The Chaplains Voice

“The point for us all, perhaps, is never to give up on life and never to doubt that every bit of kindness, every tender touch we lay upon another in life can heal what might otherwise have died, certainly in them, perhaps even in ourselves.”—Joan Chittister O.S.B.

“You’ve made it,” the woman’s voice whispered. I didn’t understand. I wasn’t the one who died. My daughter had. I have no face, body, or name to associate with the voice. I was told later she was the hospital chaplain.

I don’t know how I got from the hospital lobby back to the emergency room.  I could not see.  I could not feel. Hearing was the only sense I had left. I barely felt conscious. I’ve been told that is not unusual in cases of shock, severe emotional trauma, or when we are close to our own death.  I could claim all three. It was 2 o’clock in the morning, and I had just been told, “Tara’s gone.” She was my beloved first-born, only 39, and had given birth to a baby girl only three days before.

The voice spoke again. “Bunny, you’ve made it.”  


Eyes closed, I shook my head, frowned, and tried to comprehend what she meant. 


“You’ve made it, Bunny.  You did not die. You thought you would die if you ever heard the words you just heard spoken, didn’t you?” she whispered. “You didn’t die, Bunny. It’s been five minutes.”  

She was right. I did think I would die if I lost a child. I always knew someday I would lose my parents.  That is the natural order of life.  When I married Sam and said, “Until death do us part,” I knew one of us would go first, and it might not be me, but I never expected to lose Tara. A child isn’t supposed to die before her mother.  

 

I could hear muffled sounds around me.  But, the only words that penetrated were the chaplain’s gentle affirmations, “You’ve made it, Bunny. It’s been ten minutes. You’ve made it, Bunny, it’s been fifteen minutes.”  Every five minutes, she counted for me, marking the miracle of my continued living and breathing.  Every five minutes she told me I had made it.  On and on she counted until I left the emergency room and perhaps until she assured herself that I would indeed live. 

Many times I have thought of the Chaplain and wondered if she knew the gift, the comfort, and the power of her words.   Sometimes I still hear her voice. She was right.  I didn't die, and on most days the greening of my soul conquers the gray of grief. But on tender days when sorrow resurfaces and tears come again, I mark time as did the Chaplain. I repeat to myself, “I’ve made it. It’s been three months. I’ve made it.  It’s been a year. I’ve made it.  It’s been seven years.”  I suspect, regardless of the years that pass, I shall be counting on the day I die. 

 

Reflections:

I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was a stranger and you took me in; I was naked and you clothed me; I was sick and you visited me; I was in prison and you came to me.  Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these brethren, you did it to me. –Mathew 15:35,36,40.


These things I have spoken unto you, that in me you might have peace. In the world you shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world. John 16:33

"When we honestly ask ourselves which persons in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand."   --Henri Nouwen

--As I reflect on the stages of my life, who are the people who have reached out to me when I most needed kindness or a tender touch? What was happening? Why was it important at the time? Why is it important now?

--Practice:  Make a list of people whose presence in your life have touched you in meaningful ways, perhaps a friend or family member, a teacher, a doctor, an author. . .think broadly. You may wish to keep the list for your eyes only, or if appropriate, you may wish to write a note to that person to share your observation.