What the Night Shift Taught Me
Ten years of chaplaincy after midnight.
His name was Harold. He was eighty-six, a retired millwright from Springfield, and he was actively dying when the nurse paged me at two in the morning. By the time I got there, his daughter was asleep in the chair beside him and his breathing had started to change.
I did what chaplains learn to do. I sat down. I did not pretend to know what to say. I listened to the hum of the machines and the click of the IV. After a while, almost without deciding to, I started to hum. An old hymn. The one my mother used to sing while she did dishes.
“Ministry, most days, is mostly showing up and humming.”
What I have learned at bedsides
Ten years of this work have made me a worse preacher and a better witness. I am less sure of my sermons and more sure of my Savior. I have learned that the gospel travels best at the speed of a held hand. That a hymn sung off-key is still a hymn. That the Holy Spirit is not embarrassed by silence.
Harold's breathing slowed, then stopped. His daughter woke, kissed his forehead, and thanked me for being there. I told her I had done almost nothing. She smiled and said, "You sang. That was enough."
About the Author
David J. Van Wormer
Retired pastor and ten-year chaplain in hospital, psychiatric, and hospice settings. Writing from the river's edge in Eugene, Oregon.
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