A container for what matters most
A Memoir and Love Letter
As a hospital chaplain, I was a bit of an odd duck in that I don’t belong to a faith tradition (e.g. Buddhist, Catholic, Jewish, Methodist, Muslim). I am forever grateful that the profession has evolved to a more inclusive framework that makes space for folks like me—and to my teachers and colleagues for trusting me with the work, even before I fully trusted myself. Still, it made my path a little different.
Part of the training is spiritual formation—going deeper in your own spiritual life so you are grounded as you meet others in their unique needs, experiences, and beliefs. This helps chaplains find meaning in what they witness, and it protects those they care for by ensuring the chaplain works from a place of openness (vs. projecting their own experiences or imposing their own beliefs).
Without a tradition or faith community to give that shape, I sometimes made things up as I went along. I say this not to cheapen my practices then or now, but to acknowledge that they are homegrown and may not be for everyone (or for you)—and that’s fine. Feeling at peace with and trusting that process has been part of my formation.
Along the way, I started to keep small scraps of paper with the commitments about life and life’s meaning that mean the most to me. They don’t comprise a theology or a dogma or even a meditation, but they are an eclectic handful of ideas that won’t quit me. I found this practice grounding in the choppy seas of hospital life, even though it wasn’t especially firm. Maybe not being super firm is a good thing when you are sailing uncertain seas? I don’t know. At any rate, it worked for me—and still does.
At some point, I put these slips of paper inside a locket that I wore during overnight on-calls. This was when I found the work to be the most unpredictable and potentially the most devastating. In the middle of the night as the only chaplain on duty in a large hospital, I needed a touchstone. I still have the locket, it still has its scraps, and I still drag it out when I need grounding in my work, in my life, or in this world of so many needs.
Just now, I have pulled it out again. Even the weight of it in my hand is a comfort. It immediately reminds me of what matters most, of what I found most essential during a time when I felt closest to life at its essence. I needed that today because I sense the world’s beauty and suffering, and I feel as overpowered by it as ever. I’m so grateful for this small thing that is important only to me. It has become both token and talisman.
One by one, I open the scraps. I take a deep breath, and I remember how I aspire to move in this “one wild and precious life.” I remember that I have been here before. I remember to remember.
We need containers, whether tangible or intangible, to hold what matters to us most. For many folks, their religious community is a container. They share practices, prayers, places, songs, and even special clothing or smells with others—all of which signify the mystery and meaning they make of the world together. I find this beautiful and, if I’m being honest, I sometimes mourn the lack of it. My path can feel lonely.
However, I also know there are many people like me. Fellow odd ducks who, for whatever reason, need to find their own way. Who are perfectly content with no way. Who had a way but needed a pause, or a change, or to walk away. Who may embrace some unique and lovely secret thing that I haven’t even been able to dream up in my wildest imagination.
Whatever it is, wherever you are, whether you seek inside a tradition or on your own terms or would prefer not to call it seeking in the first place, I’m here for it.
Today and all days, I hope you find the containers you need, and that you find comfort and courage in what matters most to you. I trust that. I trust you.
I love you, neighbor.
Peace.
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