Part of the story
19/09/14 04:34
While I was working on my doctorate, I was a Pastoral Counseling Intern at the Wholistic Health Care Center in Hinsdale, Illinois. The center employed an integrative health model with doctors, nurses and pastoral counselors working together as a team to promote physical, spiritual and psychological health. I was doing research on family dynamics and had previously done a unit of Clinical Pastoral Counseling in Conjoint Family Therapy, so I had quite a few cases of family dysfunction, couples considering divorce, and other relationship issues. After 15 months of that work, I completed my degree and was ready to move on. I also think that I had learned that full-time counseling wasn’t my vocation. One of the things that was challenging about the year was seeing people only at the low points of their life. Essentially I saw people who were in crisis without getting to be a part of their celebrations. During that time I didn’t officiate at any weddings. I didn’t perform any baptisms. I didn’t get to see people at their moments of deep joy and celebration. I got to see the crises and problems.
An even larger dynamic, however, was that I was collecting so many unfinished stories. The counseling we offered at the Center was primarily sort-term support counseling. For intensive psychiatric therapy, we referred to other doctors. For long-term analysis, we referred. Essentially we were encouraged to accomplish what we could in about six weeks. After six weeks, we would go through our cases in peer review and supervision and unless there were specific goals that could be met with a short-term extension, most cases were referred or counseling suspended. I know a lot of the beginnings of stories, without knowing how they ended. I worked with couples that I don’t know if they divorced or stayed married. I worked with anxious teens whose college careers and family life as adults is unknown to me. I taught stress management to people with heart disease without knowing if they ever had the big one.
Little did I know in those days how much my life would continue to be filled with stories whose endings I simply don’t know.
The life of a pastor is gentler than the life of a counselor in many ways. I get to be with couples whose marriages are strong as they celebrate significant anniversaries. I get to be present for births and baptisms and graduations and weddings and all sorts of other important life events. Sure I am with families in hard times. I’ve witnessed far more deaths than I thought I would see. I’ve been in the room and held the had of many who have died. It never becomes routine. It is always a powerful and deeply spiritual moment. But I get to see much more of the lives of many of the people that I serve. I have confirmed young people who I baptized when they were children. I have officiated at the weddings of those I have baptized. I have watched people grow and change and go through life.
But there is a steady stream of people who come into my life and who I see a little bit and whose sendings I do not know.
There once was a hard working guy, who couldn’t hold a job. There were too many family events and too many crises that meant that he missed too much work. Back when the packing plant was in operation he could always find a day’s or week’s work to tide him over when he was between other jobs. Sometimes his family ran short. Sometimes I helped with a tank of gas or a grocery shopping trip. Sometimes I helped him get a job. Sometimes I hired him to do some odd jobs around the church just to help a little. But I couldn’t help him when he fell too far behind on his rent. The amount of money required to enable his family to stay in the home or get into an apartment exceeded my ability to give. The best I could do was to help him find a job in an out of state location where he had family with whom he could stay temporarily. I helped him get some used tires for his car and a full tank of gas and said good bye. I don’t know what happened next. I don’t know the rest of the story.
One day a woman with two children sat in the back of the church during worship. After the service, she asked if I might help her find a ride to the bus depot. She had been staying in a domestic violence shelter and had a bus ticket to go to her sister’s home. As I gave her a ride, I asked her if she had money for food for the bus ride. She said she did not. I handed her a $20 bill and siad perhaps she could buy some snacks for her kids for the bus. She asked me if I could wait. I assumed she wanted to make sure the bus was on time. In a couple of minutes, out she came. She handed me two crumpled dollar bills and said, “Here’s my tithe on the the money. Thanks for the help.” Now there is a gift one doesn’t refuse. I put it in the offering plate the next week. But I do not know what happened next in her life. I don’t know if things worked out at the other end of the bus trip. I don’t know where the next meal came from.
There was a guy who spent all available cash on alcohol and tried to stay drunk most of the time. He couldn’t get his meals at the Mission because he couldn’t give up drinking long enough to appear sober. I figured that even drunks need food, so I sometimes would give him a sack lunch. A few times I took him to a local cafe and had lunch with him. He didn’t seem to like that too much, but it was free food and he was hungry, so he didn’t refuse. He was just quick to find something else to do after he had eaten. One day the police found his frozen body wrapped in a dirty old blanket in a clump of trees. I don’t know if there was a funeral. I don’t know if he had family. I don’t know the cause of his death. I don’t know if there was an autopsy. And I never knew about his life before I met him. Had he ever been married? Did he have children? Did he have a favorite song?
I could write of a hundred more stories whose endings I do not know. I guess I’m not meant to know the endings of all of the stories. It is perhaps privilege enough to get part of the story.
After all, I’ve always loved stories.
An even larger dynamic, however, was that I was collecting so many unfinished stories. The counseling we offered at the Center was primarily sort-term support counseling. For intensive psychiatric therapy, we referred to other doctors. For long-term analysis, we referred. Essentially we were encouraged to accomplish what we could in about six weeks. After six weeks, we would go through our cases in peer review and supervision and unless there were specific goals that could be met with a short-term extension, most cases were referred or counseling suspended. I know a lot of the beginnings of stories, without knowing how they ended. I worked with couples that I don’t know if they divorced or stayed married. I worked with anxious teens whose college careers and family life as adults is unknown to me. I taught stress management to people with heart disease without knowing if they ever had the big one.
Little did I know in those days how much my life would continue to be filled with stories whose endings I simply don’t know.
The life of a pastor is gentler than the life of a counselor in many ways. I get to be with couples whose marriages are strong as they celebrate significant anniversaries. I get to be present for births and baptisms and graduations and weddings and all sorts of other important life events. Sure I am with families in hard times. I’ve witnessed far more deaths than I thought I would see. I’ve been in the room and held the had of many who have died. It never becomes routine. It is always a powerful and deeply spiritual moment. But I get to see much more of the lives of many of the people that I serve. I have confirmed young people who I baptized when they were children. I have officiated at the weddings of those I have baptized. I have watched people grow and change and go through life.
But there is a steady stream of people who come into my life and who I see a little bit and whose sendings I do not know.
There once was a hard working guy, who couldn’t hold a job. There were too many family events and too many crises that meant that he missed too much work. Back when the packing plant was in operation he could always find a day’s or week’s work to tide him over when he was between other jobs. Sometimes his family ran short. Sometimes I helped with a tank of gas or a grocery shopping trip. Sometimes I helped him get a job. Sometimes I hired him to do some odd jobs around the church just to help a little. But I couldn’t help him when he fell too far behind on his rent. The amount of money required to enable his family to stay in the home or get into an apartment exceeded my ability to give. The best I could do was to help him find a job in an out of state location where he had family with whom he could stay temporarily. I helped him get some used tires for his car and a full tank of gas and said good bye. I don’t know what happened next. I don’t know the rest of the story.
One day a woman with two children sat in the back of the church during worship. After the service, she asked if I might help her find a ride to the bus depot. She had been staying in a domestic violence shelter and had a bus ticket to go to her sister’s home. As I gave her a ride, I asked her if she had money for food for the bus ride. She said she did not. I handed her a $20 bill and siad perhaps she could buy some snacks for her kids for the bus. She asked me if I could wait. I assumed she wanted to make sure the bus was on time. In a couple of minutes, out she came. She handed me two crumpled dollar bills and said, “Here’s my tithe on the the money. Thanks for the help.” Now there is a gift one doesn’t refuse. I put it in the offering plate the next week. But I do not know what happened next in her life. I don’t know if things worked out at the other end of the bus trip. I don’t know where the next meal came from.
There was a guy who spent all available cash on alcohol and tried to stay drunk most of the time. He couldn’t get his meals at the Mission because he couldn’t give up drinking long enough to appear sober. I figured that even drunks need food, so I sometimes would give him a sack lunch. A few times I took him to a local cafe and had lunch with him. He didn’t seem to like that too much, but it was free food and he was hungry, so he didn’t refuse. He was just quick to find something else to do after he had eaten. One day the police found his frozen body wrapped in a dirty old blanket in a clump of trees. I don’t know if there was a funeral. I don’t know if he had family. I don’t know the cause of his death. I don’t know if there was an autopsy. And I never knew about his life before I met him. Had he ever been married? Did he have children? Did he have a favorite song?
I could write of a hundred more stories whose endings I do not know. I guess I’m not meant to know the endings of all of the stories. It is perhaps privilege enough to get part of the story.
After all, I’ve always loved stories.