Pandemic Parables: Gone!

Pandemic Parables: Gone!

Friday May 29th 2020

The large, grey, cuddly bunny holding an enormous bright orange carrot has gone from the window of the gift shop in the hospital where I am working as a Resident  Chaplain until the end of August. 

Gone!

The shop has remained closed since a couple of weeks before Easter. It will probably remain so until the second week of July when I have heard that volunteers will once again be allowed back in the building.

The bunny was there yesterday morning. 

In the afternoon on my return from doing rounds he was gone. 

I stopped in my tracks. 

All the chocolate rabbits were still in place, so were the other decorations frozen in a permanent Easter display. But there was a yawning space on the shelf where the bunny had been. 

Then I saw dark shapes within the store. 

The bunny nappers!

More likely women from the wonderful Hospital Auxiliary Guild who run the shop allowed in for the afternoon to dust. 

“The bunny has gone!” I announced to the other startled Chaplains as I burst into our shared office. 

Uncomprehending looks greeted me. They had never noticed the bunny in the window that seemed daily to slump further and further towards his carrot. I always thought he was bowed down by the daily changes, burdens, and anxieties brought about by this pandemic. A symbol of all that was happening around us. 

I knew how he felt. 

On the outside, I nurtured, listened, laughed, and learned throughout my days at the hospital. Inside I often felt like that drooping bunny.

I checked the next morning. He was still gone. Of course he was! Then I realized I really missed him. I asked myself why was I feeling bereft over a stuffed toy?

One I had no intention of buying. 

I couldn’t formulate an answer. 

Other things were gone also. 

The 24 hour Covid Command Center situated inside the hospital will be disbanded this weekend. It’s supplies of cloth masks, and PPE already distributed to department heads. It’s intense operations no longer needed. 
The Zen Den is no more. The area set aside for exhausted hospital workers to relax and let the tension of being surrounded by the Coronavirus drain away. It’s very presence was an act of understanding and kindness by the hospital’s Service Excellence team who turned their attention during this intense virus season to nurturing the staff. 

I discovered the Zen Den's absence earlier in the week when I had a sudden longing for a dim, comfortable, quiet place to rest for a few minutes after a particularly intense, sorrow-filled patient visit. 

It was no more. Gone. 

With the return to same day surgeries the area has reverted  to being an restorative exercise area for the physiotherapy department. 

Then two days ago I walked into the isolation wing on the third floor to be met by a long straight phalanx of hospital chairs standing to attention against the wall. 

As I turned the corner I saw that there was blue tape across the doors of the rooms where the Covid-19 patients had been. 

Except for a couple of staff members, including the wonderful nurse manager,  the place was deserted. 

“Where is everyone?” I said in shock. 

“The patients have gone to 3B” said the floor secretary.

“We are in the process of deep cleaning. Then a team will come with ultra violet lights to zap the whole place before it returns to being an orthopedic unit.”

“I thought that wasn’t happening until next week?” I said. 

“We had to get it ready,” replied the nurse manager. We were going to have a reopening event but it didn’t work out.” 

The isolation wing has gone. 

Sliding into non existence. Just like that. 

I trotted off to 3B to see how they were coping.

Two nurses were coming out of different virus patients rooms. 

“These patients are really sick," said one. “We do what we can. We are all still learning about this disease. The protocols are changing daily.”

I sensed her nervousness mixed with compassion. 

“It’s a big challenge but we are hanging in there together. That’s all we can do,” said the other. 

This area’s Coronavirus curve has just begun. 

As I went back down to our office I passed the gift shop and saw the Volunteer Shop Manager inside its still locked doors. I waved at her. She smiled a large welcoming smile. She was clutching a stuffed monkey. 

Through a crack in the door I said:

“What happened to the bunny? The one in the window?”

“I didn’t know it was gone,” she replied. “I’ve just arrived. I’ll find out for you though.”

“Thank you” I said, pausing, wondering if I should continue. Wondering if she’d think

I was an idiot. I took a risk. 

“For some reason he seemed to sum up all the difficulties of the last weeks,” I said. “All the Feast Days and celebrations we’ve been missing. All the stress and tension. I wanted to make sure he’d gone to a good home.”

She nodded. Kindness and understanding in her eyes. I hope she has many grandchildren. She will be such a safe place for them. 

“I’ll find out for you,” she said, stroking the stuffed monkey in her arms. And I knew she would. 

I took my ridiculous self off, relieved. Silently laughing at my folly. 

Why was I so emotional about a missing bunny? 

An AWOL stuffed toy who had made a bid for freedom after being cooped up for far too long?

Then I realized his escape was very biblical. In the church calendar this Sunday is Pentecost, the official end of the Easter season. 

Easter bunnies can’t hang around after Easter. 

I recalled that years ago, on the first Pentecost, the disciples were hiding in the Upper Room absolutely terrified of the Roman terror that lurked outside their doors. Suddenly there was a sound like a mighty rushing wind, they saw tongues of fire flit over each other’s heads, and they were filled with courage and zeal. The Holy Spirit had arrived with glorious drama. And they plunged out those locked doors into a whole new chapter of their lives   

So too with us. (Perhaps without the plunging!)

Many of us have been hiding inside in a comforting small world while evil prowls on the outside. However things are slowly opening up and we will have to leave the safe cocoon that we have woven around ourselves in these Coronavirus days. 

There has been sorrow at the missed Feasts, festivals, celebrations, paychecks, and empty grocery store shelves, yes. But refuge and perhaps even comfort tinged with quiet joy in the enjoyment of newly established gentler routines, close relationships, common purpose, safety. 

All of those things, the bad - but also the very good - will be put behind us as we slowly re-emerge, back into our former lives. 

Back to the familiar, but that will somehow have changed. Because we have changed. 

I realized that this was why I was so unsettled by the disappearing bunny. His absence highlighted that while the old had gone the new was yet to arrive. 

May we all have the strength and grace to let go of that which is not part of this coming season. And patience to wait for the new to unfold. 

May we too be filled with the Spirit so that at the right time we may go forth with new purpose, grace, and conviction. 

The bunny has gone. 

The shop window, eventually, will have a new display. 

The store will be open. 

The future will unfold. 

May it be good, and sweet, and fulfilling. And overflowing with love. 

Amen.

Pandemic Parables: Emerging

Pandemic Parables: Emerging

May 26th 2020

Over the last couple of months, since the start of the pandemic, my morning commute to the hospital where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August, has been almost deserted. I like to drive up North Market Street, the main road through the historic part of town, and soak in the atmosphere of this city that I love, and where I have lived for the last eighteen years.

This morning though was different. There were many more cars on the road. Bright yellow balloons bobbed outside Starbucks encouraging people to enter. The lights were on, and there was an “open” sign on the sidewalk outside my favorite shoe repair place. The one that when you step through the portal you are time warped back into cobblers of the past where craftsmanship, good service, and the smell of fine leather were an integral part of the establishment. 

The city is stirring. 

The citizens slowly emerging.

And in the hospital I got to witness an emergence. 

A rebirth. 

At least that’s what it felt like. 

As I was walking past the coffee shop on the first floor on my way to do rounds this morning, I noticed two workmen by the side of the large, white construction shell that has dominated that space for the last six weeks. One of them was up a ladder and was doing something to the top of the edifice. 

On my return  I saw that half the box was gone. I saw stained glass. The chapel was beginning to emerge.

“You’ve done such a marvelous job!” I said to two of the workmen. “Thank you! Thank you!”

They nodded their appreciation. 

I stood and watched, excitement growing within me. The exterior was now being completely stripped away away and it really felt as though I was watching this new version of the chapel being born. 

A great eagle breaking out of its shell. 

Which was very appropriate given that the entrance to the Birthing Center is steps away. 

I retuned later in the afternoon - the chapel is near our office. And there it was in its freshly carpeted, newly released glory. 

As yet it was devoid of furniture. The ceiling wasn’t as beautiful as the last incarnation - it didn’t have the recessed lights. It is smaller than before. 

But the compassionate hands, a gorgeous wooden carving of an older hand cradling a younger one was there on the wall. 

We had our chapel back. 

I could have wept. 

I was surprised at how emotional I was. 

The last chapel was tucked out of the way. An oasis of calm and quiet in the middle of a non-stop medical world. A world awash with cares, concerns, grief. 

This one is next to a busy thoroughfare. 

The Coffee Bean is a gathering place. It has a delicious assortment of beverages, pastries, pizza, and other yumminess. People gather at the tables in its forecourt. 

It is a hub. 

I often think of the main servers there as secular chaplains as they dispense care, bonhomie, and nourishment. 

Then I realized that the Birthing  Center, The Coffee Bean, and the Chapel were new neighbors. They lie in a straight line. 

So now you have miracles of birth, next to earthly nourishment, flanked by spiritual solace. 

It seems like a God-inspired sandwich to me!

The Emergency Department is also re-emerging. 

Patients stayed away during the height of the pandemic putting off treatment as long as possible, often to their great detriment. 

The hospital was the last place most people wanted to be in the middle of Coronavirus. 

But now things are changing. It seems as though, despite the virus still being with us, people are no no longer anxious to delay health care. 

Because of increased activity, daily prayer meetings at the end of the huddle have now been reduced to one day a week on a Tuesday. So that is when I go over. 

In the few days since my last visit the atmosphere in the ED had completely changed   They were buzzing with the energy and tension that had always marked this Department. Some of the fear and the feeling of being overwhelmed by an unseen, pervasive enemy has lifted. 

They are on a fast track back to normal. 

There are other signs that normal is re-emerging. The number of Coronavirus cases in the hospital has declined again. Although we now have thirty two people who have died, we only have twenty four Covid-19 positive patients in isolation and two under investigation.  And one hundred and twenty three former virus patients have been discharged. 

Glory!

In another sign that we are well over the hump of this pandemic, the Incident Command Center, that was putting  out daily Coronavirus dispatches, are reducing their missives to three times a week - Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

This is a good thing. 

We still have a tough journey ahead of us - miles to go before we sleep - but we are on our way. 

The new chapel made me think about our future. 

There is no question that this virus has come in like a mighty wind that has turned our lives, our plans, our desires around. 

Like the chapel we might well find ourselves in a different place, emotionally, physically, mentally.  

Things - attitudes, opportunities, relationships - that seemed lost, long gone, somehow, unbelievably, restored. 

For many we will be taken out of a quiet backwater into a greater relevance, a busier emotional thoroughfare. It might not be as tranquil, as beautiful, or as comfortable as the places we have left. But it will be real, a fulfillment of dreams in a totally different way than we ever expected. 

But whatever our new reality holds, we can emerge safe in the knowledge that the compassionate hands of God will continue to hold us, care for us, provide for us.

And so whatever form the future takes. 

It will be good.

Pandemic Parables: The Wheels Turn

Pandemic Parables: The Wheels Turn

Sunday May 24th, 2020

Very slowly, and with some squeaky resistance, the wheels of normality are beginning to turn in the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August.

As a condition for the hospital being able to accept the influx of elective patients needed to increase revenue, Governor Hogan has mandated that certain conditions must be met. One is that all staff and visitors have to have their temperatures checked, and be given a brief interview to ensure lack of Covid-19 symptoms when entering the building.

A huge, thin, white structure has been built in the now slightly less beautiful foyer. We surmise it will be used for testing, but so far it just sits there, elephant like, mysterious. Its two doors are locked.

By now we are all used to building projects sprouting up around us. 

But it is tiring to keep on adjusting.

I saw a department head walking through the foyer and examining this newly emerged structure as she made her way to the elevator.

“So many changes,” she said as her shoulders slumped. “So very many changes.”

From last Tuesday everyone who comes in through the front door or from the ground level staff parking deck passes a checkpoint. The same is true at the only other entrance, which leads directly from the staff parking deck through a tunnel to the second floor of the hospital. Anyone who is symptomatic, or has a temperature of 100 or more is sent home. The rest are given brightly colored wrist bands to wrap around ID badges, a different color each day.

“Ooh, look!” said the Emergency Department Manager when she was handed a bright pink one on the first day. I’m going to a rave!”

We will all be rave-ready for the foreseeable future.

The logistics of having a team present twenty four/seven to take temperatures, and record the information of more than a thousand people who enter the building daily is arduous. The work is particularly intense during shift changes.  All the departments are being asked to take turns being on duty. 

The chaplains are not exempt. 

We have time slots before the end of the month. I don’t know how competent we will be with the thermometers.  

But at least we will be able to pray with anyone who is turned away!

In addition to the testing, large, blue, circular markers have appeared on floors everywhere asking, as yet non-existent visitors, to stand six feet apart. This is another Governor mandated requirement.

Our wonderful CEO said in his weekly video update that he is determined to open in a safe, paced manner. He feels comfortable doing so as the Covid-19 cases have been slightly lower in the hospital. Although they did rise later in the week, after he had recorded his message.

 As of late Friday May 19th we had thirty one virus patients, and seven isolated with them under investigation. And although we mourn the twenty nine Coronavirus patients who have died on the premises since the start of the pandemic, we rejoice at the hundred and fifteen who have been released. 

Hallelluia!

The date set for the hospital activity to start ramping up is June 1st. Although, at the moment we are approaching low levels of exam gloves, surgical gowns, and size small N95 masks, that is the date that nine operating rooms will be back in full swing. One hundred and forty eight cases have already been scheduled, and one hundred and seventy five are next in line. Among this number are limb surgery and replacements, and so on June 1st the isolation wing on the third floor reverts to being an orthopedic wing.

There is rejoicing by some who work in this wing, and a hint of disgruntlement and squeaky resistance on the section to which they will be transferred.

Opening up brings its own set of stresses.

In these days before the reset there is a sense in the hospital that people are holding their breaths. They are tired of changes and so there is a settling into what is. A nesting in a temporary place.

There is also parallel longing to return to familiar routines.

This combination makes for an underlying unsettled tension.

I talked with a senior nurse who said.

“I know it is very difficult that few patients can have visitors, but I’m really glad that in this time of shifting uncertainties that they weren’t here. In some ways it has been a real blessing for us who work here. 

A respite. 

It will be hard to lose that.”

There was a pause for thought, and then they continued.

“But in another way it will be good when the visitors return, although it will be more stressful for us. It’s especially beneficial if the patient is in bad shape. If the family can’t see that their loved one has declined then they often don’t make decisions that are in the patient’s best interests.”

Once a caring, dedicated nurse, always so. Even when exhausted and several months into a pandemic.

The hospice nurses are back in their old offices in 2C, the unit that was closed in case it was needed as a third ICU. I was on my way to see them about a shared patient when I realized that there were two other nurses behind the reception desk.

“You are a wonderful sight,” I said. "This unit has been closed for so long that it is a thrill to see you sitting there.”

“It’s so good to be back,” said one. It’s been hard being away on different floors. I’m relieved to be starting again on a familiar routine”.

“I agree,” said the second. “I’m so glad to be back. I don’t do well with change. I like to know where I’m going every day. I have to have structure. And I’ve been floating. Mind you, I’ve been on the ICU with the Covid-19 patients for much of the time. And I’ve learned such a lot. I’ll be a better nurse because of it.”

I thought of those two nurses throughout the day and wondered if perhaps they symbolize what many of us are going through, outside the hospital as well as within its healing walls.

A longing to return to a regular routine.

And yet a familiarity with, and even, on some days, a gratefulness for our current closeted cocoons.

As for me, I’m even getting to appreciate the Chaplain’s temporary, noisy, carved-from-a-corridor office. It is airy and I sit by a window. 

Neither of those things will be present when we move.

I believe that lessons learned during this secluded time will have changed us in deep rooted ways that will be of great benefit in the life that lies ahead.

May we have cause to look back and say, that as difficult as it was, this season was worth enduring, because of what was formed during its long, dark days.

Many of us are in a time of pause. The time between what was, and what is not quite here yet. The end of isolation is in sight. Some of us are already dabbling our toes in the waters of newly restored liberty. 

And yet there is a reticence about what lies ahead. A fear even.

After all we have no idea what will remain after we emerge blinking into the full sunlight of a post Coronavirus day.

When I went to Bible school in London, many, many years ago, my friends were surprised that I was embarking on such a venture. I told them that I felt like a very large St. Bernard dog that was being completely dipped under the water of new ideas and experiences. When I left, I assured them, I would shake vigorously and what was meant to remain would stay, and the rest would fly away. And so it was.

May it be so for us.

In this extended pause between what was, and what is to be, may we experience fully what we are meant to learn about ourselves, who we are, what we are called to do. What we can and cannot endure. How we want to move forward with our lives.

May we shed like a snake skin, ideas, relationships, and ways of being that we have outgrown. 

May we thoroughly shake off the words, the curses, the ideas that have held us back. 

And may we face the future with courage, fortitude, and newly acquired wisdom.

And when the wheels of life start turning again, and they will. By the grace of God, and because of honing that happened during this time, may we become all we were created to be.

May we fulfill our destinies.

And may we have joy in the journey.

Amen

Pandemic Parables: Reminders

Parable: Reminders

Thursday May 21st 2020

On Monday, in the hospital, where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August, I was flagging at the thought of another week of Pandemic restraints. Thankfully over the last few days I was given several much needed reminders that we will get through the season. 

Truly we will. 

The first one stopped me in my tracks. Literally. 

I was coming back from praying at the end of the Emergency Room morning huddle when I saw a new poster covering the whole of the Respiratory Workroom door. This is a department that has been deeply impacted by Covid-19 as breathing can be seriously affected by the virus. 

Replacing the previous Dr Seus illustration was a beautifully drawn home made sign that said: 

“At the end of the day all you need is hope and strength. Hope that it will get better and strength to hold on until it does.”

“That’s what I should have prayed over the ED team.” I thought. 

“That’s what we all need right now.”

For it is not just me that is flagging. There seems to be a general exhaustion. A longing for this strange, unreal time to be over. 

I greeted one of the charge nurses who I hadn’t seen for a while. She said wistfully, 

“I’ve been off for a few days. I didn’t realize how much pressure I’ve been under until I had time to decompress. I stayed inside so I didn’t have to wear a mask. It is difficult wearing one all day, exhausting. I had three whole days without one. It was hard to come back...”

Later another said nurse said: “At first there were so many changes. So much to take on board. So much to adjust to. It was frightening yes, but exciting also. That stage is gone. This stage is about trudging forward. Just keep on going while longing for the whole thing to be over...”

Even the large cuddly bunny in the barely-lit gift shop window seems to be slumped a little further over every time I go past. 

His tall, basket-carrying, fluffy-tailed, foil wrapped chocolate companions, however, are still perkily resolute. Probably relieved that they haven’t been eaten. 

The shop closed a couple of weeks before Easter and now that season is frozen, never ending in its windows. A constant reminder that once upon a time, glorious church services, new dresses, bonnets, egg rolls and family dinners were part of the celebration of the Resurrection. 

In the flesh. 

Not on Zoom. 

But those joys seems to be an eon ago. 

In a parallel existence. 

The construction around the chaplain’s office also seems to be interminable. Somehow the pandemic and the sound of loud electric drills have become intertwined in my psyche. 

In our psyches. 

However the chaplains have found a wonderful way to get rid of the pressure when it starts to feel overwhelming. 

We stomp. 

Let me explain. 

The Zen Den, the tranquil spot on the third floor designed to ease the stress away from exhausted hospital workers, had a basket of massage balls. The kind that you squeeze in your hand to release tension. They are in the shape of workman’s hard hat. 

Naturally I commandeered one. It now plays an important roll in our office. 

The Pastoral Care team is an international group. Of the ones who are together in the same space daily, three are from Africa and only one of us is American born.  

Somehow I persuaded the other chaplains to stomp repeatedly on this hard hat. Releasing frustrations at both the construction and the virus with grunts and growls. 

We all take a turn. 

It is hilarious!

You have to understand that the other chaplains are distinguished, godly folk, who are remarkably forebearing of this feral Storyteller. This kindness is another proof that showing restraint and good judgment are part of their way of life. 

You wouldn’t think so, however, when that hard hat hits the floor. 

“Take that” cries one, pounding the hat with their beautifully polished shoe, “and that, and that, and that!”

You are under my feet” cries another. “Yes you are! Yes! Yes!”

“Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!” shouts a third. 

And then we giggle and chortle like third graders in recess. 

It helps enormously! 

A few moments of ridiculousness and we are ready to go back onto the floors and minister to the sick and the dying. 

The other morning after one such session,  I was double masked and on my way to the isolation wing when a door flew open. It was in the wall of the all encompassing protective box that seals off the the construction site from the rest of the hospital. Inside I glimpsed stained glass in a door. I leaned in a bit further and before the box door closed I saw walls with that same beautiful decoration. 

It was the chapel!

The beginning of the virus coincided with the start of the construction. Our chapel was sealed off behind the builder’s pre fab walls and we were told it would eventually be in a different place. We didn’t know where. We presumed that the stained glass would stay as part of the pediatric emergency room that is being created daily behind the big white boxes. 

In the meantime we have had a temporary chapel in a sealed off part of the corridor near our office. 

It is not my favorite space. 

It is open at the ceiling, anodyne, uninteresting. I sulk when I see it. 

And then the door swung open briefly and I saw where the new chapel would be. And that it would be beautiful, and familiar, a place of quiet refuge.  It was a glimpse of what was to come. When the door closed, the weary present sparkled with glimmers of hope.

A friend who is a marathon runner likened this season to one of his races. He explained that we sprinted at first, then established a steady rhythm, and now we have hit the wall.  The invisible crushing barrier that needs to be pushed through before long distance runners can continue on and finish the race. 

That picture was reiterated by a Jewish friend, a religious scholar. To my surprise he sent me a New Testament Scripture. It was Galatians 6:9. 

“And let us not grow weary of well doing, for in due season we will reap if we do not give up.”

I started to laugh when I read it because it was so spot on. So absolutely perfect. 

So was the poster on the Respiratory  Therapist’s wall. 

So was the glimpse of what the finished chapel will look like. 

They were all reminders that this season will not endure for ever. The future won’t be in the same shape as the past, it’s true. 

But it will be good. 

Shot through with love, and hope, and grace. 

So to all my fellow weary sojourners. 

Push through! 

We will get through this pandemic marathon’s wall. 

May we all have renewed hope in our core, and the strength to hold on. Knowing in ever deepening ways that the God who has made a way for us in our past is already in our future. 

And that means that everything will be alright. 

More than alright. 

It will be good. 

Amen.

Pandemic Parables: Gratitude

Pandemic Parables: Gratitude

This week was National Healthcare Week and messages of support and gratitude flowed in and around the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. 

A banner was hung at the entrance to the staff parking garage, “Thank You To Our Shining Stars.” It gave me a ridiculous surge of pleasure every time I drove past. 

There were contests to be entered and prizes to be won. In some of the nursing departments there was an abundance of treats and goodies to be eaten. The CEO of the hospital sent a truly lovely letter of thanks and appreciation to all the staff, giving everyone extra points towards earning gifts from an incentive website.

And then there was the Kona Ice truck. 

This much anticipated, annual, thank you treat visited the hospital’s other sites during the week, and arrived at the main campus on Friday. It was there for a two hour window three times throughout the day so all the shifts could enjoy the shaved-ice-topped-with-syrup goodness. 

It is amazing how such a treat could bring out the inner child in all of us. I was attending the Emergency Department huddle and the competent, caring, ED Manager said that we would hear an overhead announcement when the Kona Ice truck had arrived. 

Anticipatory smiles started to spread. 

Then her words were clipped by a disembodied voice announcing that very same vehicle’s arrival. 

Laughter and a few cheers broke out, and 

for a moment burdens seemed to lift from those tense, exhausted workers as we all reveled in the perfect timing. 

Throughout the two hour lunchtime window, groups of happily chatting, masked, and social distancing workers flowed toward that truck parked outside the main entrance. I went with my fellow chaplain who was astounded that I’d never had a Kona Ice before - that they were not part of my British childhood. 

The day was hot, the humidity was low, and there was a large bubble of joy around that truck. Everyone within its sphere was in a party mood: from the person squirting sanitizer into the hands of those in line; to the department head scattering words of heartfelt thanks; to the staff members eagerly choosing and then comparing their flavors. 

It was as though for a few minutes the pandemic had lifted, and we were plunged into a care-free micro-vacation whisked away on a magic carpet of childhood summer memories and shave ice. 

“How was this different from other years?” 

I asked my fellow Chaplain as we savored the delicious treat back in our temporary office. From an acceptably safe distance I could see that her mouth was stained with dark cherry syrup. 

She thought for a moment, then said. 

“It was similar in many ways. But in the past we all had great fun for the rest of the day seeing what flavor people had chosen. It was clear from the colors on their mouths. This year you can’t see that because of the masks.”

This pandemic seems to have crept into the crooks and crannies of our lives in small but increasingly pervasive ways. 

In this gratitude week in the hospital I am grateful for many things large and small - in addition to being introduced to Kona Ice. 

As of the evening of Friday May 15th, ninety five Covid-19 positive patients have been released from the hospital virus free. Hallelluia! 

There are now adequate supplies of most Personal Protective Equipment, PPE, including N95 masks, although exam gloves are starting to be in short supply. Except for the gloves this is marvelous news. 

Our wonderful hospital CEO, in his ninth weekly Covid-19 video, said he thinks we have crested the hill, a week earlier than he projected. The virus will still be with us going forward but now we will be concentrating on reopening safely. 

And then I got another injection of hope - for which I was immensely grateful. 

When a building project happens in the hospital, large or small, they seal it off so that dust and debris doesn’t get into the hospital’s atmosphere. Temporary, removable white walls are put up that completely enclose the work. I pass a section like that on the second floor a couple of times a day. On Friday those white walls on 2C were gone. The second floor renovations were completed. 

This was one of the areas that was turned into a third ICU in anticipation of a flood of Virus patients. It was not needed. After some remodeling it has now returned to being an area for cancer recovery, and end of life patients. 

I was so grateful that the anticipated surge has not arrived.  

And that I had solid proof that a hospital building project really does come to an end. 

Let me explain. 

The Pastoral Care Department is in the middle of a building zone as a new Pediatric Emergency area is constructed, closer to the regular ED. 

As part of this project our old offices were whisked away from us, and we have been perching in a transitional space until we are rehoused in new quarters. The workmen, their charm, and their power drills have been part of our everyday reality. But it seems that the maze of temporary white walls surrounding us on the ground floor will be gone by the end of first week of June. 

In a passing conversation the Project Manager assured us that the Chaplains will no longer be wandering Gypsies but will be ensconced in the promised land. Or at least the promised offices. 

For which future hope we are relieved and grateful. 

There was one other building change that took me by surprise on Friday. It was on the Isolation Wing that I visit daily. As usual I went through the swing doors that contain warnings not to enter, and then I stopped, confused. 

Was I in the right place? I checked around to make sure. 

I was. But it was looked completely different. 

The floor to ceiling plastic wall with two zips to let people and gurneys in or out had gone. 

It wasn’t there. 

On the virus wing. 

It felt naked. Shocking. Unsafe. 

My jaw dropped and stayed that way, invisible under my double masks. 

I wondered if it was no longer an exclusive Coronavirus area. If the future transition back to being a regular orthopedic wing had happened earlier than anyone had expected. 

I rounded the corner to the reception desk and asked one of the PPE clad nurses:

“What happened? To the plastic wall?  I’m in shock!”

“We all are” she replied. “An air specialist came and tested the area and said we didn’t need it. The vinyl wall was put up through an abundance of caution, but apparently it served no real use, except visual. So it came down.”

I realize now I liked the drama of that wall. The unzipping and zipping was part of the mystique that separated this area from the rest of the hospital world. But the drama-less entry and exit might relieve a layer of stress from those who work full time on that wing.  

And for that I am grateful.

Of all the thanks that flowed throughout this past week, one meant the most to me. And it came from that wing, the Isolation area on the third floor. A white envelope was delivered via inter office mail to my desk. It was addressed to:

“Geraldine Buckley, our Awesome Chaplain!!!”

I melted. 

Inside was a sheet of paper that had a scroll printed on it with large letters saying “Thank You! From FHH 3A”. (The hospital and the floor.) 

Handwritten on it, completely covering the page and margins, were messages from all the staff in that wing. 

In the middle of all their incredible work they had stopped to give gratitude to the many people in the hospital and beyond that had supported them.  

I was so moved to be included. 

To receive an unneeded, but so appreciated thank you for the pumpkin bread, presence, and prayers. 

The sentiments included:

“Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness and support.”

“...We deeply appreciate your kindness. It really means so much to us!”

“Thank you so much, it means more than you know.”

These words and the many others caused me to sit stunned for a long time. 

I’m framing both the page and the envelope. It will be one of my most precious mementos from this extraordinary hospital interlude.

In this week of gratitude in the hospital, I want to thank everyone who has been staying at home. 

Those who have been juggling jobs, and children, and schooling. 

Those living with others, amid boredom,  uncertainty, and fear for the future. 

Those who live by themselves and face daily stretches of alone time without a hug or a shared meal. 

Those who have missed public celebrations of life events: weddings, funerals, life rituals. 

Those who long to be with an elderly parent in a nursing home or a loved one in the hospital. 

Thank you everyone for giving up so many liberties so that others may live. 

So that the hospital is not overwhelmed. 

So that the healthcare workers throughout this nation are able to cope. Just. Mostly. 

Thank you for carrying on in seclusion when you were on your last nerve. And beyond. 

Thank you 

The Lord sees what it has cost you, and as it says in the Good Book, your reward is in His hand. 

In the meantime, in the words of the blessing in Numbers 6. 

“May the Lord bless you and keep you;

May the Lord make His face shine upon you

and be gracious to you,

May the Lord turn His face towards you and give you peace.”

May it be so Lord. 

Amen