Call Story

My very long answer to “how did you start doing this work?”

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Frequently I am asked how I got into this line of work. I suspect people are also really asking why on earth would I sign up for this?!

Clergy of all types have our “call stories”—the why and how we pursued our vocation. This is mine.

I was a precocious child, enrapt with all things intense. I especially loved religion. My family attended church and to me, that was where the world made sense. Whether it was participating in youth group, singing in choir or even ringing handbells, I could not get enough. I also read theology books for fun. I was convinced of God’s presence in this world and that my purpose in life was to help God’s people.

I decided the best way to help others was by becoming a doctor. My mother was a nurse and I loved hearing her stories. At fourteen I began volunteering as a candy-striper at the local hospital. Every Monday and Friday, I filled up water pitchers and delivered flowers and magazines. Patients were always delighted to see me because I brought gifts. I thought hospitals were great. And I got a free soda in the cafeteria at the end of a 3-hour shift!

During one shift, I got into an elevator with my flower cart when a surgeon (probably annoyed at my unwieldy cart driving) asked me incredulously, “Why are you doing this?” Taken aback, I mumbled something about wanting to help people and one day go to medical school and become a doctor like him. He scoffed and waved his hand up and down at me, “This isn’t help, this is frosting. If you’re serious about medicine, you should become an EMT.”

So I did. I traded in my red and white striped pinafore for navy cargo pants and steel toed boots and became an EMT. I spent far too many evenings at my town’s volunteer ambulance corps. While waiting for calls, I restocked the rigs, did my math homework and played pool (badly). I learned a lot of curse words and dirty jokes. And I encountered all manner of life and death situations.

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My first call was to a meth den. I passed by this suburban house countless times before, never thinking much of its dilapidated siding and unkempt yard. My youthful naiveté disappeared as soon as I entered the house. I stepped over people lying on bare mattresses on the floor of every room. As we climbed the stairs to get to the patient, the steps collapsed underneath us. My partner sprained an ankle and I learned to always let the police go up the stairs first. When we finally got to the patient, aided by a fire truck ladder to the second-floor window, it was too late. It was probably three days too late. The patient had overdosed. No one had noticed him lying there unmoving for 72 hours.

Bearing witness to suffering soon became second nature.

The first time I did CPR was for a man in his fifties with chest pain. He was talking and joking as we brought him into the back of the ambulance. In the 12 miles between his house and the hospital, his heart stopped. Despite our resuscitation attempts, he died enroute. When we pulled up to the ambulance bay, his wife, who was driving behind us, was confused and screamed at us, “What happened? What did you do to him? He was laughing a few minutes ago!” She wailed and yelled until she crumbled down on the curb. Not knowing what else to do, I sat down on the sidewalk with her and she buried her sobbing face in my arms.

I logged lots of hours treating wounds, taking vitals and administering oxygen. But it felt like the most meaningful work I did was holding people’s hands in the back of the ambulance. Being with patients and families who were scared and asking why.

Why did that car t-bone me?

Why did that branch fall and hit my sister?

Why did he get up on the ladder at his age?

Why is this happening?

I recognized the “whys” for what they were - cries of pain and desperate attempts to find meaning in tragedy.

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And then I became the patient.

I had severe headaches, dizziness and fainting spells. Doctors were baffled. I was dismissed by specialists and referred to psychologists. I was told “It’s all in your head.” Ironically, this wound up being true, just not in the way they meant it. I was eventually correctly diagnosed with generalized epilepsy. 

I was appalled that it took so long to get a diagnosis and the simple tests for that were not done early on. I lost my faith in medicine. During frequent rounds of medication trials and hospitalizations, the medical staff I encountered had awful bedside manners. I wanted them to talk to me, not at me.

Around this same time, a new associate pastor at my church did just that. She took me out to dinner and created space for me to talk about my feelings. About what it was like to lose my driver’s license, my hair and my trust in a profession I revered. About how it was impacting my relationship with God. She allowed me to explore my questions of “why.”  Her listening presence gave me more healing than any of my medical treatments. The first time I received spiritual care spurred me to spend my life providing spiritual care for others

Armed with a new sense of call to help God’s people in a different way, I went to seminary and then social work school. It was always clear to me that church ministry was not my intended path. A preacher, I am not! But I wasn’t sure how or where I was supposed to care for others. 

When I graduated, I worked as a Cognitive Behavioral Therapist in a community mental health center. As a newbie, I did all of the intakes on top of my client caseload. The biopsychosocial assessments were 96 pages long and done by hand (I’m not that old that computers weren’t around then, our city budget was just so meager we couldn’t afford them. I had to bring my own pens with me!) I asked new clients every question imaginable about their life, work, medical issues and family history. On the bottom of page 23 was the question:

“Is faith/spirituality important to you? Y/N”

And if the answer was yes, there was one small line to explain. I wanted to spend all my time on that one question.  

So I returned to the hospital. Not in a pinafore or EMT uniform or patient gown, but an ill-fitting suit and comfortable flat shoes. I started training as a hospital chaplain so I could live in the space of that question - how is spirituality important to you? What is your ultimate concern? I was drawn to be with people as they were searching for answers. To witness the suffering that few could bear to see. To journey alongside people on the worst days of their lives. 

I now teach others how to be with, how to care for, how to journey. All in the hope that it creates a sacred space of healing to help God’s people.

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That’s my calling. What’s yours?

Calling and vocation, while talked a lot about in clergy circles, is not reserved only for the ordained. Anyone can have a story that motivates them to be who they are and do what they do. 

Writer and theologian, Frederick Buechner defines “calling” thusly, 

“The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

What does your own story look like?

Where and how have you been called in your life?

What brings you deep gladness that lines up with the world’s deep hunger?