groundhog day

do you ever have déjà vu?

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

Many moons ago, I worked for a church. Results were varied.

But largely, it was a delight. The concept of ‘church’ is growing more and more dated as time ticks by, but it shouldn’t, in my opinion.

Churches, in their intended expression, are extensions of families. It’s not just the Johnsons’ family reunion. It’s where the Johnsons and the Smiths and the Jones’ get together, break bread, shake hands, and center themselves on the author of their very existence. It’s an affirmation that humanity itself is a type of a broken family, called into repair and transfiguration by a holy God who loves to repair and transfigure stuff.

Each Sunday is an attempt to piece the fragments back into place, albeit imperfectly. As weeks turn to months and months turn to years, these awkward handshakes and moments of forced small talk begin to blossom. Familiarity settles in, and with it comes a form of affection. Smiles become sincere, not just polite. You feel warm when you walk through the doors. You feel cared for.

One of my favorite things about working for a church was watching kids grow up. It’s wild. Goofy, lovable little dweebs become human beings. Personalities start to materialize. They develop signature quirks. They turn into giants, basketball stars, professional athletes. They’re suddenly smarter than you, like way smarter, and you realize how you were never that smart to begin with. It’s wonderful.

But that season is in the rear view now. Today I’m a hospice chaplain. Rarely do I see my patients grow. If they do grow, it’s weaker. Weaker in strength, occasionally in spirit. Pastors have the privilege to see individual lives in a panoramic view. Wide stretching, ongoing. Chaplains see only snapshots on the final page of the collection.

It’s been a transition.

I think it may be the curse of working in healthcare. Over time, faces begin to blur and things seem to repeat themselves. It gets hard to distinguish one day from the next, one week from the next, one month from the next. Patient with COPD. Dementia patient living at a facility. Congestive heart failure. Pancreatic cancer. Patient lives alone, recently deceased spouse, estranged from adult children. Male patient thinks he’ll be back on his feet tomorrow (he won’t). Patient dreads becoming a burden to her family (she will). Patient pronounced at [insert time]. Funeral home notified. Family grieving appropriately.

Pretty soon it starts to feel like Groundhog Day. The same day, repeating over and over and over and over.

I remember once when I drove to Rio Rico in the middle of the night to see a family. Our patient had started to transition and his family called to see if someone could come and pray with them. After I started praying, I realized that I didn’t remember the man’s name. I prayed with that family for fifteen minutes, over the sounds of his daughters sobbing. And I didn’t once say his name. It makes me wince when I think of it.

In ministry, relationships are a long-game approach. You accept that you will have to earn someone’s trust over time, and then utilize that trust to care for them and guide them well. You expect to walk with them in the spirit of endurance. Helping them weather the inevitable storms of life. The job problems. The marriage disputes. The occasional existential crises.

In hospice, very little is long-game. It’s a blitz to meet them where they are, convince them that you’re trustworthy, and assure them that you’ll be there to help. If they can even be convinced that they need help. Rarely do the roots have time to penetrate the ground before they’re removed. And then replaced.

This is not an indictment of hospice care. Far from it. There is more than enough open space in God’s garden for the chaplains to nestle alongside the pastors, the law enforcement, the floral arrangers, the school teachers, and the physical therapists. There is good fruit, and that itself is good.

But sometimes it just feels like Groundhog Day.