Pandemic Parables: Here Comes The Sun

Pandemic Parables: Here Comes The Sun

The Beatle’s song “Here Comes The Sun” was sung as a message to his staff by the CEO of the wonderful hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I work as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. 

“You’ve got to listen to this. Just sit there and listen” said my fellow chaplain when I came in from doing my rounds at the end of last week. “I was so moved when I heard it. I was in tears.”

She clicked on the link that had been sent to all the staff. Our CEO’s distinctive voice sang, and sang well those lyrics that were so apt for this season:

“Little darling, it’s been a long, cold, lonely winter.  Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here...”

And for a while it felt like the sun had indeed peeked out, albeit through dark clouds. 

It is true that the number of virus patients that had previously taken a dip have increased. But not by an overwhelming amount. As of yesterday (Wednesday April 29th) the number of deaths in the hospital remained the same at twenty two, but there are now thirty seven patients with the virus and three under investigation who are also isolated. 

One of the sunbeams through the dark clouds, though, is that fifty two Covid-19 patients have now been sprung from the hospital virus free.  Nine of those were previously on respirators.  This is an answer to fervent prayer, thank you Lord! 

It also reflects the dedicated care they get at our hospital. Hallelluia!

My biggest Hallelluia is that my friend, the compassionate, huge-hearted Hospice nurse practitioner who was felled by the Coronavirus, and was hospitalized for five days, was one of those released. She is now at home recovering. She is young and healthy but was run over by this Covid monster with all the force of a runaway eighteen wheeler truck. She says do not take this pandemic lightly. This was no heavy cold or intense flu that she had. 

It was more of a roaring flame throwing dragon than an annoying gecko. 

However she is getting stronger by the day and is looking forward to being back with her team, once again caring for those who are dying and for their grieving relatives. 

More rays of light are the way that volunteers have come forward and have created Personal Protective Equipment (PPE) for the hospital personnel. The supply of the normal disposable gowns is very low. However a senior nurse who used to be a master seamstress created a pattern for the gowns and distributed it to an abundance of willing hands. Many additional gowns have now been made that can be laundered. Masks and face shields have also been churned out in great numbers. 

God bless every one of those willing, talented, determined, much-appreciated volunteers!

When fluid resistant gowns are needed another solution has been sourced. Short sleeved waterproof capes - the kind that some hairdressers wear. Worn with veterinary gloves that go up to the elbow - presumably used for extracting stuck calves from cows. Added disposable gloves give an extra layer of protection. 

The Emergency Department Manager modeled them during a huddle the other morning taking a Superman stance with the cape furling behind her, which brought smiles to the faces of the weary workers. 

As she said: “These are clothes for heroes. There will be no black garbage sacks used here!”

The medical staff at the hospital truly are incredible. They have adapted to the constantly changing protocol with grace and courage. They are called, dedicated, and selfless. 

I admire them more each day. 

In the CEOs latest message he said that we were on week six on what he had always thought would be a ten week journey. He talked about how proud he was of the resilience and fortitude of all the staff, defining fortitude as “courage in the face of adversity.”

I see that definition in action daily in the hospital as nurses wear capes to work. 

We still have a long way to go in this virus marathon. Maryland’s Governor Hogan said today that the curve hasn’t peaked in the State. Soon, he believed, but not yet. 

Today, up on the isolation  wing of the third floor that I visit daily, there was sadness. Three patients were approaching their final days. 

Down on the first floor, however right next to the chaplain’s temporary office, is the birthing center. It is overflowing with new life. The opening notes of the lullaby that is played over the loudspeakers at each new arrival is heard frequently. 

Twins came yesterday, triplets the day before. 

Each baby is a ray of light, a promise that there is a future after this pandemic. 

Each day as I walk through the hospital. I get a visual reminder of hope’s light piercing despair’s darkness.

Right next to where staff clock in and out on the second floor is a very large photograph called Mr Wade’s Morning Sunshine.  It is by my photographer friend, Bruce Saunders and shows sunbeams piercing through stormy clouds. 

To me it encapsulates where we are in this extraordinary season. We have come through dark storms that have rocked our worlds and changed life as we know it. The tough times are not ended. But everywhere God’s grace can be seen giving hope. 

Kindness, generosity, bravery, and courage have been shown by those inside the hospital.  As they have also been shown by those outside, those who are staying at home, who are sewing, praying, cooking, caring. 

Together we are creating shafts of light in the darkness of these times. 

David, the shepherd boy, singer of Psalms, and warrior king created a principle that I believe applies to us now. (You can read about it in 1 Samuel 30.)

In a nutshell - while David and his mighty men were away, an enemy army raided their camp. Their women, children, and possessions were captured, including David’s two wives. 

David and his men were devastated. 

David asked the Lord if he should pursue and was given the green light. Some of his men were exhausted, however, and when they came to a perilous ravine opted to stay behind to look after and protect the camp. The others went on and routed the enemy, freeing all their beloved family members. 

Some rabble rousers wanted to keep the main part of the plunder for those who had fought in the front lines. 

David was not having that. 

He was adamant! 

He instituted a rule that would last “from that day to this” saying that whoever stayed behind to look after the camp would share the plunder equally with those that fought in the front lines. 

Staying at home, and caring from afar is as powerful in this season as wearing a cape and gloves. 

Thank you for allowing your world to become so dramatically constricted. 

Thank you for all your domestic sacrifices. 

Let us all hang on - even at times if it is by our last nerve. The thaw is coming. 

As the Beatles wrote and our CEO sang 

“Little darling, I feel the ice is slowly melting

Little darling it seems like years since it’s been clear.”

Here comes the sun...

Through dark clouds, yes. And perhaps with many more dark clouds ahead. But the rays of light, the birth of babies, and the resilience of the human spirit let us know that we will get through this together. 

Yes indeed. 

Eventually the dark clouds will roll away. 

May it be soon. Oh dear Lord, may it be soon. 

“Sun sun sun. Let it shine...”

Pandemic Parables: Fortune Cookies

Pandemic Parables: Fortune Cookies

Kindness always moves me deeply. 

In a previous Parable, “Frustration,” I mentioned a box that was delivered to me on St. George’s Day, April 23rd. It was sent by an integral member of the Storytelling community and was was filled with goodness. 

And kindness. 

Four hard to find rolls of toilet paper lay within; a cairn - a three stone rock marker used on trek trails to show you are on the right path; a bag of home made fortune cookies; and an affirming, encouraging, grace-filled note. 

Part of this missive said: “I ... thought of you and your brothers and sisters on the front line, so I made homemade fortune cookies and put special fortunes in them. Please feel free to share with whomever you feel needs one.”

I sampled one. It was delicious, light, meltingly more-ish, with an aftertaste of something unusual. Almond essence probably, and maybe vanilla. The hand written fortune  said “you will make a difference today.”  

I couldn’t resist. I had a second one. It said: “you will make someone happy today.” 

I hoped that both of those had been accomplished. 

These fortune cookies were both scrumptious and uplifting.  I popped each one into a perfectly sized ziplock snack bag in preparation for taking them in the next day to the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August.

Then I prayed over them that each would go to the right person and be a blessing to them, adding to the prayers of the friend who had sent them. 

They were a hit! 

I gave one to my fellow chaplain, the only one who works with me during the day on a Friday. 

“A present? For me!” She said, thrilled as a child. “I’m saving it for later.”

And when she did eat it she declared it to be a heavenly morsel and heaped praise on the one who made it. 

I left three others on the desks of the Chaplains who had staggered shifts over the coming weekend (we provide 24/7 coverage) then headed out the door on the way to my morning rounds. 

I stopped to give one to the security officer at the front entrance who is particularly kind and compassionate to all who enter.

Two went to a couple of wonderful Hospice nurses who daily pour out love and compassion to the dying and their families. 

One went to the cleaner on the third floor who has an angel ministry. She gathers statues of angels and gives them to patients and others that she thinks would benefit from such a touch. I have been a recipient of her largesse and knew it was a gift of love from the Lord. 

She was thrilled by the fortune cookie. 

So was the Jamaican janitor with the compassionate heart and kind eyes who works in the closed off isolation wing on the third floor that holds the virus patients. 

I gave several to the nurses who work that isolation wing, including the nurse manager who oozes compassion and caring from every pore. Then I left a couple with a note for my friend, the Hospice nurse practitioner who has the virus and who is now being looked after by her fellow comrades. 

There was one patient I knew had to have one. I left the isolation wing and headed to his room. I checked with the nurse for any allergies and then went in with my friend’s  blessing-filled gift. 

This patient had been married for a month shy of sixty years and was desperately missing his wife who had warned him to hurry back home to her soon. 

It seemed as though the years melted from his face as he realized he was getting the very last cookie and it had been prayed over by the one who made it. For an instant I could see the man, the boy, that he had been. 

He read the fortune, holding it in his wizened, shaking hands. 

“You will be showered with blessings” it said. Followed by a small heart that all these handwritten messages had on them. 

“I like that.” “He said. “The shower has already started. 

I think I’ll phone my wife and tell her what just happened.”

As I left he was already dialing with a beatific smile on his face. 

His wasn’t the only “fortune” that was incredibly apt. 

A few people opened their cookies in front of me.  

Their blessings said: 

“Be kind to yourself.”

“Today you will give someone hope and comfort.”

“You will experience great joy today”. 

Each recipient smiled deeply, and paused for a moment before saying they had been given the perfect message. 

A message they needed to hear. 

And for a moment you could see the kindness and love that had been baked into those treats wash over their tired faces and alleviate the stress that everyone in the hospital is feeling. 

Buoyed by the joy of handing out those treats, the rest of my day was inspiring at times, emotionally difficult at others. 

I was thrilled to have been invited for the first time to the Emergency Department “huddle” - a fifteen minute meeting where essential information is passed to the assembled staff. The Department Manager recognized what stress her team was under and wanted to help them in any way she could. I was tasked to pray at the end of the gathering, giving anyone who would prefer not to participate an opportunity to step away. 

When the time came I told the large assembled team that I would not be at all offended if anyone didn’t want to stay. 

Not one person moved. 

It was my privilege and honor to pray for this exhausted group who are giving of their very essence to care for and try to revive the sick and the dying under very difficult virus-causing constraints. 

I prayed and believed with all my heart that our gracious loving Lord will strengthen, guide, and guard them and their families. 

That He will sustain them, and work through them, and make a way for them in their lives where there seems to be no way. 

That he would provide for them and their families in abundant, unexpected ways. 

And that they would feel His peace, grace, and love in the depths of their weary souls and be revived. 

The ED manager asked me to come back and pray with them all daily, and I am deeply grateful that the 11.00am huddle will now be part of my daily schedule. 

Then I had some difficult visits. Among them was a patient who had had an accident that caused him to lose his livelihood. Another who felt abandoned by the recent deaths of both father and spouse. 

Then I met with two family members. They were grieving the loss of an elderly patient who had died minutes before, not long after the ambulance screeched to halt at the hospital. Their beloved relative had slipped away despite the best efforts of a highly trained team to save them. 

Their grief was deep and real. 

Getting ready to conduct a small, impromptu service to commit this patient’s spirit to the Almighty, I felt the love that had been baked into those fortune cookies wash over and sustain me. 

God’s love. 

I thought about the act of kindness that had gone into the planning, writing out the blessings, and making the cookies. The love and prayer that they had been bathed in. 

And I was grateful. 

It had been a tough week. I crawled home already anticipating the long lie in I could have the next day, Saturday morning. 

There was another package outside my front door. A large one. 

I do not want to cause jealousy but it was a pack of six extra sized rolls of Charmin toilet paper. It had been sent by a fellow storyteller who had heard about my lack of loo rolls. 

A kind, big-hearted, generous fellow story teller. 

God bless him big time Lord!

Such kindness! Where there was once a dearth, now there is abundance. So I gifted four I had bought at the hospital to my new neighbor who has hardly emerged during this pandemic and has been nowhere near a shop since self isolation began. 

I thought once again about those fortune cookies. 

Each cookie was like a stone that had been thrown in the water and the ripples were strong and endless. 

The ripples continue to flow outward. 

I love kindness. I love being inspired by kindness to be kind to others.

 

This pandemic season is a terrible time, but one that is also suffused with grace, generosity and love. 

The best of times, the worst of times, as Dickens says. 

We are all being tested. True character is on display. But we shall all get through with kindness made flesh, in whatever form is in our power to give. 

That might be blessing-filled fortune cookies; the gift of a cairn; toilet paper; a phone call; a kind note; a drive by birthday celebration for a child.  

We all have something we can do, give, say, that will create ripple-forming acts of kindness that soften the heart of the giver and enables the one gifted to know deep within themselves that God sees, knows, and loves them. 

And in this way, together, we will emerge stronger, more compassionate - whole in soul, spirit, as well as body on the other side of this Coronavirus dark valley. 

Lord, let it be so. 

Amen!

Pandemic Parables: Frustration

Pandemic Parables: Frustration

For me, Thursday (April 23rd) was a day filled with frustration at the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I’m working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. 

But let me start with comforting news. The number of virus patients remained the same and has not dramatically increased. There have been nineteen deaths (each one a blow.) Thirty one patients either have the virus or are in isolation awaiting results. Unfortunately one of those includes my friend, an amazing Hospice nurse practitioner who has the virus, took a turn for the worse, and came into the hospital in the early hours for additional support. 

I’m praying she will soon be added to the thirty five virus patients who have already heard the “Rocky” theme tune upon being released from the hospital. Lord let it be soon!

Bear with me while I tell you about the frustrations. 

They started early, even before leaving the house. Straight after making my essential morning brew my electric tea kettle broke. 

Thankfully not before. 

It is irredeemably dead - which I thought was pretty rotten of it considering that April 23rd was St. George’s Day - the patron saint of England. No respectable British kitchen would be seen without a mandatory electric kettle. 

It was a very unpatriotic day to die. 

But then nothing is as we think it should be in these odd, strange virus-soaked days. 

On arriving at the hospital I saw that there was an “out of service sign” on both the individual rest rooms near the chaplain’s makeshift office. Peeking inside one open door I realized why. They had both been gutted as part of the large renovation project that has been going on around us. 

A few days before I been concerned about loo (the British term for toilet) rolls. Or the lack thereof. 

Today there are no loos. 

Of course there are facilities.  But the   conveniences aren’t convenient anymore. They are a trudge away. 

The ever-present workmen, pleasant though they are, are pretty noisy chaps. Especially when working with electric drills and emitting a sound that soars over the not-nearly-ceiling-height partition walls that currently encircle our temporary office and rattles the fillings in the teeth of the getting-less-holy-by-the-minute chaplains sequestered there.

Our Clinical Pastoral Education session was also a source of frustration. For two hours every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoon the Resident Chaplains and one part time Staff Chaplain meet with the Head of Pastoral Care as part of the program that will give us our professional chaplaincy qualifications. 

There are six of us, born in five different nations, five men and me. Three are Hospice Chaplains and the rest of us work in the hospital. The part time Chaplain covers the weekend nights so we don’t have to. God bless him. 

We used to meet in the head of the department’s cosy office. Now the Hospice Chaplains work from home and our meeting space, the department head’s former office has been swallowed up in the construction. She is working partly at home and partly perched in a vacated office in the hospital that has ceiling high walls. 

She is not happy with the development. 

Our two hour meetings are now via Webex. 

On Thursday the content of the session was deeply moving and emotional. 

Unfortunately, throughout the two hours, my computer and that of my office mate emitted screeching feedback sounds despite the intervention of our in-house computer wizards. 

It sounded like nails down an old fashioned blackboard. 

By the time I started my hospital afternoon visitation rounds I was in great need of grace. 

Great need. 

If that were not enough, there was more. We had new protocols. 

Everyone who is interacting with patients, or interacting with hospital care givers, now has to wear an N95 mask under the compulsory cloth mask at all times. That means that chaplains have to wear the double protection whenever we are on the floors visiting patients, and nursing staff have to wear them throughout their shifts. 

I had to go to Operation Control and be issued an N95, a plastic container that it sits in when not in use, and a large zip lock bag that houses both and must never be sealed so that air can circulate.

“How often can I get a new one?” I said to the nurse administrator who was struggling to teach me how to wear this contraption.  

“When this one starts to fall apart then come back to us” she said adjusting the mask so it no longer covered my eyes. 

“That should be about ten days or more.”

I was not happy about wearing this mask, the N95. Only a few weeks before I had been fitted for one and failed the fitting. That was the second time that had happened to me. Apparently those with fuller faces or with facial hair - beards for example - can’t effectively wear this style of mask. 

Well I’ve lost weight and I wax and I’m still not a proper candidate. 

But I’ll be wearing it anyway. 

I discovered that N95s are very uncomfortable if you have them on for an extended period of time. 

The nurses I met were not happy about this new development. 

Nor was this chaplain. 

We bonded over our displeasure. 

As I walked along the corridors towards my first patient’s room I anticipated the difficulties.  It was hard enough connecting with a patient and drawing out feelings and emotions whilst wearing a cloth mask. How much more difficult and muffled it would be with two. Especially if the patient is hard of hearing. 

The only patients I am allowed to visit  at the moment are virus-free and not in isolation of any kind. 

My first patient, while wearing this new double protection, a lovely older gentleman, was no exception. 

I felt he looked a little bewildered at the sight of my masked face as though he was being visited by an alien. 

He couldn’t hear. 

I was apologetic and felt stifled. 

I shouted. 

But gradually we both relaxed and communication and grace happened. 

When the Lord wants to move, and, touch, and comfort, He will. 

Despite a bad attitude and a double masked mouth. 

At the end of this visit, after we had prayed together, this gentleman said to me rather shyly. 

“May I ask you a favor. It wouldn’t take you long.”

“Certainly,” I said. “What is it?”

“Will you raise your mask just for a moment so I can see who I’ve been speaking to?”

I felt like a Victorian maiden who had just been propositioned to show her ankle. 

I plead the fifth on what happened next. 

However when I left the patient had a smile on his face. 

At the end of my shift it was pouring with rain. I needed groceries. 

It took thirty five minutes to line up and start shopping at Costco. 

Life seem very difficult. 

I was so grateful to get home. 

Then things started to change. 

As I pulled into my driveway I remembered with relief that I had a travel kettle in the trunk of my car. Hallelluia!

Outside my front door was a sodden looking parcel. The writing on the front had almost washed away. But I could just make out it was from a wonderful friend in West Virginia, who is integral part of the Storytelling Community. 

Inside, I removed the dripping paper. The solid cardboard box had held up and the contents were completely dry. 

There were - glory be - four hard to come by toilet rolls. A bag of home made fortune cookies. 

And a pile of three perfectly beautiful small rocks. 

Such incredible kindness!

Love and generosity pored from that box. 

I was so grateful. 

There was also a wonderfully encouraging note. Part of it said:”I have ...included a cairn for you. As you no doubt know, cairns are used as trail markers when hiking so one doesn’t lose their way.” They are “often put there by other hikers to mark which way to go on a tricky part of the trip. Seems like this one belongs to you. ... Hope you know how loved you are.”

I melted. 

I stared at that cairn. Through it the Lord seemed seemed to be saying to me: “You are on a difficult part of the path. It feels rocky and insurmountable. You are weary. But you are going in the right direction. You are exactly where you are meant to be. Keep going forward. It will all be worth it in the end. Stay the course, my brave, beloved one. Stay the course!”

And then I remembered that it was St. George’s Day. 

Legend tells us St. George, who is also celebrated in other parts of the world, took on injustice, and that to right wrongs he fought a dragon that others had feared to face. When he finally defeated the dragon a red rose sprang up where his blood had soaked into the land. That rose - the symbol of love - is now the emblem of England.  

In these Coronavirus days, whether we are working in a hospital, or sheltering at home, we are facing a fearful enemy. Together, my brave and beautiful ones, we will defeat this dragon.  And one of the legacies will be the love and generosity that has been poured out by friends and strangers in so many settings which will ultimately change this generation at a deep level and make the world a better, kinder place. 

Let it be so. 

Amen!

Pandemic Parables: Relief

I am relieved about several things today in the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. 

For one thing, although the number of virus patients are going up, it is not a dramatic rise. As of this afternoon (Tuesday April 21st) we have twenty eight confirmed patients in isolation, with an additional two closeted awaiting results. And although we grieve the seventeen patients who have died, we rejoice for the twenty who have recovered from the virus, many who have already been released from the hospital. 

I am also relieved that the hospital is saying that the COVID surge is now expected to peak a few weeks earlier than projected. 

Apparently we could see that happening any time between now and the beginning of May. 

Such good news!

On a far lighter note. 

Far, far lighter...

I am relieved I haven’t been to Las Vegas recently or indeed ever. 

Relieved that I haven’t forgotten about indiscretions that never happened on a trip that didn’t occur. 

Let me explain. 

One of the operators at the hospital called me this morning and said, a little hesitantly: “Chaplain Geraldine, your husband is on the phone.”

“I beg your pardon” I said, thinking I’d misheard. 

“Your husband is on the phone” 

But I don’t have a husband!” said I. 

“That’s what I thought,” she said. “But there is a man who says he is your husband and wants to talk to you. I asked him if he meant the head of your department, Kay Myers. I know her given name, that she never uses, is Geraldine. But she always goes by Chaplain Myers, or Dr. Kay. I asked if that’s who he meant. But no. He says he wants to speak to you, Chaplain Geraldine, and that he is your husband. 

I’m was a little confused by this point. 

“I’ve never been married.”  I said. 

Then - hoping she would realize I was joking. 

“Does he sound nice? Is he a good Christian man who is kind, intelligent, and has a great sense of 

humor?”

“I’ll ask him” she said. 

We both giggled like schoolgirls. 

She never got to find out who he was or who he really wanted to speak to. When she reconnected to his line he had gone. 

And although I racked my brain, and thought through all the drama of my misspent youth I am still completely certain that I’ve never been to Vegas...

This season is full of trauma and mystery, both. 

There is another reason I’m relieved I’m working at the hospital during the Pandemic. 

Toilet paper.

Seriously!

There is no shortage of that essential commodity within those healing walls. But the supply in my home was getting uncomfortably low. 

I had begun to seriously ration my usage. 

And by the time I got to the store in the evening after work the shelves glistened in their pristine emptiness. 

What was a girl going to do?

I mentioned my predicament in a comment on a friend’s FB picture when I saw that they were nonchalantly propping up their computer against a twelve pack of plump rolls. 

I committed the sin of envy. 

Big time. 

A friend in Tennessee offered to share her well-stocked supply. At first I was delighted until I realized what that would entail. 

My friend would have to get out of her recently vacated sick bed, wade through her flooded back yard suited up with mask and gloves; and hover outside her local post office waiting until she would be the only one in there. Only then would she be able to send off the parcel she had laboriously packaged. 

I would never let that happen!  

I love her immensely for the offer. But no!

Still I had got to the point yesterday where I was in a staff rest room on the third floor, my assigned floor, and there, propped up against a water pipe, was a spare toilet roll. 

I lusted. 

Then I went into the isolation wing for my daily visit with the nurses. I bumped into the tall Jamaican cleaner who works there, the one with wonderfully kind eyes. He was exiting a supply cupboard. Curious, I peered into its depths. 

It was a Corona virus Aladdin’s cave! 

Next to gallons of disinfectant and sterile wipes were roll upon roll upon roll of domestically sized, individually packaged toilet paper. 

I drooled. 

I began to understand how the generation who came out of the Great Depression hoarded food, paper bags, jam jars. 

The trauma of sustained lack had forever changed their habits. 

I felt close to them. 

Would I ever be able to think about toilet paper - loo roll as we say in England - in the same way?

Walking back to the Chaplains’ office I muttered a quick prayer.

“Lord, I really would like some rolls of toilet paper. And I’m too tired to go into more than one or two shops to find it, especially if I discover it was sold out hours ago. Lord. Help!”

Later that afternoon in our office one of the other Chaplain’s said:

“I went downstairs to the staff cafeteria and guess what they have started doing? They are helping out the staff who are having problems finding basics. They say they’ll have a range of things over the next few days. But for the moment they selling paper towels, bread, and toilet paper.”

Toilet paper!

I was down the stairs and along the endless corridor to the cafeteria almost before she had finished speaking. 

There, indeed, in the entrance, on a newly erected shelf, nestled next to other goodies were loo rolls!

Glory!

Handing over 59 cents for each plump package was a joy, and a relief. 

The Lord had heard my prayer. 

And quickly. 

Once again I knew, that in this season of trauma, mystery, and unanswered questions, God is faithful. Both in the small things as well as the large. As the scripture says, He will make a way where there seems to be no way. 

He will provide. 

There will be enough. 

And when it comes to the uncertain future, that we all face, I hold onto with an iron grip, and speak out determinedly the promise in Jeremiah 29:11 “For I know the plans I have for you” declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future. “

And then I remember once again that one of the names of God is “El Shaddai,” which means the Great Breasted One, or The Comforter. God is Mother as well as Father. 

Mothers care, protect, nurture, provide, and love fiercely. 

And I had been mothered. Beautifully. 

And I had the toilet rolls to prove it. 

Pandemic Parables: Camaraderie

Pandemic Parables: Camaraderie

There has been an increase in camaraderie in the already friendly, hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I work as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August.

This is no real surprise as the hospital has far fewer people walking its halls. There are virtually no visitors, and staff have been cut back to a minimum. 

Those who can are working from home. Others, such as medical staff who are not needed on the Covid-19 areas, or in their sparsely-patient-filled regular sections, have been furloughed or reassigned. The hospital has created a generous virus-related policy enabling non-essential-at-the-moment employees to select very fair alternative ways to work and be paid. 

This is a hospital that truly values its staff. 

If you see an unfamiliar face hurrying through the halls with a visitor badge and a strained, glazed expression it is someone on their way to seeing a dying patient. Alternatively it might a proud, focused, car-seat carrying new father headed for the birthing center hastening to get his partner and freshly-emerged progeny far away from the hospital and its carefully cloistered Covid patients. 

Because there are so few full time staff members left, strong bonds forged by kindness and understanding are being formed between those that are still here as we face this crisis and share together the tension and stress that permeate the hospital’s atmosphere.  

Sometimes I feel like walking through the hallways quoting the long-ago memorized St. Crispin’s Day speech from Shakespeare’s Henry V: “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers...”

As I visit my assigned areas I see signs of this camaraderie and kindness everywhere. I went into the isolation wing on my floor, the third floor, as I do daily to check on the staff. I wanted to see if they were ready for more pumpkin bread. 

They weren’t. 

When I entered their break room I saw why.  There was a huge basket overflowing with fruit, cookies, cakes, chips; an enormous box of donuts; a myriad of other good things. 

This glorious largesse had been put together by the nursing staff of another area of the floor wanting to thank their fellow staff on this isolation wing, and the one on the floor above, for their dedication and bravery in being sequestered with the virus-sick. 

Such generosity and kindness!

As I walked towards a group of nursing staff to see if they would like prayer, I saw a tall man with a Jamaican accent who had just come out from cleaning one of the Corona virus patient’s rooms. 

“How are you?” I said. “Are you doing alright? How are you feeling” 

His eyes crinkled at the corners as though he was smiling widely under his cloth mask. 

“How are you?” He said looking down at me from his great height. His eyes were kind. 

“You get to look out for and pray for everyone else.  So I want to know. How are you?”

Moved by his genuine concern I melted into a puddle all over his recently shined floor. 

The staff on my isolation wing are grateful that there has been a recent decline in the number of patients they are looking after. They see it as a welcome pause before the next wave - a time to catch their breaths. 

“The prayer is working!” Said one. “Amen!” another agreed. 

I told them about St. John the Evangelist church, five minutes from the hospital in the historic part of Frederick, (known as the City of Clustered Spires because of the close proximity of its beautiful old churches.) 

St. John’s has the tallest bell tower, which has just been lovingly restored. It is the one you first see when you drive into town. Every night until the end of the pandemic St. John’s have committed to flooding their tower with blue light to remind everyone who sees it to pray for those who are on the front lines of the Covid-19 war. 

“So you are being prayed for by many people” I said. 

Their smiles of gratitude tinged with relief are engraved on my heart. 

The stress really is palpable in every area of the hospital and felt by everyone, not just those working in the ICUs and isolation wings. 

A security guard told me in passing he had to exercise discipline to take only one blood pressure pill a day. Several who heard him sympathized, nodding knowingly.  

Alongside the stress is a guarded relief that the feared surge has not yet come. As of Thursday night we had twenty four confirmed virus patients, thirteen of whom were in the ICU on ventilators, and three who were sealed off under investigation. 

The hospital has now sourced chemicals enabling them to process virus tests that come both from their drive-by sites and from within their walls. 

That means that instead of waiting for up to ten days to get results from seriously log-jammed outside laboratories the  results can be had within 24 hours - sometimes quicker. This prevents unnecessary use of PPE - and gives the patient and their families great relief. 

There is a new ritual for when a patient is declared Covid-19 free and sprung from the isolation wings. Music is played on the overhead speakers. The opening notes of a lullaby are always heard when a baby is born. Now, in addition, we are getting bursts of the theme tune from “Rocky” or “Here Comes The Sun” and we rejoice that another patient is on the far side of their virus nightmare.

There is one patient, dear to many of our hearts, that we are longing to hear has kicked Coronavirus to the curb. A truly wonderful nurse practitioner in the Hospice program, whom I adore, has tested positive and is recovering at home where she lives alone. This former army nurse is one of the most vibrant, loving genuine people I know. She lives nearby. So of course I dropped off a still warm, prayed-over loaf of pumpkin bread, and hearty chicken soup outside her closed front door.

This Nurse Practitioner wants to heal quickly, and build immunity, so she can return and continue caring for dying Covid-19 patients. 

She and her fellow Hospice nurses are the most incredible human beings. 

They are frightened  - or at least wary - of the virus, but they gown up (grateful that the dwindling supply hasn’t completely petered out) and go and minister love and compassion regardless. 

One of their patients loved Elvis. She wanted to hear his music one last time. So the hospice nurse held her hand and sang his songs as the patient transitioned into death. 

That is love in action!

Needless to say the second loaf of pumpkin bread went to the hospice nurses this week. Such a tiny tribute for a group who give so much. 

There is a Service Excellence Team at the hospital who are doing their best to make all the staff feel valued and loved. We have no physiotherapy patients at the moment so they have emptied out the equipment that is normally in their gym and have turned it into a “Zen Den.” The lights are low, soft relaxing music plays, reclining massage chairs, rocking chairs and foot massagers are all ready to be wiped down with disinfectant before use and enjoyed. They have placed writing and meditation prompts in there as well as refreshments and aromatherapy sprays. It is there for any member of staff who needs a Time Out from anxiety. 

This team have also placed placards by the time clocks. One says: “This Is Where Heroes Clock In” Another - “You Make The World A Better Place”. 

It is all kindness and comradeship in action. 

The other day I had seen two dying patients in a row. They were non-virus patients who were well below their biblical allotted span. They were long, emotional, meaningful visits. One was grieving because it was the first time she had ever been away from her home-schooled children, realizing that her absence would soon be permanent. 

The other was hoping to return home to die. 

He was scheduling his friends to come and see him for short visits so he could say goodbye. He was going to insist that each of them take a book from his carefully collected library of technical literature when they left. 

“Why not?” He said. I won’t be needing them now.”

After those visits I went for a ten minute break in the Zen Den. I was stretched out in a recliner when an interpreter that I didn’t know came in and smiled at me. She picked up an aromatherapy bottle and said “would you like me to spray you with lavender?

I would. 

She did. 

And then she left. 

Again - kindness. 

Lavender reminds me of my maternal grandmother. I felt safe and cocooned in those memories 

So for those few minutes I lay back and let some of the tension from the hospital that seemed to have gone in my bones flow out of me. 

As I did I realized that this virus season is showing people for who they really are deep down. Surface distractions are gone. At times like these you see people’s essence. 

I am spending my days with a dedicated, skillful team of people who care. Really care. We are being bonded together by a common, invisible enemy. 

We are being supported by an army of people who pray, encourage, love. 

And that is good. Very good. 

It makes me rethink my future. What I want. 

What I will no longer tolerate. 

It also makes me think about a bible story that starts in 1 Samuel 22. 

David, the shepherd boy, psalmist, and future king, was fleeing from King Saul and had to pretend to be a madman to get out of the clutches of one of Saul’s allies, Achish who was King of Gath. In despair David holed up in a stronghold called The Cave of Adullam. Four hundred men “who were in distress, or in debt, or discontented” made their way to him. Together they spent time in isolation, in effectual quarantine from an enemy that seemed too big for them.  But when they emerged this misfit rabble had been transformed. They are referred to later as “David’s Mighty Men” and were known for their bravery and exploits. 

So with us. 

I believe that this quarantine time is honing and testing us. It is a necessary boot camp for what lies ahead. Lessons are being taught that we will need - and could learn no other way. We are being transformed. And although it is hard to endure. It is worth the pain and frustration. 

Or will be. 

And I believe that there will be a real camaraderie between all in this generation who have feared, faced off against, and overcome this virus. At some deep level we will be permanently bonded. 

Shakespeare says it best although he was talking about the Battle of Agincourt, and not an unseen enemy. It is the rest of the quote that I found myself muttering in the hospital’s halls. 

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.”

God be with all of you. We shall fight. We shall endure. We shall overcome. And the new reality will be different but real. Worthwhile. 

May it be filled with peace, grace, and fulfilled dreams. 

For all of us. 

Amen!