Pull Up A Chair.

Life updates and warm tea

Hi.

This post will be formatted slightly differently than any of my other posts, but I needed to write it to be transparent and honest with you. If existential crises, mixed-up emotions, depression, grief, and wrestling with purpose oddly sound like your cup of tea, well then I’d invite you to pull up a chair, cozy on in, and join me for a bit. I promise not to waste your time with mundane jargon or cast us deep into the sea of turmoil without a lifevest. No, this is just me being me, probably sounding exactly how I sound when I speak (at least that’s my hope here).

If only this guy knew how much his life would be a-changin’

Okay, is your tea warm?

Cushioned chair occupied?

Good.

Then here goes:

December has been so hard.

Let me preface this a bit:

In August of 2023, I began taking prerequisite classes to enroll in the Accelerated Nursing Program at my alma mater. To be honest, I had always considered becoming a nurse (as I was frequently surrounded by them during my tenure as a Chaplain), but was always too afraid to take the leap. For one, I am not particularly gifted in the sciences; I struggled in General Biology in college and absolutely hated the labs (loathed might actually be a closer adjective). Two, I enjoyed being shrouded by mystery in the eyes of my peers whenever I would proudly state that I was, in fact, a Chaplain. What does that mean and what do Chaplains do? To this day… I’m not entirely sure. It really varies. They are sojourners of hope, little lamps of light, or sometimes just a simple friend to get you through a tough time (among many, many other things).

But anyway,

Once upon a time ago I got my Bachelor of Arts degree in Theology/Biblical Studies, an M.Div (Master of Divinity for those not versed in theological degrees), and have around six and a half years of relevant, on-the-job experience in everything from pediatric to geriatric spiritual care. These experiences shaped my ministry and were pivotal moments in my maturation. Sometimes I feel like the vocation of Chaplaincy is one of a speed tunnel—you step in thinking you know how the world works and have all these beautiful little ideas of how you might inspire your patients, but once you step in you are violently sucked into a vacuum of mach 1 suffering where you, your theology, and your ideas of the world are either thrown out completely or radically changed forever. You can step into the void of Chaplaincy, but I guarantee you won’t be the same person when you step back out.

Ahh, nursing, yes. I almost forgot:

So, I carefully continued working on online courses for qualification including Microbiology, Introduction to General Chemistry, Anatomy & Physiology (I & II), Nutrition, and Organic Chemistry, and miraculously, excelled. Don’t get me wrong, I studied my butt off, but I genuinely impressed myself by getting passing marks in each class. Around April, I was accepted into the program, slated to start January 2nd, 2025 (that’s like two and a half weeks away at the time of writing this, mind you).

But then the doubt came. Do I really see myself doing nursing? Will I even be a good nurse? Am I abandoning full-time ministry for the sake of money and more vocational opportunities? Am I moving outside of God’s purpose for my life by not trusting Him with Chaplaincy? What if I make no friends or get made fun of or harassed on the floor? What if I get into the program only to flunk out? Will people still read my writing once I’m not simply, ‘the Chaplain’ anymore? I became completely and unequivocally determined that I had made a mistake and that I was letting go of something absolutely incredible in Chaplaincy.

Because if I’m being honest (and really trying not to sound braggy) I know I’m a good Chaplain. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. I say that not because of my own prestige or obtained intellect, but because I genuinely believe I was gifted by God in it. Not every time, but more often than not I connect easily with others and find no difficulty stepping into rooms filled with weeping, sadness, or death. More so, in those settings, I feel like I become acutely attuned to my surroundings and can pick up on the energy of the room. It’s an odd superpower (again, a gift. I’m sure of it) that reveals itself most in that kind of setting.

This was a very kind (and out of the blue) gift to encourage me from one of my coworkers

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And hardest of all, I absolutely adore the people I work with. Together, we have navigated an uncharted ocean of mortality—wading through the depths of pain and loss to bring peace and healing to our community. They are more than colleagues; they are family. I trusted them enough to place my grandfather under our care before his passing in 2022, knowing he would be treated with compassion and dignity.

When I graduated with my M.Div, my coworkers celebrated with me, attending the ceremony and cheering me on. And when I faced challenges with my mental health in 2023, they reached out to me daily, extending their love and support—not just to me but to my wife, who was juggling the care of our toddler and newborn son.

To say I love them and will miss them dearly feels insufficient. My colleagues have left an indelible mark on my soul. I will carry their love and lessons with me always, striving to love others as they have so beautifully loved me.

Let me share something I’ve come to understand through the many roles I’ve held: when you journey through trauma and grief with others, the bond you forge is far deeper than anything built by mere collaboration. In the service industry, selling coffee and crafting lattes, coworkers drifted in and out of my life like passing ships. Their departures rarely left more than a ripple in my heart.

But in healthcare, everything changed. I found myself standing shoulder to shoulder with others, bearing witness to the sacred dance of life and death. Every end-of-life case became a shared chapter in our collective humanity, a testament to divine calling and compassion. In those moments, I discovered that grief doesn’t just tear us apart—it weaves us together, uniting us in the fragile, beautiful truth of what it means to be mortal.

It was so easy to dream of going back to school and growing professionally, but once the reality closed in, the stark reality of leaving became a well-placed arrow that pierced my heart. I’m not sure it’ll heal.

And I don’t want to leave. Not yet.

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A couple of weeks ago, I was presented with a different job within the same organization. It gave me the chance to stay with the same team by working more on the education and marketing side of hospice. Initially, I was over the moon. Intentional relationships have always been a core value of mine, so when the potential came for me to continue working with the team while building rapport with different clients, I felt adequately qualified.

So I interviewed. And I honestly thought it went incredibly well, all things considered.

But something inside of me still didn’t feel right.

During a time of prayer, I had a vivid illustration come to mind (something I don’t often have). It was Jesus standing on the stormy waves with His hand outstretched. But it wasn’t Peter walking on the water to meet Him… it was me… in dark blue scrubs that matched the crashing waters. Jesus spoke to me clearly in the vision, “Look at me, don’t look down, don’t look away. Look at me.”

I later found out I didn’t get the marketing job. The finality in my approaching last day stung deep, but behind it was a calm sense of peace. “Look at me, don’t look down, don’t look away. Look at me.”

Something inside of me always knew. In my frantic desire to remain with my coworkers while running from the intimate encounters of sitting at bedside with the sick and dying, God’s voice was unmistakable. He was calling me back while also telling me to let go, all in one sweeping motion. Back into the rooms with the terminally ill, but in a different capacity.

My feelings of inadequacy and unease about pursuing something like nursing, instead of staying in the areas where I already knew I excelled, became the fertile soil God used to cultivate something greater within me. It was His work all along, preparing me for a purpose I had yet to fully grasp.

He was asking me to relinquish all control so that He could be the one to equip me. My prowess was meaningless, His the turning key of faith, a cornerstone of hope, a beacon of purpose. Not for my will to be done, but fully and transparently Him working through me to care for each patient I will inevitably be presented with in my future vocation.

I will still be a Chaplain, just in a brand new way.

My enrollment into the Accelerated Nursing Program is complete. Paperwork signed. Stethoscope and textbooks ordered. Class starts January 2nd, whether I’m ready or not.

The time shall pass anyway, might as well get on the train.

Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?”

And I said, “Here am I. Send me!”

-Isaiah 6:8