Nick (from All Things Considered)
Monday, May 26, 2003
Listen to this piece through NPR.
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I wasn't a very good hospital chaplain. For one thing, I fainted a lot. When hospital personnel faint, patients tend to get worried.
So you can well imagine my surprise when I did not faint upon making the acquaintance of Jacqueline, a 2-year-old girl whose skull was nearly split in two as a result of a high chair fall. Nor did I faint a few minutes later when Jacqueline's father, Nick, ran into the Emergency Department screaming incoherently, covered in his daughter's blood.
Instead of fainting, I introduced myself and escorted Nick to the family room, a windowless square with the only comfortable couches in the entire hospital. People only received one kind of news in the family room, and it was of the variety that begged for windowless privacy and soft couch comfort.
Nick calmed down almost immediately. "Did they call her mama?" Nick asked. I assured him she was on her way. "I reckon Jackie's gonna have to spend the night?" he asked me, and although I suspected Jacqueline would not have another night to spend, I could only say I didn't know.
We prayed then. I held his bloody hands and thought, 'I should really put on gloves,' but it seemed ritually inappropriate, so we prayed with only her blood between us. As I asked God for comfort and healing, Nick sobbed, and I felt for a moment like a good chaplain.
When I said "Amen," he started his own prayer. "Lord mercy Lord mercy Lord mercy," and then he began thrusting the back of his head against the wall above the couch. "Lord mercy Lord mercy."
He stopped, and turned around. "She fell! It was an accident!" And then all at once, I knew it wasn't an accident. "She fell! It's like I told them paramedics. Oh, Lord mercy." I wondered for whom he was praying.
I abandoned my dream of ordained ministry shortly after reading about Nick's confession in the newspaper. I hated Nick, and while good chaplains can faint, maybe, they cannot hate. They can't spend their idle hours fantasizing about killing one of the people for whom they are supposed to be praying. Good chaplains want peace and reconciliation for everyone, because they know that hope is either universal or nonexistent.
Until I met Nick, I always had faith in the possibility of redemption, but no one could save Nick, and I didn't want him to be redeemed. I wanted, and want, Nick to suffer. If I could wish him peace, I could probably be a good chaplain.
I can still hear him pleading with me: "What will I do?" I wish I'd had an answer, but Nick got stuck with the bad chaplain, the one who believes that some sins cannot be washed away, and that God cannot possibly love both Jacqueline and the man who murdered her.
I wasn't a very good hospital chaplain. For one thing, I fainted a lot. When hospital personnel faint, patients tend to get worried.
So you can well imagine my surprise when I did not faint upon making the acquaintance of Jacqueline, a 2-year-old girl whose skull was nearly split in two as a result of a high chair fall. Nor did I faint a few minutes later when Jacqueline's father, Nick, ran into the Emergency Department screaming incoherently, covered in his daughter's blood.
Instead of fainting, I introduced myself and escorted Nick to the family room, a windowless square with the only comfortable couches in the entire hospital. People only received one kind of news in the family room, and it was of the variety that begged for windowless privacy and soft couch comfort.
Nick calmed down almost immediately. "Did they call her mama?" Nick asked. I assured him she was on her way. "I reckon Jackie's gonna have to spend the night?" he asked me, and although I suspected Jacqueline would not have another night to spend, I could only say I didn't know.
We prayed then. I held his bloody hands and thought, 'I should really put on gloves,' but it seemed ritually inappropriate, so we prayed with only her blood between us. As I asked God for comfort and healing, Nick sobbed, and I felt for a moment like a good chaplain.
When I said "Amen," he started his own prayer. "Lord mercy Lord mercy Lord mercy," and then he began thrusting the back of his head against the wall above the couch. "Lord mercy Lord mercy."
He stopped, and turned around. "She fell! It was an accident!" And then all at once, I knew it wasn't an accident. "She fell! It's like I told them paramedics. Oh, Lord mercy." I wondered for whom he was praying.
I abandoned my dream of ordained ministry shortly after reading about Nick's confession in the newspaper. I hated Nick, and while good chaplains can faint, maybe, they cannot hate. They can't spend their idle hours fantasizing about killing one of the people for whom they are supposed to be praying. Good chaplains want peace and reconciliation for everyone, because they know that hope is either universal or nonexistent.
Until I met Nick, I always had faith in the possibility of redemption, but no one could save Nick, and I didn't want him to be redeemed. I wanted, and want, Nick to suffer. If I could wish him peace, I could probably be a good chaplain.
I can still hear him pleading with me: "What will I do?" I wish I'd had an answer, but Nick got stuck with the bad chaplain, the one who believes that some sins cannot be washed away, and that God cannot possibly love both Jacqueline and the man who murdered her.
