Pandemic Parables: The Wheels Turn

Pandemic Parables: The Wheels Turn

Sunday May 24th, 2020

Very slowly, and with some squeaky resistance, the wheels of normality are beginning to turn in the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August.

As a condition for the hospital being able to accept the influx of elective patients needed to increase revenue, Governor Hogan has mandated that certain conditions must be met. One is that all staff and visitors have to have their temperatures checked, and be given a brief interview to ensure lack of Covid-19 symptoms when entering the building.

A huge, thin, white structure has been built in the now slightly less beautiful foyer. We surmise it will be used for testing, but so far it just sits there, elephant like, mysterious. Its two doors are locked.

By now we are all used to building projects sprouting up around us. 

But it is tiring to keep on adjusting.

I saw a department head walking through the foyer and examining this newly emerged structure as she made her way to the elevator.

“So many changes,” she said as her shoulders slumped. “So very many changes.”

From last Tuesday everyone who comes in through the front door or from the ground level staff parking deck passes a checkpoint. The same is true at the only other entrance, which leads directly from the staff parking deck through a tunnel to the second floor of the hospital. Anyone who is symptomatic, or has a temperature of 100 or more is sent home. The rest are given brightly colored wrist bands to wrap around ID badges, a different color each day.

“Ooh, look!” said the Emergency Department Manager when she was handed a bright pink one on the first day. I’m going to a rave!”

We will all be rave-ready for the foreseeable future.

The logistics of having a team present twenty four/seven to take temperatures, and record the information of more than a thousand people who enter the building daily is arduous. The work is particularly intense during shift changes.  All the departments are being asked to take turns being on duty. 

The chaplains are not exempt. 

We have time slots before the end of the month. I don’t know how competent we will be with the thermometers.  

But at least we will be able to pray with anyone who is turned away!

In addition to the testing, large, blue, circular markers have appeared on floors everywhere asking, as yet non-existent visitors, to stand six feet apart. This is another Governor mandated requirement.

Our wonderful CEO said in his weekly video update that he is determined to open in a safe, paced manner. He feels comfortable doing so as the Covid-19 cases have been slightly lower in the hospital. Although they did rise later in the week, after he had recorded his message.

 As of late Friday May 19th we had thirty one virus patients, and seven isolated with them under investigation. And although we mourn the twenty nine Coronavirus patients who have died on the premises since the start of the pandemic, we rejoice at the hundred and fifteen who have been released. 

Hallelluia!

The date set for the hospital activity to start ramping up is June 1st. Although, at the moment we are approaching low levels of exam gloves, surgical gowns, and size small N95 masks, that is the date that nine operating rooms will be back in full swing. One hundred and forty eight cases have already been scheduled, and one hundred and seventy five are next in line. Among this number are limb surgery and replacements, and so on June 1st the isolation wing on the third floor reverts to being an orthopedic wing.

There is rejoicing by some who work in this wing, and a hint of disgruntlement and squeaky resistance on the section to which they will be transferred.

Opening up brings its own set of stresses.

In these days before the reset there is a sense in the hospital that people are holding their breaths. They are tired of changes and so there is a settling into what is. A nesting in a temporary place.

There is also parallel longing to return to familiar routines.

This combination makes for an underlying unsettled tension.

I talked with a senior nurse who said.

“I know it is very difficult that few patients can have visitors, but I’m really glad that in this time of shifting uncertainties that they weren’t here. In some ways it has been a real blessing for us who work here. 

A respite. 

It will be hard to lose that.”

There was a pause for thought, and then they continued.

“But in another way it will be good when the visitors return, although it will be more stressful for us. It’s especially beneficial if the patient is in bad shape. If the family can’t see that their loved one has declined then they often don’t make decisions that are in the patient’s best interests.”

Once a caring, dedicated nurse, always so. Even when exhausted and several months into a pandemic.

The hospice nurses are back in their old offices in 2C, the unit that was closed in case it was needed as a third ICU. I was on my way to see them about a shared patient when I realized that there were two other nurses behind the reception desk.

“You are a wonderful sight,” I said. "This unit has been closed for so long that it is a thrill to see you sitting there.”

“It’s so good to be back,” said one. It’s been hard being away on different floors. I’m relieved to be starting again on a familiar routine”.

“I agree,” said the second. “I’m so glad to be back. I don’t do well with change. I like to know where I’m going every day. I have to have structure. And I’ve been floating. Mind you, I’ve been on the ICU with the Covid-19 patients for much of the time. And I’ve learned such a lot. I’ll be a better nurse because of it.”

I thought of those two nurses throughout the day and wondered if perhaps they symbolize what many of us are going through, outside the hospital as well as within its healing walls.

A longing to return to a regular routine.

And yet a familiarity with, and even, on some days, a gratefulness for our current closeted cocoons.

As for me, I’m even getting to appreciate the Chaplain’s temporary, noisy, carved-from-a-corridor office. It is airy and I sit by a window. 

Neither of those things will be present when we move.

I believe that lessons learned during this secluded time will have changed us in deep rooted ways that will be of great benefit in the life that lies ahead.

May we have cause to look back and say, that as difficult as it was, this season was worth enduring, because of what was formed during its long, dark days.

Many of us are in a time of pause. The time between what was, and what is not quite here yet. The end of isolation is in sight. Some of us are already dabbling our toes in the waters of newly restored liberty. 

And yet there is a reticence about what lies ahead. A fear even.

After all we have no idea what will remain after we emerge blinking into the full sunlight of a post Coronavirus day.

When I went to Bible school in London, many, many years ago, my friends were surprised that I was embarking on such a venture. I told them that I felt like a very large St. Bernard dog that was being completely dipped under the water of new ideas and experiences. When I left, I assured them, I would shake vigorously and what was meant to remain would stay, and the rest would fly away. And so it was.

May it be so for us.

In this extended pause between what was, and what is to be, may we experience fully what we are meant to learn about ourselves, who we are, what we are called to do. What we can and cannot endure. How we want to move forward with our lives.

May we shed like a snake skin, ideas, relationships, and ways of being that we have outgrown. 

May we thoroughly shake off the words, the curses, the ideas that have held us back. 

And may we face the future with courage, fortitude, and newly acquired wisdom.

And when the wheels of life start turning again, and they will. By the grace of God, and because of honing that happened during this time, may we become all we were created to be.

May we fulfill our destinies.

And may we have joy in the journey.

Amen

Pandemic Parables: Reminders

Parable: Reminders

Thursday May 21st 2020

On Monday, in the hospital, where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August, I was flagging at the thought of another week of Pandemic restraints. Thankfully over the last few days I was given several much needed reminders that we will get through the season. 

Truly we will. 

The first one stopped me in my tracks. Literally. 

I was coming back from praying at the end of the Emergency Room morning huddle when I saw a new poster covering the whole of the Respiratory Workroom door. This is a department that has been deeply impacted by Covid-19 as breathing can be seriously affected by the virus. 

Replacing the previous Dr Seus illustration was a beautifully drawn home made sign that said: 

“At the end of the day all you need is hope and strength. Hope that it will get better and strength to hold on until it does.”

“That’s what I should have prayed over the ED team.” I thought. 

“That’s what we all need right now.”

For it is not just me that is flagging. There seems to be a general exhaustion. A longing for this strange, unreal time to be over. 

I greeted one of the charge nurses who I hadn’t seen for a while. She said wistfully, 

“I’ve been off for a few days. I didn’t realize how much pressure I’ve been under until I had time to decompress. I stayed inside so I didn’t have to wear a mask. It is difficult wearing one all day, exhausting. I had three whole days without one. It was hard to come back...”

Later another said nurse said: “At first there were so many changes. So much to take on board. So much to adjust to. It was frightening yes, but exciting also. That stage is gone. This stage is about trudging forward. Just keep on going while longing for the whole thing to be over...”

Even the large cuddly bunny in the barely-lit gift shop window seems to be slumped a little further over every time I go past. 

His tall, basket-carrying, fluffy-tailed, foil wrapped chocolate companions, however, are still perkily resolute. Probably relieved that they haven’t been eaten. 

The shop closed a couple of weeks before Easter and now that season is frozen, never ending in its windows. A constant reminder that once upon a time, glorious church services, new dresses, bonnets, egg rolls and family dinners were part of the celebration of the Resurrection. 

In the flesh. 

Not on Zoom. 

But those joys seems to be an eon ago. 

In a parallel existence. 

The construction around the chaplain’s office also seems to be interminable. Somehow the pandemic and the sound of loud electric drills have become intertwined in my psyche. 

In our psyches. 

However the chaplains have found a wonderful way to get rid of the pressure when it starts to feel overwhelming. 

We stomp. 

Let me explain. 

The Zen Den, the tranquil spot on the third floor designed to ease the stress away from exhausted hospital workers, had a basket of massage balls. The kind that you squeeze in your hand to release tension. They are in the shape of workman’s hard hat. 

Naturally I commandeered one. It now plays an important roll in our office. 

The Pastoral Care team is an international group. Of the ones who are together in the same space daily, three are from Africa and only one of us is American born.  

Somehow I persuaded the other chaplains to stomp repeatedly on this hard hat. Releasing frustrations at both the construction and the virus with grunts and growls. 

We all take a turn. 

It is hilarious!

You have to understand that the other chaplains are distinguished, godly folk, who are remarkably forebearing of this feral Storyteller. This kindness is another proof that showing restraint and good judgment are part of their way of life. 

You wouldn’t think so, however, when that hard hat hits the floor. 

“Take that” cries one, pounding the hat with their beautifully polished shoe, “and that, and that, and that!”

You are under my feet” cries another. “Yes you are! Yes! Yes!”

“Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!” shouts a third. 

And then we giggle and chortle like third graders in recess. 

It helps enormously! 

A few moments of ridiculousness and we are ready to go back onto the floors and minister to the sick and the dying. 

The other morning after one such session,  I was double masked and on my way to the isolation wing when a door flew open. It was in the wall of the all encompassing protective box that seals off the the construction site from the rest of the hospital. Inside I glimpsed stained glass in a door. I leaned in a bit further and before the box door closed I saw walls with that same beautiful decoration. 

It was the chapel!

The beginning of the virus coincided with the start of the construction. Our chapel was sealed off behind the builder’s pre fab walls and we were told it would eventually be in a different place. We didn’t know where. We presumed that the stained glass would stay as part of the pediatric emergency room that is being created daily behind the big white boxes. 

In the meantime we have had a temporary chapel in a sealed off part of the corridor near our office. 

It is not my favorite space. 

It is open at the ceiling, anodyne, uninteresting. I sulk when I see it. 

And then the door swung open briefly and I saw where the new chapel would be. And that it would be beautiful, and familiar, a place of quiet refuge.  It was a glimpse of what was to come. When the door closed, the weary present sparkled with glimmers of hope.

A friend who is a marathon runner likened this season to one of his races. He explained that we sprinted at first, then established a steady rhythm, and now we have hit the wall.  The invisible crushing barrier that needs to be pushed through before long distance runners can continue on and finish the race. 

That picture was reiterated by a Jewish friend, a religious scholar. To my surprise he sent me a New Testament Scripture. It was Galatians 6:9. 

“And let us not grow weary of well doing, for in due season we will reap if we do not give up.”

I started to laugh when I read it because it was so spot on. So absolutely perfect. 

So was the poster on the Respiratory  Therapist’s wall. 

So was the glimpse of what the finished chapel will look like. 

They were all reminders that this season will not endure for ever. The future won’t be in the same shape as the past, it’s true. 

But it will be good. 

Shot through with love, and hope, and grace. 

So to all my fellow weary sojourners. 

Push through! 

We will get through this pandemic marathon’s wall. 

May we all have renewed hope in our core, and the strength to hold on. Knowing in ever deepening ways that the God who has made a way for us in our past is already in our future. 

And that means that everything will be alright. 

More than alright. 

It will be good. 

Amen.

Pandemic Parables: Gratitude

Pandemic Parables: Gratitude

This week was National Healthcare Week and messages of support and gratitude flowed in and around the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. 

A banner was hung at the entrance to the staff parking garage, “Thank You To Our Shining Stars.” It gave me a ridiculous surge of pleasure every time I drove past. 

There were contests to be entered and prizes to be won. In some of the nursing departments there was an abundance of treats and goodies to be eaten. The CEO of the hospital sent a truly lovely letter of thanks and appreciation to all the staff, giving everyone extra points towards earning gifts from an incentive website.

And then there was the Kona Ice truck. 

This much anticipated, annual, thank you treat visited the hospital’s other sites during the week, and arrived at the main campus on Friday. It was there for a two hour window three times throughout the day so all the shifts could enjoy the shaved-ice-topped-with-syrup goodness. 

It is amazing how such a treat could bring out the inner child in all of us. I was attending the Emergency Department huddle and the competent, caring, ED Manager said that we would hear an overhead announcement when the Kona Ice truck had arrived. 

Anticipatory smiles started to spread. 

Then her words were clipped by a disembodied voice announcing that very same vehicle’s arrival. 

Laughter and a few cheers broke out, and 

for a moment burdens seemed to lift from those tense, exhausted workers as we all reveled in the perfect timing. 

Throughout the two hour lunchtime window, groups of happily chatting, masked, and social distancing workers flowed toward that truck parked outside the main entrance. I went with my fellow chaplain who was astounded that I’d never had a Kona Ice before - that they were not part of my British childhood. 

The day was hot, the humidity was low, and there was a large bubble of joy around that truck. Everyone within its sphere was in a party mood: from the person squirting sanitizer into the hands of those in line; to the department head scattering words of heartfelt thanks; to the staff members eagerly choosing and then comparing their flavors. 

It was as though for a few minutes the pandemic had lifted, and we were plunged into a care-free micro-vacation whisked away on a magic carpet of childhood summer memories and shave ice. 

“How was this different from other years?” 

I asked my fellow Chaplain as we savored the delicious treat back in our temporary office. From an acceptably safe distance I could see that her mouth was stained with dark cherry syrup. 

She thought for a moment, then said. 

“It was similar in many ways. But in the past we all had great fun for the rest of the day seeing what flavor people had chosen. It was clear from the colors on their mouths. This year you can’t see that because of the masks.”

This pandemic seems to have crept into the crooks and crannies of our lives in small but increasingly pervasive ways. 

In this gratitude week in the hospital I am grateful for many things large and small - in addition to being introduced to Kona Ice. 

As of the evening of Friday May 15th, ninety five Covid-19 positive patients have been released from the hospital virus free. Hallelluia! 

There are now adequate supplies of most Personal Protective Equipment, PPE, including N95 masks, although exam gloves are starting to be in short supply. Except for the gloves this is marvelous news. 

Our wonderful hospital CEO, in his ninth weekly Covid-19 video, said he thinks we have crested the hill, a week earlier than he projected. The virus will still be with us going forward but now we will be concentrating on reopening safely. 

And then I got another injection of hope - for which I was immensely grateful. 

When a building project happens in the hospital, large or small, they seal it off so that dust and debris doesn’t get into the hospital’s atmosphere. Temporary, removable white walls are put up that completely enclose the work. I pass a section like that on the second floor a couple of times a day. On Friday those white walls on 2C were gone. The second floor renovations were completed. 

This was one of the areas that was turned into a third ICU in anticipation of a flood of Virus patients. It was not needed. After some remodeling it has now returned to being an area for cancer recovery, and end of life patients. 

I was so grateful that the anticipated surge has not arrived.  

And that I had solid proof that a hospital building project really does come to an end. 

Let me explain. 

The Pastoral Care Department is in the middle of a building zone as a new Pediatric Emergency area is constructed, closer to the regular ED. 

As part of this project our old offices were whisked away from us, and we have been perching in a transitional space until we are rehoused in new quarters. The workmen, their charm, and their power drills have been part of our everyday reality. But it seems that the maze of temporary white walls surrounding us on the ground floor will be gone by the end of first week of June. 

In a passing conversation the Project Manager assured us that the Chaplains will no longer be wandering Gypsies but will be ensconced in the promised land. Or at least the promised offices. 

For which future hope we are relieved and grateful. 

There was one other building change that took me by surprise on Friday. It was on the Isolation Wing that I visit daily. As usual I went through the swing doors that contain warnings not to enter, and then I stopped, confused. 

Was I in the right place? I checked around to make sure. 

I was. But it was looked completely different. 

The floor to ceiling plastic wall with two zips to let people and gurneys in or out had gone. 

It wasn’t there. 

On the virus wing. 

It felt naked. Shocking. Unsafe. 

My jaw dropped and stayed that way, invisible under my double masks. 

I wondered if it was no longer an exclusive Coronavirus area. If the future transition back to being a regular orthopedic wing had happened earlier than anyone had expected. 

I rounded the corner to the reception desk and asked one of the PPE clad nurses:

“What happened? To the plastic wall?  I’m in shock!”

“We all are” she replied. “An air specialist came and tested the area and said we didn’t need it. The vinyl wall was put up through an abundance of caution, but apparently it served no real use, except visual. So it came down.”

I realize now I liked the drama of that wall. The unzipping and zipping was part of the mystique that separated this area from the rest of the hospital world. But the drama-less entry and exit might relieve a layer of stress from those who work full time on that wing.  

And for that I am grateful.

Of all the thanks that flowed throughout this past week, one meant the most to me. And it came from that wing, the Isolation area on the third floor. A white envelope was delivered via inter office mail to my desk. It was addressed to:

“Geraldine Buckley, our Awesome Chaplain!!!”

I melted. 

Inside was a sheet of paper that had a scroll printed on it with large letters saying “Thank You! From FHH 3A”. (The hospital and the floor.) 

Handwritten on it, completely covering the page and margins, were messages from all the staff in that wing. 

In the middle of all their incredible work they had stopped to give gratitude to the many people in the hospital and beyond that had supported them.  

I was so moved to be included. 

To receive an unneeded, but so appreciated thank you for the pumpkin bread, presence, and prayers. 

The sentiments included:

“Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness and support.”

“...We deeply appreciate your kindness. It really means so much to us!”

“Thank you so much, it means more than you know.”

These words and the many others caused me to sit stunned for a long time. 

I’m framing both the page and the envelope. It will be one of my most precious mementos from this extraordinary hospital interlude.

In this week of gratitude in the hospital, I want to thank everyone who has been staying at home. 

Those who have been juggling jobs, and children, and schooling. 

Those living with others, amid boredom,  uncertainty, and fear for the future. 

Those who live by themselves and face daily stretches of alone time without a hug or a shared meal. 

Those who have missed public celebrations of life events: weddings, funerals, life rituals. 

Those who long to be with an elderly parent in a nursing home or a loved one in the hospital. 

Thank you everyone for giving up so many liberties so that others may live. 

So that the hospital is not overwhelmed. 

So that the healthcare workers throughout this nation are able to cope. Just. Mostly. 

Thank you for carrying on in seclusion when you were on your last nerve. And beyond. 

Thank you 

The Lord sees what it has cost you, and as it says in the Good Book, your reward is in His hand. 

In the meantime, in the words of the blessing in Numbers 6. 

“May the Lord bless you and keep you;

May the Lord make His face shine upon you

and be gracious to you,

May the Lord turn His face towards you and give you peace.”

May it be so Lord. 

Amen

Pandemic Parables: The Thaw Begins

Pandemic Parables: The Thaw Begins

In the words of the Beatles song “...it’s been a long, cold, lonely winter” at the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. The number of virus patients within the hospital remains steady, and we are prepared for another surge if that comes after the State reopens, although we fervently pray it does not.  There are signs, though, that the thaw has already very slowly started. 

From tomorrow at 5pm - Friday, May 15th, Governor Hogan has lifted the stay at home order in Maryland enabling many people to go back to work. However to ensure safety within the hospital our wonderful CEO has said that hospital employees working from home will not return for a month and then the situation will be reassessed. 

However a few familiar faces are beginning to reappear. Two social workers who interact closely with the patients are back. 

“It’s good being here again” said one. “But I feel as though I’m on a huge curve to relearn my job. Everything has changed.”

And everything has indeed changed. Technology has inserted itself dramatically into all of our lives. On line conferences, supervisor meetings, and patient-sitting are now everyday occurrences. Those of us who have been here the whole time have adapted to it gradually.
My Social Worker friend plunged in headlong. 

“I see a lot of the Covid-19 patients” the Social Worker continued. And that’s it, I can’t see them. Everything is done by phone or video. It’s exhausting getting back up to speed.”

Another familiar face was the nurse receptionist in Same Day Surgery, which is located in the front foyer. 

“How wonderful to have you back!” I said. "It hasn’t been the same without your cheery face. Have you been at home?”

“No” she said with a grimace. I’ve been on nights. Three twelve hour shifts. I’ve never done nights before and it’s hard to start something new like that when you are forty nine. It was grueling. It’s good to be back.”

I motioned to the scattering of people in the large, comfortable entrance space. 

“It feels so wonderful to have people here. It’s been deserted for weeks because there have been no elective surgeries. I know the Governor has just lifted that ban. This is the first day isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” She said. “We have eight in surgery today, and each person is allowed one person to be with them. We are starting slowly. Normally we have about forty.”

Later, in the Emergency Department, I discovered that there was a new protocol for patients with a disability. 

Everyone coming to the ED can have one person with them. However if the patient is admitted their companion has to leave as visitors are not allowed on the floors, with a few exceptions including an end of life situation. 

Now, if a patient with a disability is admitted, the person who accompanied them to the hospital is allowed to remain by their side throughout their stay.  

The floors have been devoid of visitors for weeks. 

The thaw is slowly starting. 

But with the changes come, well, changes. 

With more elective surgeries there will be an increase of patients in the hospital. 

I was told by a knowledgeable nurse friend that the dedicated Isolation Wing on the third floor - my floor - will probably be disbanded at the beginning of June. The virus patients will be moved to another part of the floor - my nurse friend’s section - and they will be put in isolation rooms amid the general population. 

“What is now the Isolation Wing usually specializes in helping people recover from orthopedic surgery.” My nurse friend explained. “With the increase in elective surgeries their expertise is really needed.

I get it, but I don’t like it.”

Later that morning, on my daily visit to the Isolation Wing, I talked to the wonderful Nurse Manager there who said that they would likely be returning to their normal orthopedic workload around June 1st. 

She told me that this date - indeed the plan - was still fluid. 

“How do you feel about that?” I asked. 

“ I see why there is a need” she said thoughtfully. But I really wanted to finish what we’d started here.”

I sensed her sadness. 

“Will it be a relief to no longer be in isolation dealing with Covid positive patients exclusively” I asked. 

“I thought it would be.” She said. “but surprisingly, no.”

I thought of something else. 

“How will your team go from being under the stress and tension of being sequestered away here on the Isolation Wing one day, to being an open unit the next? Won’t it be like divers coming up from the depths. If they don’t do it in stages won’t they get the bends?”

“That’s right.” She replied. “It will really hard. I’m going to have to give a transition plan some real thought,” 

And she will. This is a leader who truly loves and cares for her staff, and she is admired, respected, and loved in return. 

The picture of the diver having to come up to the surface slowly kept returning to my mind. I saw that it was not just true for the staff of the Isolation Unit, but, to a perhaps lesser extent, everyone who was working in the hospital from the CEO to the janitorial staff. 

We have all been living in a sealed off world filled with tension, rapid changes, and great uncertainty.  

Even though we have longed for a return to normalcy it might take us all more time than we anticipate to emotionally recover from these Coronavirus encrusted days. 

I know that is true for me. 

In many ways I feel out of sync with my friends who have been sheltering at home. It feels as though when life once again has liberty they will burst out of their doors refreshed and raring to go, and I will crawl back through mine, collapse into bed and sleep. 

But perhaps we are all closer than I think and the picture of that diver is true for all of us, wherever we work, live, or play. 

People throughout the globe have endured a traumatic time filled with stress, tension, vigilance, and fear.  Our worlds have been turned upside down. 

Perhaps we should take care to turn them right side up again gently. 

May the good things  that have come on this forced retreat, remain. 

May the unity, love, generosity, and creativity that have been seen everywhere during this long, cold, lonely winter be still with us when the thaw comes. 

And when the ice finally melts, and the rivers of life are once again in full flood may we see and live the words spoken by Amos so many years ago. A cry that has sustained countless people with hope throughout the centuries. 

“..let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream. “

If that heart cry is fulfilled  in the Spring, then this hard Winter will have been worth enduring. 

Oh Lord. Let it be so. 

Amen.

Pandemic Parables: Open Doors

Sunday May 10th 2020

Pandemic Parables: Open Doors

Every week day, with a few exceptions, I go for a lunchtime walk around the beautiful, but empty campus of Hood College. It is just behind the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. 

A few days ago a side door to one of the halls, a door that is always locked, was wide open. The next day it was propped open again. On both days the front door remained closed. On Friday, in a different building, a door that is always shut, was ajar, letting the Spring air blow through the student-less building.

For me those doors were a symbol of change about to happen in our lives. 

The breeze wafting through them represented the liberty that lies ahead after a long, hard, confined winter. 

In the hospital we are all so ready for that breeze of hope, for change, for freedom. 

The staff is battle weary. 

After one day when there was an increase of Covid patients on the isolation wing on the third floor the always upbeat, gentle, kind-hearted secretary was unusually quiet. Her eyes were downcast and her head drooped. 

“What is it?” I said. “You look so sad.”

“How are you feeling?”

“There has to be a light at the end of this tunnel” she responded. 

“I get it.“  I said. 

“You are exhausted and you just want to have hope that all this really will end at some point. Is that it?”

“Yes.” She nodded in agreement. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

Later that day on a non virus wing of the floor a wise, senior, unflappable charge nurse said. 

“I feel so emotional. I find myself crying easily. Even the smallest thing sets me off.”

I smiled wistfully, understanding. 

The same thing is happening to me. 

Someone sent me a song with images of nurses in an Emergency Department that was the twin of ours. 

After seeing those exhausted medical personnel, I  found myself gently weeping. 

On Friday three planes from the Maryland National Air Guard flew in a large circle around the hospital complex to honor those working within. 

I had to swallow hard to stop from crying. 

Saturday May 9th was my birthday and I often found myself close to tears because of the many acts of kindness and generosity that peppered my day. 

Yes, I understand how the charge nurse felt.  I think many in, and indeed outside, the hospital are feeling the same way. 

She carried on. “Of course it doesn’t help wearing these all day, motioning to the N95 and cloth mask covering her face. It means we are breathing in our own Carbon Dioxide. I wonder how much that affects us all.”

I had never thought of that!

I am only double masked when I’m on the floors. Otherwise I wear a cloth mask only. 

I find the N95 to be annoying, tight, and uncomfortable. And to wear both together is unbearable. I do it anyway though. 

The nurses feel the same way. But in these virus times, they have to double mask all day. 

I learned that they are advised to go outside, take the mask off, and breathe deeply in their breaks. But all the exits are closed except for emergency room and front foyer. 

That is a long trek for many of them. 

And sometimes they have to work through breaks...

But there is hope. 

Like the breath of spring coming in through the open doors on my walks, the end does seem to be finally appearing over the horizon. 

Although at times you need binoculars to see it. 

Our wonderful hospital CEO released a new video on Friday saying that we are in the eighth week of what he always thought would be a ten week journey until the virus peaked. 

It seems as though we are right on track. 

He reminded us that the virus would still be present in the hospital after the hill had been crested but at least we’d have a clearer picture of the finishing line. 

This gives hope to the battle weary. 

The numbers of virus patients in the hospital remains steady. As of today, Sunday May 10th at noon, thirty three are in isolation with another two under investigation. 

However eighty three have now beaten the virus and have been released. Celebration Walks are happening several times a day. Glory!

The winds of change are definitely starting to blow. 

Since the beginning of the virus the hospital has been operating at a sixty percent capacity, according to the CEO. 

On Friday Governor Hogan announced elective surgeries can start again, ahead of his original projection. Our first ones are scheduled for Wednesday and from then on the hospital will start to get busier. 

Then there are other changes. Beginning this coming week everyone who comes into the hospital, patient or staff will have their temperatures checked. (All patients are currently tested for the virus whether they are showing symptoms or not.) 

A friend who lives in Hong Kong was surprised that temperature checking wasn’t already happening at the hospital. 

“Here in Hong Kong I’m tested about nine times a day.” He said during a phone chat. 

“When I enter and leave my apartment, the same at work, and I’m tested again when I go into a supermarket or restaurant. Checks are automic here. They have become a way of life.”

It makes me wonder what temporary changes we have seen happen in our lives during this virus season, will become permanent.

I began to think of those doors at Hood College.  The closed front doors and the side doors flung open. 

I feel that by the end of this pandemic - and it will come to an end - our lives will have permanently changed. 

In many ways for the better, although we might not realize that at first. 

Things and people we always thought would be there will have disappeared. And new friendships and undreamed of opportunities will open. 

It will be as though our lives have been picked up, have been turned, and then set back down again. What was the front door no longer opens, but a side door is flung wide letting in love, light and opportunity. 

So in these almost, but not quite days. 

Days where we sense we are coming into a new phase of the war against Coronavirus, but are not there yet. 

May we have the strength, courage, and resilience to hold firm and continue doing what needs to be done to get to the other side of this virus season. 

May we be released from people and situations that have hindered us. And may doors be locked behind them to prevent re-entry. 

And may unusual doors be flung open before us, side doors leading to fulfillment, grace, love and deep abiding peace. 

Doors that would simply never have been opened without this virus. 

May we become all that we were created to be. 

Indeed may we become fully and gloriously alive. 

May that happen for you. 

May it happen for me. 

More wonderfully than we could dream or imagine. 

Amen.