One Year Later

October 7th, 2023

It started with a suicide and ended with a murder. 

That was my last day as a hospital chaplain, walking with the beloved and bewildered family members of two souls who didn’t need to die that day, caring for them in the first moments of their grief. At the end of my twelve-hour shift, I paused in the parking lot, tired from the day, exhausted from working close to trauma and death every day. I laid my head on the steering wheel of my little car and sobbed. The tears I held back for the last four years rained down my cheeks like a baptism. With shaky thumbs, I tapped this out in the notes app on my phone as my eyes cleared. 

These four years changed me, left scars, healed me, and did so much more that I have yet to realize. What have I learned? Hug your loved ones. Take care of one another. Tend to your mental health. Get help when you need it. Don’t shoot people. Drive safe. Check on your friends. Make amends with people you’ve wronged. Tell your people you love them. Drive safe. Update your emergency contacts. Complete advance directives and share them with your loved ones. Love one another well.

October 7th, 2024

It started with gluten-free pancakes and coffee, sitting across from a friend and former colleague, a chaplain still serving in the hospital. It ended with a quiet night at home, helping my daughter organize her schoolwork and a holy time with Michelle, listening to and encouraging her after a tough day at work. A lot has changed in the year since I left my badge and keys on the desk and stepped into the cool October air, no longer a hospital chaplain.

I miss the adventure and urgency of the work. I miss my colleagues and friends. I wouldn’t trade those four years for anything, and I wouldn’t go back. In the last year of my work there, I had daily anxiety attacks. Every day, working or not, the chemicals in my brain meant to warn and prepare to fight or run away took over at noon. My heart beat against my ribs like someone locked in a tight space, pounding on the door, desperate to escape. My temples pulsed and ached, blurring my vision as I breathed deep through my nose and exhaled fully, trying to force the toxins from my body and calm my thoughts. Most days I clocked in at 2:30, still aching from my daily fight with anticipatory trauma. I loved my job. It always felt meaningful and real, and I’m not sure I could have survived much longer if I had stayed. 

A year later, I feel new. 

Not much has gone as expected this year. I left the hospital to serve as an Associate Pastor at our church. While I was still settling into that role, working hard, and making plans, my role changed. Our pastor left (he was elected as Bishop of our Synod) and the congregation invited me to be the pastor. It isn’t what I expected. It isn’t what I signed up for… and it is exactly where I feel I am supposed to be. It feels like I’m doing what I’m made for… in a way different from it ever has been for me in a lifetime of serving in the church. I’ve thought a lot about what is different. This church is wonderful, but it has many of the same problems and struggles as everywhere else I’ve served. Maybe the biggest difference is in me. Maybe I am different. I am not who I was. I am still me, but I feel more confident in my skin, and that feels good… I feel good for the first time in a long time. 

October 7th, 2025…