the plant

in my experience, a hospital chapel is a place for weeping and gnashing of teeth. it’s also a place to beg for miracles that probably aren’t going to happen.

this morning, as usual, i go there to retrieve something from a locked closet. it’s part of my daily routine as a chaplain.

i can feel the man turn and look at me from the front pew, but out of respect i avoid eye contact. when i walked in he was sitting upright and staring straight ahead, either deep in thought or in silent prayer.

he does not strike me as a normal chapel resident. regardless, i conclude he shouldn’t be disturbed so i do my thing and turn to walk out.

“do you want to hear a story?”

the man is now walking in my direction and eager to share what’s on his mind. he approaches as a friend and disarms my instinct to avoid contact. his smile says, “howdy do!” and has eyes that twinkle like stars at night despite the suffering going on elsewhere in the building.

i like him.

i say nothing in response, but that’s ok because he has a message for my ears and soul.

"five years ago i had cancer and used to go to the chapel all the time, whenever i could. god was really good to me.”

there’s no need to respond. it doesn’t even cross my mind. my role is to listen.

“god is really good to me.”

i notice the change from past to present tense.

he says he lives in town and comes here often. a regular attender of a place that’s normally only frequented by mourners and those who are afraid. like the people i just visited.

i like this man.

the inside of me exhales as i look at his face and watch his lips move. it is as though he is wearing the badge, not me.

"sometimes when i come here, i put a little water in the planter."

he turns and gestures to a large-leafed green houseplant sitting on a table next to the altar.

he’s sharing a secret with me, a secret that tastes good.

i can feel the smile of satisfaction rising on my face; it’s the only communication i can muster in the moment. i begin to feel guilty for not saying anything, but his words pierced my armor and accomplished their mission. i’m paralyzed with contentment.

he starts to turn around and go back to the pew, but i reach out to shake his hand. it also feels like the right time to finally speak.

“i’m glad god has been good to you.”

he welcomes my gesture and embraces my hand. then i repeat myself.

“i’m glad god has been good to you.”

these are the only words that come out of my mouth. he delivered the message i needed to hear, and i am grateful. surely he sees it in my eyes, if not my voice.

he apparently does, because he turns around and goes back to his pew. the regular visitor to the chapel is now once again sitting upright and staring straight ahead, either in deep thought or in silent prayer.

i think about pointing out that two of the leaves on the plant are brown and wrinkled. but i decide not to.

instead, i think about his cancer being in remission and his intense desire to keep the plant well-watered and alive.

so, i leave him to do whatever he is doing and go on with the rest of my day.

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