...from a chaplain

Four years ago, I spent the summer working as a student chaplain at a hospital in the Quad Cities.  Life as a chaplain is weird.  In a matter of moments you can go from consoling a mourning family to calming a person detoxing to rejoicing at a birth. One of the most beautiful practices at the hospital I worked in was that with every birth a song would quietly play down the halls.  The song played as people went into cardiac arrest, as nurses took blood and gave meds, as aids cleaned up vomit, any time a baby was born there was a moment of rejoicing on every floor of the hospital.  Here's an ode to that, written in my last week of chaplaincy:

...from a chaplain

The lullaby sings softly down the hall

--a child is born.

For a moment, there is joy,

sweet celebration, of life, of promise.

But, I wait for the merismos

--a bookend to the birth.

In anticipation, I wait, for the rattling breath,

the labored, gasping, death.

I wait for the merismos.

Which encompasses life and death and all that is between.

I wait, for those coming and those going

and I stay with those in limbo, in the dark and in the light.

I wait, for the merismos.

A sudden long-awaited end,

While I wait, I hear it again

--a voice proclaiming I’ve lived and I will live again--

The lullaby sings softly down the hall.

(c) Katie Chullino 2010

Dash to a New Reality

May 2004.  That was 10 years ago.  That is when I graduated from high school.  Wow, am I getting old, or what?  

Today, I biked to work.  This is the second time I’ve done this in two weeks.  The first time was because I “had” to bike because my 1974 Scout II was getting new suspension. Today, I didn’t have to. Today, I wanted to ride my bike. Like an 8-year-old riding around town all summer. I wanted to fly down hills and fight like the dickens to get my little legs to peddle up them. (Let’s just say my legs aren’t that much longer than those of an 8-year-old.)

I want to make the most of my dash.  Not my dash across Broadway to avoid being one of the pedestrian hit-and-runs that are disgustingly common in the Denver-metro area, but the dash that goes between 1986 (the year I was born) and some other year hopefully decades down the road.  That dash between birth and death.   See, when I graduated from high school one of my band directors gave me a copy from a book about making the most of your dash.

In the past 10 years, I’ve remembered that photocopy.  I can’t remember the exact words or the author’s name or the book title—even though I can picture the citation across the top of the first page.[1]  I’ve remembered it when I was tired of studying for college finals. I’ve remembered it when I was pretty sure I’d never finish my master of divinity thesis. I’ve remembered it as I’ve waited for interviews and call-backs. I’ve remembered it as I’ve sat at the bedside of dying parishioners.

I’ve remembered it a lot in the past five weeks (in which I’ve presided at four memorial/burials).  I’ve learned a lot about other people’s dashes.  Steven’s dash was filled with music and living as an uncle.  Loretta’s dash was filled with joy.  Lilo’s dash was filled with compassion children.  Richard’s dash was filled with support for his friends.  Some of these dashes filled more time and space than others but each dash made a profound impact on the world.

In the same time that I was busy learning about these dashes and burying the people who filled them, I became very aware of my own dash.  I’d neglected for some time (maybe a few years) to take care of some medical issues.  I didn’t want to waste time at the doctor’s office and I didn’t want people to think I was a sick kid. (FYI: Don’t do that. That’s not making the most of your dash.) 

It turns out though, I was a sick kid (not too sick though).  It took a couple of weeks, a few tests, and a cheap, low-dose, daily prescription to make my ticker tick like it should. As I biked today, I realized that I wasted part of my dash.  For the first time in years I wasn’t dizzy or having palpitations while exercising. How much more could I have done these past few years if I’d been on this medication sooner? Would I have hiked longer and higher? Would I have run faster and biked farther? Would I have had more energy to work youth lock-ins and campouts and service trips? Probably.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer (if you don’t know him, Google his name, don’t waste your dash not knowing his story) wrote, “Time is the most valuable thing we have, because it is the most irrevocable. The thought of any lost time troubles us whenever we look back. Time lost is time in which we have failed to live a full human life, gain experience, learn, create, enjoy, and suffer. It is time that has not been filled up, but left empty.”

Today, my dash has new life. It's more full (it wasn't empty before, just not as full as it could have been). Today, I rode my bike. I saved a gallon of gas. My heart is happier and healthier. I felt the wind as I rushed downhill and I broke a sweat as I rode uphill again. In a few hours I’ll plan worship for the coming weeks, I’ll sit at the bedside of our only charter members. And, I will have worked for myself and for the world. I will have accomplished something—if only 6 miles.  Those 6 will be 12 by the end of the day and those 12 will mark a beautiful day in my dash. Thanks be to God (and my ol’ band director) for that. 

Make the most of your dash.  Don’t just do something. Do something to make the world a better place. Do something that pushes you and the world beyond potential and into a new reality.

---

[1] I think the info on the original text is this: Aronson, E. (2004). Dash. : Synergy Books.

The Faces Around This Table

Every week before text study a different local pastor leads discussion over a book, a spiritual practice, an idea he/she has for ministry--pretty much whatever he/she wants to talk about.  A couple of weeks ago a well-established and highly-respected pastor shared with us his new-found practice of poetry.  It was really neat to hear his poetry which ranged from deep, theological thoughts to playful, loving illustrations of his grandchildren.  At the end of the hour he gave us each a paper with a "starter" on it.  We were instructed to write (a list, poem, or prose), draw a picture, or just ponder the starter: When I look at the faces around this table...  I thought about the discussions there, the ministry, the passion, the pain, and the variety of called Children of God who surrounded me.  They reminded me of myself, of friends from long ago, of people in my congregation. They reminded me that people are each pastors, prophets, and preachers at different times and different places.  And this is where the spirit guided me:

When I look at the faces around this table ,

there are faces of pastors, of hearts willing and able

to share a kind word with a mourning soul,

to listen for God’s Word for a world made whole.

When I look at the faces around this table,

                there are faces of prophets, of hearts willing and able

to think and to wonder about a great vision,

to work and to pray for God’s people and mission.

When I look at the faces around this table,

                there are faces of preachers, of hearts willing and able

to speak from a pulpit to people in pews

to go forth and to share that there is good news.

When I look at the faces around this table,

                there are faces of people willing and able

to be called children of God, to call others, too

to be for the world people true,

                who laugh, cry, cuss, and repent,

                pray, teach, learn, and are sent.

Written during Metro South Conference Meeting on 4/10/14.