Following the Mocha

During the summer of 2002, I worked as a hospital chaplain. It was not my choice. Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) was a requirement for my ordination path. I had heard horror stories about CPE that made it sound more like a spiritual hazing than ministry training. 

It wasn’t just accompanying families to the morgue to identify their loved ones that made me want to hide, but also the "unpacking" of one's own life and issues in a small group setting that, in the telling, seemed rather like being dissected alive.

So, I entered Mission Hospital that summer less than eager.

To make matters worse, each of us was assigned a floor of the hospital for our "rounds." These consisted of knocking on a door, announcing oneself as the chaplain, and asking the patient, “How are your spirits today?” 

There is nothing worse than cold calling—but cold calling when the poor person couldn’t pretend not to be at home or hang up the phone? Even worse.

That first day, I knocked on the first door. “Hi, I’m Erin, I’m the chaplain. How are your spirits today?” I almost gagged on the words—they sounded so forced, so contrived. The patient was startled. The chaplain?? Why are they sending the chaplain? Am I going to die??

In order to prepare for that summer’s torture, I had purchased new clothes. Clothes that seemed to me to look rather "chaplain-y"—a bit frumpy, not all that cute, and rather serious. The discomfort of the clothes matched the discomfort of the question.

One day, only a few weeks in, I had had enough. It was a beautiful Southern California summer day. I needed a break, so I headed down to the airy, light-filled lobby. I ordered an ice blended mocha from the coffee cart and planned my strategy. I was supposed to be on the third floor. I couldn’t outright ditch, but I could "justify" my cheating by finding someone in the lobby to talk with.

Mocha in hand, I saw an older woman sitting alone on a couch. I sat near her and said hello.

That day of "cheating" led to the most meaningful interaction I had that summer. 

As we chatted, she shared that she didn’t much like hospital chaplains—after I mentioned my role—but she figured that didn’t apply to me. After all, I wasn’t knocking on doors; I was sitting in the lobby having a coffee!

It turned out she was waiting for her husband to have a procedure. He was a lifelong Presbyterian who hadn't been active in decades. She wanted me to meet him. When he was out of the procedure, I followed her to his room. The three of us chatted for an hour.

"Will you come back again tomorrow?" they asked.

"Of course."

For the remainder of his stay, I visited them there on the first floor daily—listening to stories, telling stories, simply being present. When he was discharged, I was glad for him, but a bit sad to be losing these new friends.

Instead of neglecting my role, my desire for an ice blended mocha had actually led me directly to the heart of it.

I realized—I didn’t hate being a hospital chaplain; I hated being a "hospital chaplain." I hated the frumpy clothes, the cold calling, and the "How’s your spirits?" I hated the idea I had created of what it meant, rather than the thing itself. I actually found that I quite enjoyed subsequent interactions with other patients when I stopped being the persona I thought I was supposed to be and was just myself.

I wonder, looking back, why did I think I needed to wear those frumpy clothes? I think the only chaplains I had known dressed like that, so I figured I should too—even though I was twenty years their junior.

The cold calling? It worked for others in my group. They found their rhythm in it. But it didn't work for me. So I stopped and found a less direct way. A more gentle way. Like coming in the back door of the house, or sitting on the porch, rather than knocking on the formal entryway. It felt more natural to meet people where they were.

What I realized that summer—though the learning has continued to sink in for two decades—blew my overachiever’s mind.

What if it was not through my duty, but by my desire that I was actually being led?

What if it was by following my delight that I was actually truly following my calling?