The story behind this art piece-
Thirteen years. One hundred fifty-six months. Four thousand seven hundred forty five - days (4,745). One hundred thirteen thousand eight hundred eighty - hours (113,880), six million eight hundred thirty-seven thousand four hundred eighty - minutes (6,837,480)
Approximately 7 million minutes estranged. A mother crying, clutching her gold heart necklace curled over her withering son in the ICU bed. An unsure father standing tall and firm in the corner and a new student chaplain called to the room unsure of what to do, overwhelmed with anxiety by the dynamic.
“Do something!” The mother shouted at me. It was like I had been shocked by her shrill command. In my timidity, I gently told her I had seen her son earlier that morning and prayed with him upon his head nod when asked if he wanted prayer. Her eyes lifted and lit up - hope. Her son was unresponsive now, but most likely could still hear (a detail I wish I could go back and share with both the mother and father now).
Because prayer brings me peace, I unconsciously made the choice to blurt out “I could pray again if you’d like.” She frantically shook her head yes. Meanwhile the man in the corner stood in statue form. Shaky and unsure, knowing this was not the answer to this gigantic fracture in a family. I did the only thing I knew to do in this overrun state - I prayed.
Do I think God heard my prayer? Of course. Do I think I could’ve tended to the situation better, looking back - OH MY YES! It could have been beautiful. It could’ve been redemptive. Instead, I cried on the drive home knowing I had failed that family. I cried because of those seven million minutes that were not mended. I found my way to my art studio, turned on music to rattle the walls, took out my brushes and bottles and painted. I auctioned off the tripthych “Love that Mends” and someone in Massachusetts bought it and donated the proceeds to their local hospice. In some way, I hoped and prayed the ripple effect of that was enough. And I vowed to become a competent chaplain knowing how to manage my anxiety when things get intense.
Being a chaplain means being in situations that are sacred and sometimes scary. We walk hospital halls, homes, and we hope. We hope our training is enough, we hope for families, we hope for healing even if that means peace in passing on. We hope for our practice and presence to be “Love that Mends.”
