Stuffed Animals and Everyday Apocalypses
If you follow me on Instagram, you likely noticed a trend on Tuesday nights this past year. At some point I would post a photo of a stuffed animal somewhere in the vicinity of a hospital. When I began my chaplain residency at Vanderbilt, my youngest son was anxious about what I would face while working at a hospital. He was especially concerned about my weekly overnight shifts. So each Tuesday morning, my son would select a stuffed animal to be my Overnight Shift Companion to keep me company. And I would take a picture of that friend at the hospital to let Liam know all was well.
The truth of the matter was a little more complicated. All was well, but there were many nights when I would sit with the dead, dying, and grieving. These are moments that are sacred and a natural part of life yet they are still incredibly difficult. As the year went on, I became more comfortable sharing appropriate glimpses of these hard moments with my boys. And I still kept taking fun pictures of plush friends every Tuesday night. There was room for both.
Our residency cohort—which included a Black Baptist pastor, a Methodist, an Episcopalian from Massachusetts, a Muslim Imam, and a Catholic priest from India—witnessed a great deal of turmoil both inside and outside the hospital. We had many discussions about the various dumpster fires that were going on in our country. Not to be overdramatic, but there was sometimes a foreboding sense that the world was coming crashing down.
I remember one day when I returned to our office of sorts after being with a family who just saw their beloved father die. I sat down at the table. Our group got good at being able to tell when someone had a tough visit and the other resident in the room asked me how I was doing. I sighed and responded, “Someone’s world is always ending in this place.” Not just the literal ends for those who were dying, but the way in which the worlds of those still alive were irrevocably transformed by someone’s absence. There are multiple apocalypses occurring every single day. If for nothing else, I am grateful for my residency for so viscerally reminding me of this simple truth.
The word apocalypse does not actually mean “the end of the world.” That is how it is most commonly used. To put on my Bible nerd hat for a moment, άποκάλυψις means to uncover or to reveal. If you want to get poetic about it, it is the raising of the veil to reveal something that was hidden. We often think of these apocalypses as being conveyed through intense spiritual visions. And it seems they do happen that way. Yet it sure seems like God lifts the veil off of the sacred in our normal everyday lives. We just have to be paying attention.
The hospital is not just a place of dying. There are plenty of worlds being born within in its walls and worlds being healed. I know mine was healed in many ways. Yet the end does seem to loom larger. I remember sitting in rooms filled with profound loss and deep peace, rooms with heavy tears and hearty laughter. The presence of seemingly conflicting emotions was nearly always in the room. And of course they were. Life is joy and despair, hope and loss, healing and hurt. Life is all of these things and more.
These highs and lows can be whiplash-inducing yet they can also be revealing. For me, this past year reminded me of God’s presence in all circumstances. It revealed how our presence with one another is more powerful than than the most eloquent word. It revealed that life is a fragile yet beautiful gift. It revealed more hurt than I could imagine and joy in some of the seemingly most dark places. It revealed so much more and I imagine that I will be sitting with those apocalypses for awhile. I hope they change me. I guess that is the end of a world too and the beginning of another one.