The Ministry of Presence: A New Path for Those Who Grieve with the Suffering and Dying
by Devon Comp
The Ministry of Presence:
A New Path for Those Who Grieve with the Suffering and Dying
by Devon Comp
1.
Whenever I tell someone that I am a professional chaplain in hospice, it is usually only a matter of seconds before I get asked, “So, how do you know what to say to people who are suffering or dying?”
Disappointment usually follows my words: “I honestly don’t. I just show up. Sit with them. Let them know that no matter what, they aren’t alone.”
I wish I could offer a quick fix, some sophisticated and thoughtful string of words in just the right way to immediately steal one’s pain away and stop the spiritual bleeding. But I have come to learn that that’s not the point.
And it’s definitely not possible.
I believe we ask questions like this because underneath the desperate search for answers is an underlying plea for clarity—for control over the crashing waves of fear. If the suffering can be explained away, surely it can be mended. Or maybe if made malleable, then perhaps the pain can be bent and reshaped into something that brings soothing to the ache and a breath of reprieve. And if, in the end, it really cannot be reshaped, then surely it can be escaped, placing distance between suffering and ourselves in a solemn attempt to resist the agony.
More often than not, this is all done with purest intentions and a deep desire to fix the tragedy that is death, but suffering doesn’t work like that. It is a whole new language—a foreign country devoid of instruction manuals or guides, a haunting allure, a magnetic pull, a black hole without the promise of a way out.
In the face of sorrow, kind words offered to those who suffer often clash hard against their ears, clanging like glassware as it shatters across the floor. All too familiar cliches and platitudes reverberate off deaf ears, making doubt a constant companion in the darkness. It is easy to be pulled into the void of another’s pain but incredibly difficult to lift yourself out without being scathed in the ascension. And the remains that lay shattered on the floor cannot be mended; the sharp fragments of glass only leave scars.
Thus, “fixing” cannot be the solution to suffering. Only the fortitude found in the fellowship of community, as well as the integrity built in tears of understanding and words of hope, can comfort the dying. Our simple and profound presence is an unyielding commitment to walk through the pain hand-in-hand with another.
2.
On one particular evening during one of my chaplain shifts, I was paged to the Medical Oncology floor to sit with a patient, Julie, who was informed by her physician that she had a terminal diagnosis and probably had only a few months left to live.
As a chaplain, these are often the situations where I am called to attend. After a patient receives life-altering news, the caregiving staff is forced to delegate to other disciplines in the absence of an established emotional care plan.
In the realm of science, where algorithms and procedures proctor measured results, emotional caregivers dwell in unequivocal ambiguity. So, when patients can no longer be treated medically, the next thought from medical staff is, “We might as well call the chaplain.”
In all fairness, nothing else really can be done in these circumstances but provide space and time for the patient to process the news as years of planned hopes and dreams are snuffed out in an instant.
So, with all of this in mind, I arrived and carefully opened the door to Julie’s room, praying to God that I might be prepared for whatever was on the other side.
Though the hospital room was quite spacious, the air suddenly felt thin, the room claustrophobic. Julie was at the far side, sitting with her back to me on the edge of the hospital bed, looking out the window. The curtains were drawn back, as the moon cast a faint white line alongside the right side of her face, illuminating her as though she were a ghostly spirit.
“Erm… Hi, I’m Devon, a chaplain,” I offered. “I… wanted… to come in and sit with you. Is now an alright time?”
There was no movement. No recognition that I was even in the room. I gently approached, careful not to get too close and startle her. As I rounded the far edge of the bed, I could see into her eyes. They peered forward longingly and trance-like. Though she was sitting before me, I sensed in her mind that she was far, far away. A single tear traced her face, outlining the curvature of her lightly wrinkled cheek where smiling lines had once been etched.
My mind panicked: What do I say? What can I do? Should I smile? Should I leave? I want to leave!
The silence was deafening as my mind wandered each square inch of the four walls comprising her room, looking for anything, any item to strike up a conversation about—or hide behind.
Finally, deep into her silence, Julie extended a hand to me without looking. I took it. Then, she began to weep, hard. Heavy tears poured out of her face as she leaned forward into the weight of her grief—her body convulsing back and forth violently. I felt myself getting nervous, flinchy even, in the uncertainty of the room and its mournful aura.
After what felt like an eternity, she turned to face me, her eyes red and puffy.
“What am I supposed to do now?” she cried.
There was silence again.
A couple of minutes passed.
“I just turned 47 years old! My first grandbaby is on the way! This shouldn’t be happening to me! I’m scared to die. I can’t,” she pleaded.
More crying came.
The space went still once more—the very antithesis of my reeling thoughts, which were reaching far and wide so I might ease Julie’s suffering. Yet there was nothing that came to me.
Ironically, I learned at this moment that the distant shelves, which held wise words, degrees, and Christian platitudes that roll off one’s tongue, no longer held answers for her acute suffering and the finality of death. So, I pressed on in a newfound embodiment and the ministry of presence: “I… Julie, I can’t imagine what you are going through. So, I’m not going to pretend to. All I can say is… I’m so sorry.”
In response, there came a tranquility in her weeping that seemed to unexplainably connect us—a bond made in sorrow and hope and love.
“Can I pray for you?” I asked.
She welcomed my prayer and took both of my hands in hers, squeezing them…
To this day, I don’t remember the exact words of my prayer, or if any of it even came out coherently. But I tried. I begged God to show up powerfully in Julie’s life. I prayed for the nurses and doctors and caregiving staff—that they would be able to perform some kind of miracle for her. I prayed that God’s will would be done in Julie’s life, that she’d sense just how much God loved her and would never leave her side. I prayed and prayed and prayed...
And then I closed with a sincere, “Amen. May it be so.”
After our time together, Julie hugged me as I got ready to leave.
“Chap,” she said, “thanks for being willing to sit with me. You may not be able to take my cancer, but at least I know that I’m not alone. I just needed to know that, and you gave it to me.”
3.
I don’t know what happened to Julie, but I do know her words have stuck with me ever since.
I like to think that she’s still here, that one day I’ll bump into her in the bookstore or the supermarket. Odds are, she isn’t. But her memory will live on with me. And because of her, I vow to show up for as many people as I can, even if I can’t always fix the situation or remove their suffering. I hardly ever can, but I have seen something far greater blossom from the weary ground of sorrow through intentional presence. And that something is called hope.
Romans 5:1-5 tells us this about hope:
“Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.”
What I have learned in my years as a hospital chaplain is this: Presence makes all the difference. Presence is the miracle tonic that can connect, empower, and sustain our wandering souls—tethering them together in love and hope. Presence is what the very incarnation of Jesus was all about—God with us, Immanuel. Becoming human like us, he defined the ministry of presence. He was the living hope in a world riddled with grief and loss.
Our deepest desire—what our being aches for most—is to feel seen and heard. To know we belong to a collective good or some hope-filled plan, to experience the embodiment of companionship in a life that will inevitably give us more grief than we can hold or ever hope to carry; this is what it is to live wholeheartedly.
Psalm 23:4-6 captures these deep desires for comfort on our hardest days:
“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me…Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
I’ll never truly know what to say to those who are suffering. Truly, how could I? But there is one thing I do know: No one was ever meant to endure life alone. If God chose to become human, offering His presence and hope to bring healing and redemption to a hurting world, then perhaps it’s through the gift of presence that divine healing flows.
When You Meet Someone in Deep Grief
by Patricia McKernon Runkle
Slip off your shoes
and set them by the door.
Enter barefoot
this darkened chapel
hollowed by loss
hallowed by sorrow
its grey stone walls
and floor.
You, congregation
of one
are here to listen
not to sing.
Kneel in the back pew.
Make no sound,
let the candles
speak.
DEVON COMP
Devon Comp is a writer, chaplain, and aspiring nurse with his M.Div. and soon-to-be BSN, living in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Having many years in professional healthcare settings, such as hospice, pediatric, geriatric, ERs, ICU, and rehab, Devon writes openly and honestly about the intersection between grief and hope during times of crisis.
Devon resides with his beautiful wife, Lexi, and their three young children, who are the ultimate source of fulfillment in his life.
You can read more from Devon Comp at his Substack: (1) Safe Haven | Devon Comp | Substack.