Unforgettable words . . .

Yesterday while in conversation with a friend, she asked, “Why did you become a chaplain?”

How does one tell a long story in a few minutes?

Looking back, with more time to think about the answer, my thoughts go to the fact that for some of us it is the hard things of life—or the terribly, terrible hard things of life that most fully lift us higher than our heads and fill us with a "knowing" there is something we “must do" with our lives. At least that happened to me when my close friend was murdered by her 14-year-old son.

After getting the call that made this tragedy a truth in my life, I went screaming and crying, driving my car down off the hill from where we lived to the river below--a quiet place where I could try to pull myself together. I was still crying my heart out when suddenly I saw her. Yes, God let my friend come to me. She looked beautiful beyond her earthly self and the gown she wore shone as if there was white light within the fabric.

She said, “I understand everything.” I was absorbing the sight of her, trying to grasp how she could understand. Then she said, “You have your work cut out for you. Go for it!”

I was, of course, stunned. I had just seen and heard a person speak who had died a horrible death!

Yet, in my heart I knew the truth behind her being sent to me was bigger than the life I was living. I was a young mother with three little sons. I was often in church with them as they played alongside within the pews. I recall a certain chorus we sometimes sang that carried the phrase, “Here am I, ready for thy bidding. Lord, send me.” It was from Isaiah 6: 8, “Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying: “Whom shall I send, and who will go for Us?”

Numerous times as I sang, “Here am I! Send me,” there was an inner knowing that there would be more than being a mother and a wife. As wonderful as these roles are . . . I knew there would be more for me to do while here on Earth.

My struggle with grief and the deep depression led me into what was told two weeks ago in an earlier column carrying the story of my friend's death. Here, I will say that healing did come slowly, and a lot of living took place--even a move to Arizona. I had felt a call to chaplaincy about ten years before and had taken one of the four required units of Clinical Pastoral Care (CPE) at a training hospital in Boise. The "felt call" to that ministry most likely originated because of my struggle to stay alive from age 13 to age 36, which saw the hospital setting become like a second home for me. Yet, I had to step back from the training in chaplaincy; I had poor boundaries. Each day I worked the pain patients spoke of found me unable to let it go; I took it home and suffered over it. The pain became too much. So I went back to freelance writing. I thought that the role of chaplaincy was history for me.

However, after settling into the new home we built in Arizona, I decided with my friend Flo to attend a retreat at The Holy Trinity monastery, in  St. David, Arizona. This was a place of peace and quiet to which I liked to return, periodically. When we arrived at the monastery, a hospitality nun, Sister Susan Baker, greeted us, then directed us to the building in which we would find our rooms. I walked into my room, took a deep breath, then a second look. On the wall was a picture of Jesus, His head crowned with thorns. There was blood dripping onto His face and neck. But what had astounded me was seeing one long red drop of blood on the outside of the glass covering that picture.

I immediately called, “Flo, come here!” as her room was across the hall from mine. She came into my room, saying, “What, Joy?”

I said, “Look at that picture!”

Her eyebrows shot up as she said, “Oh, my God! Let me out of here!” And she ran out to find the hospitality nun. Before long the two of them rushed in.

Before their arrival, I sat on the bed and prayed, “Lord, what are you trying to tell me?”

I heard these words, softly entering my mind, as if they were my own thoughts, yet I knew it was the Lord who was speaking: “I am acquainted with suffering.”

The impact of the message was totally riveting! Yet, it would take the next five days for me to realize that I was truly being called to serve those who lived with pain, along with many who would die.

When Flo and the hospitality nun entered my room Sister Susan looked at the blood on the glass, paused a moment, then swiftly moved to the sink where she began to dampen a cloth.

She was going to wipe the blood off the glass! But I was not ready! I exclaimed, “Please, don’t do that! Not yet.”

But Sister Susan proceeded, then said, “If this happens again tomorrow, we will all be in trouble.”

I was not sure what the nun meant. She suggested that I talk to the Benedictine Prior, Father Louis Hasenfuss, about this in the morning. He was the spiritual director for retreatants. She had arranged an appointment for me to see him at 10:00 a.m. Upon seeing Father Louis, I immediately told him of my experience.

He said, “Many unusual things take place on these grounds.” Then he told me of some instances in other parts of the country where similar things happen, letting me know that signs of blood or tears appearing on the faces of statues in sacred places were not rare. He helped me trust the impact of the event. It must have been a blessing that the blood on the glass did not reappear. It had done its work; I had come to the monastery to hear God, and that had happened.

Father Hasenfuss spent time with me each of the five days of our visit at the monastery. He listened, mostly, and then on the last day, he said, “Joy, what stands out in my mind is that you have done one unit of Clinical Pastoral Education in Idaho, 12 years ago. Have you ever thought about finishing that education in Arizona and becoming a Board-certified chaplain?”

The possibility the priest presented brought a resounding, heartfelt joy, for I was recalling the words heard after seeing the blood on the artwork. The suggestion felt exactly right. I lost no time finding a teaching hospital where my Clinical Pastoral Education could be continued. Thirty-five years have passed since I finished that year of training and gained a Master’s degree from the University of San Francisco. After Board certification was granted, I began serving at our local hospital, eventually becoming the Director of Pastoral Care. During my three years in that post, I taught at least twelve lay-people elements of pastoral care needed to equip them for serving within the hospital as duty chaplains.

Looking back on it all, I see there is nothing God cannot help us through. For sure, healing from this experience was a slow, difficult process. Even though many years have passed it can still bring a huge sense of sorrow and loss. I pray for Phil and the family he may now have. I pray he chooses to let God fully heal him—and lead his life.

As for me, I am who I am today because of all the people God has put in my life--even Janet and her young son Phil. My call is clear: to be there for people who are going through the hardest of all things that humans endure. I was (and still am) learning every “inch” of the way within my continuance of life.