long, how long O Lord?

How, in the season of Advent, do you think this boy is waiting? Where do you think Christ is breaking into his life?

I was called in to the hospital on Monday night to sit with a family of 9 people who had a woman dying – their daughter, mother, sister, friend – who was only 43 years old. I went into the room and was faced with expectant eyes. The room was warm, silent, except for the woman’s ragged, drawn breaths. They had a space for me right in the middle of the family. One by one, I went to each person, taking my time getting the background, learning stories. Memories were shared. Laughter went around, and doughnuts were passed. “Silent Night”, that old Christmas hymn, was played and tears formed as they sang “sleep in heavenly peace”. My heart broke as I reflected on the fact that a husband and wife had to bury their daughter, and that a girl who was about my age was about to lose her mother.

I stayed with the family through the advent of the woman’s death, leaving twice to give them space as a family as the time drew near. Upon her death, the family turned and looked to me, and after some deep sobs and tears and hugs, asked “Chaplain, do you have any fresh words?”

Thank God for the promise of the resurrection – I was able to bestow words of peace, allowance for grief, and promises of God’s safekeeping as the woman joined the church triumphant. I waited for a few more moments, exchanged hugs and words of consolation as deeply as I could, waited some more for any final conversation, and left, driving the way home in tears. 

In Advent, what does waiting look like for this family? Where do you think Christ is breaking into their lives?

In the midst of this season, I ask you to pause.

Breathe.

Stop for awhile.

It could be a hell of a lot worse.

I hope each of you these days to take some time to stop. To live into what Advent calls us to in preparation for the Christ child’s birth. To wait, and give thanks for the beautiful lives that surround and fulfill each and every one of you. To live more deeply and fully into the life that God has called you to. That’s been a blessing in my CPE experience – I am learning daily how to live more fully into the life that God has given me – as Dean, as friend, as brother, as son, as pastor, as chaplain.

With this, I leave you.

Where do you see Christ breaking into your lives? Where are you waiting? What is God calling you to in this season of your life?

Thanks be to God, my friends. Amen.

Dean