On Sunday on our way home from Bristol, we took communion to a parishioner in the hospital. My spouse talked to him while I was getting set up.
A nurse came to record vital statistics and check on the parishioner patient. I was worried we were in her way and offered to wait until she was done. My spouse, on the other hand, said, "Or you could stay and join us in this small worship service."
She said, "I would love to stay and join you."
I was surprised but forged on ahead. She participated in all but the thimble-full of wine for communion.
After we were finished with our very short service, she said, "Thank you so much. I always miss church when I work on Sundays, and it was nice to do this with you."
I was humbled. I have spent the whole summer in a hospital, after all. I have spent the whole summer trying to train my brain to remember that I may see myself as an unwelcome intrusion in a hospital room, but that may not be the reality. In fact, it's probably not the reality--after all, as a chaplain, I was the only one on the medical team who wasn't there to do an invasive or shame-producing procedure.
My spouse is often better at parts of ministry than I am; he would likely make a better chaplain than I would. But we are getting much older, and the time for these decisions is closing.
This Sunday encounter also made me think about other ministry outreach activities. If that nurse misses her Sunday worship opportunities, there must be others of a similar mind. When we walked into the hospital on Sunday, the lobby was completely vacant. Could we be a ministering presence to people there to visit loved ones? Could we roam the floors, doing "drive-by" communion on foot?
If we were a larger church, perhaps. If I was full-time, looking to make connections to the community, perhaps. It does make me wonder if the hospital has a chaplain, and if so, where was the chaplain?
As always, the idea of the ministry field is only constrained by our imaginations and by our time and energy.
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