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Everyone has a first real hospital visit. Everyone who makes hospital visits for a living, anyway. Visits with family members don’t count. The grandparent, the child, the parent. I had done those. But when you have a family connection, your focus is on yourself in some way, on your relationships to the patient, on your fear.

By the time I was forty I had been to the ER for my mom’s mini-stroke. I’d visited my dad for a handful of operations. I’d been to three births. I’d even been taken to the ER after passing out while speaking one time.^[1]

But then there is a visit where you’ve not met the patient. Maybe it’s the family of a friend. Maybe it’s the friend of a friend. For me it was Ed.^[2]

Ellen, Ed’s wife, worked with me. We were part of the administrative staff at a college. I had no interest in ministry or chaplaincy or working in a church at that point. After fifteen years, I was prepared to work in higher education for the rest of my career.

One evening, I got a call from our mutual boss. Ed was in the hospital, facing emergency surgery. Nancy and I went to see Ed and Ellen.

Ed was talking, but a little scared. His wife was staying calm, but was scared. Our boss and I were listening, talking, trying to understand.

They said that he had an aortic aneurysm. I had no idea what it was.^[3] I thought aneurysms were in the brain. All I understood is that they were going to do surgery on his heart. I understood that it would be risky. But I also understood that we were able to talk with him. I couldn’t imagine that someone we could chat with could be near death.

I was confused.

Somehow in this room, in a Catholic hospital, with a Catholic sister and a chaplain standing in the room, I ended up being the one praying for the surgeon and for Ed and for my friend. I have no idea what I said. But I remember being aware that it was my job at that moment to offer intercession and comfort.

We went to the waiting room. Some family showed up for Ellen. I made sure that there was money for snacks since Ellen hadn’t eaten in awhile. Nancy and I went home.

Ed didn’t survive the surgery. We went to the funeral, went to the small country cemetery. At some point, Ellen came back to work. And then I left that job and started to work as a pastor.

Most of the moments in my life are fuzzy or forgotten. That night in pre-op is clear. I wasn’t aware of the hospital smells or the hospital equipment. I wasn’t aware of my historic queasiness around needles, the kind that had caused the Red Cross to say, “Let other people donate blood” after I had passed out twice following blood donation. I was completely focused on Ed and Ellen and offering support.

I don’t think that I received my calling to ministry or chaplaincy that night. I heard no voices. But I’m pretty sure that I was given a taste of my future.