A Curious Tale of Improv and Chaplaincy

I walk into the room knowing little more than a name and age.  Standing in front of the door, I check the information one more time, to make sure I do not say the wrong name.  I look at the room number, then at the scribbles in my notebook.  Yes, it is the right room.  The patient has been in the hospital for a few days and was referred to me by a nurse.   No reason given; just a suggestion that this patient might appreciate a visit.  Entering the room, my eyes immediately assess what is in front of me: an African American patient in his late thirties lying in a bed, IVs and other wires attached to him.  The blinds are closed over the windows, leaving the room dark and stuffy.  A TV blares from the wall.  As I step into the room, I take a moment to wash my hands in the antibacterial gel provided in each room, my heart pounding slightly.  I walk forward toward the patient, trying to empty my mind of the worries that accompany me on many of my visits

I find myself in this situation each time I go to work, preparing to encounter a patient and controlling the nerves that are my companion.  A little more than a year ago, the idea of walking into a stranger’s room to talk to them would have terrified me.  In fact, it did terrify me when I began working as a chaplain.  I would pace up and down the hall before gathering the courage to walk into the room and introduce myself.  Slowly, with practice and experience, my confidence grew. But entering a room and assessing the situation remained a struggle. 

Not long into my career as a chaplain, I attended a seminar with the hospital’s clowns.  The clowns are employed by the hospital to provide care and bring joy to the children.  In the seminar, the clowns spoke passionately about the similarities between clowning and chaplaincy.  Both require immediate response to the situation presented when we walked into a room.  Both provide care to the patient with the intent of helping them through a difficult time.  In clowning and chaplaincy, they told us, we must respond immediately, and from our hearts.  If we got caught up in our heads too much, we weren’t able to provide the immediate care that was required. 

That idea held with me as I drove home following the seminar.  I remembered how difficult it was for me to walk into many patients’ rooms.  I remembered how, sometimes, I had to pace up and down the hall before stepping into the room for a “cold call” visit.  I realized that in those moments, my brain was working overtime.  Instead of responding to the situations with my heart, I got caught up in my head.  I imagined my mind whirring like a great bunch of cogs, but making little progress for all the work it was doing. 

This was the problem I was having, I realized.  It was the problem I had with visits, and the thing that was holding me back during my ordination interviews.  I decided to take an improv class.

I am not a person who enjoys standing in front of people and talking.  My first experience preaching was terrifying.  I am not a performer by nature.  So, the idea of taking improv went against the very core of who I saw myself as.  Yet, I thought it was important to try it out and see what I could learn.  After all, it was only a seven week class, and if I was terrible at it, I didn’t have to invite anyone to the final showcase. 

The first few classes were both nerve-wracking and exhilarating.  I learned how to not be nervous when walking out in front of an audience.  I found that when I did not prepare for a scene by coming up with a starting line, but instead walked out with nothing in my head, I was more confident and present in the scene.  This was demonstrated to me one day in class when we did a particularly challenging activity.  One by one, we stood in front of the class and make up a character on the spot, speaking as that character.  For several minutes, we would monologue, until our instructor called out “Next!”   Then, we would switch, creating another character entirely. There was no time to plan out characters, no time to think through what we would say next.  By my second character, my brain was working overtime, whirring and churning with no results.  But by the final character, my mind was empty and as I spoke, the character sprang fully formed from my mind.  When you are able to stand in front of a group of friends and create characters on the spot with no prior planning, walking into a room to visit patients seems easy. 

Improv taught my mind to be quiet, something I had never learned before.  It was the opposite of what I learned in literature classes where we processed and analyzed and thought things through.  It was even the opposite of what I had learned in pastoral care classes, where we were taught theories and systems and family structures that put reason behind people’s actions.  I spent nearly four years in school learning to process and analyze so that when it came time to do the work, it would be second nature.    Improv quieted my mind and opened my heart, allowing it to speak, untethered for the first time in a long time.  And what I discovered was that my heart knew what to say.  My heart knew how to respond, without needing my brain to process and analyze. 

Improv is an incredible gift to my ministry.  It gives me the confidence that I lacked and the knowledge that I can do this.  After all, there is little you can’t do after you’ve stood in front of strangers and played make-believe.

Please consider contributing to my GoFundMe page, where I am raising money to take level three improv.  Thank you!

The One Sheep

"So he told them this parable: ‘Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, “Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.” Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who need no repentance." Luke 15

I had a conversation with a young girl in the hospital yesterday. While hearing the Godly Play story of the Great Family, she was very drawn to the idea of God being everywhere and in every thing. She said to me, "I wonder what God looks like?" and I wondered with her, "What does God look like to you?" I asked. She thought for a moment, then said to me, "A protector."

It was a short conversation, a few sentences exchanged as we sat on a piano bench together. It was short, but powerful. The idea that this girl imagines God as her protector, even though she was hurt, even though she was in the hospital, continues to be powerful to me. God was with her then, is with her now, will be with her in the future, always. 

 
More often, I feel like my job as a chaplain is to witness. It isn't that I say just the right thing that will change a life. The life that is changed most often is mine. I see. I hear. I witness. I am there for moments, short or long, that are pivotal in that person's life. A moment where a family gathers around a beloved child before surgery. A moment where two girls play Just Dance together in a room. A moment where a grandpa just needs someone to talk to while waiting for his granddaughter to get out of surgery. I am not present at these moments to change them. I am present to witness them.
I was reminded yesterday of the parable Jesus tells to his disciples about the lost sheep. It is a parable I frequently tell my kids. When one of his sheep goes missing, the shepherd leaves the other sheep to find the one that has gone missing. He takes the time to step away from the ninety-nine sheep to be with the one. It is a powerful message not only about Jesus the shepherd, but also about the importance of ministering to the one, not only the ninety-nine.

It is easy to get caught up and lost in chaplaincy, in ministry in general. There are so many things happening constantly, and it is easy to look at a list of twenty patients you failed to see, and feel downhearted because of the missed opportunities. But I believe it is important to recognize the one patient you did see. It is vital to recognize the importance of that one visit, of that one moment you witnessed. 

 
On days when the hospital is busy and I only see two or three patients, I try to stop the negative thoughts and think about those two patients. What did we talk about? What did we say? Did we smile? Laugh? Cry? Did they share? Did I listen? What happened in the moments we were together? It is a successful day if I am able to be present for that one sheep who is in need of someone to sit by her side and be a witness to that one moment. 

 
The next time I tell a child the parable of the Good Shepherd, I will remember that girl and our conversation when I talk about the one sheep the shepherd went in search of. I will remember that girl and recall the honor of being witness to that moment in her life. 

 

Finding Confidence and Claiming Identity

Last April, I wrote about an event I witnessed at the Subway near my church.  An older, deaf man collapsed while in front of me in line.  As other people around me rushed to fulfill positions (a medical professional ran to his aid, someone grabbed a chair for the man, the Subway worker called 911), I stood there, wondering what to do.  Here is what I wrote about this:

What was my role in this moment?  As a pastor, did I have a task I should be doing?  Should I comfort the wife, who was standing by her husband looking frightened and confused?  That would require pushing through the throng which surrounded the man in the chair.  I didn't know her, and she didn't know me.  There was nothing about me that identified me as a pastor, as a person who seeks ways to help.

I've been thinking about this story a lot as I've been getting used to my role as a chaplain at the children's hospital.  Reading this story again, I realize that yes, I could have gone to the wife and introduced myself to her.  I could have held her hand as others cared for her husband.  I could have - but the me of last April would not have done, and did not do that.

What I was missing at that moment was not only confidence in myself, but confidence in my identity.  Sure, it's easy to identify yourself as a minister when you're in your church, or even when you're at a church event outside the building.  But to do so outside of the church, in a completely secular place with people I did not know...that required me to be comfortable and confident in my position as a pastor in the world.  And I was lacking that confidence at that time./

I didn't know it then, but looking back it is so incredibly clear.  I wasn't confident about others seeing me as a minister.  I wasn't confident in claiming that identity among "normal" people.  I wasn't ready to witness their reaction, to wait to see if they would accept me in that identity, or if they would laugh at me and turn away.  I wasn't confident.

To be a chaplain requires confidence in self, and confidence in identity.  When you walk into a room, you do not know the people, and the people do not know you.  There is nothing to identify you as a chaplain, other than your badge (in tiny print).  YOU must identify yourself.  YOU must have the confidence to claim that identity and tell it to those you are visiting.  If you can't claim that identity, then you'll never make it into the room.  There will be people who deny you that identity, who say "You're too young, too female."  There will be people who do not want you to have that identity.  But having that confidence of identity makes you strong enough to risk hearing their denial.  Because you believe in your identity, and others have celebrated that identity that you claim.

I was terrified walking into rooms the first few times I did it.  I'll admit - I'm still a little terrified.  But each time I walk into a room and introduce myself as "Nicole, one of the chaplains," I become a little more comfortable, a little more confident.  And having that confidence allows me to care for those in the room.

If I were to return to that Subway with the experience and confidence I have now, I know what I would do.  I would put my hand on the wife's shoulder and say to her, "My name is Nicole, and I'm a pastor.  Is there anything I can do for you?"