An Unholy Mission (2 page)

“The good nun who wrote that letter sounds like a drill sergeant. She’s the last person I want to look stupid in front of.”

“Olympia, something simple in a subdued color, freshly ironed and devoid of cat hair, in which you feel comfortable should do it. Wear what you wear when you preach.”

“I wear my clerical robe,” wailed Olympia. “It covers everything.”

“A bit bulky, I think,” said Frederick.

Two

Three weeks later an anxious, but appropriately dressed, Olympia Brown accepted the cup of coffee Frederick held out to her as she bolted past him in the direction of the living room. She was scrambling around the house trying to locate her notebook and umbrella in preparation for day one of chaplaincy in downtown Boston. Outside the relentless rain poured down, and inside the kitchen clock ticked away the vanishing minutes. At that point it seemed to Olympia that everything that could possibly go wrong was doing so.

The weather was vile. Rain and high winds were predicted to last most of the day. Her ancient VW van was acting its age, and the one business suit she owned that still fit felt like someone else was wearing it. Frederick offered her the use of his beloved canary yellow pickup, but Olympia told him as gently as she could that it was not the image she wished to present on her first day at the hospital. She would cross her fingers for luck and take the van.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Frederick stood back, leaning on the kitchen sink and well out of her flight pattern.

“Other than stopping the rain, turning back the clock and getting me a new car, I don’t think so, but thanks for asking, love. I still have time, but it’s going to be close. I hate rushing like this, and I absolutely can’t be late on day one. It’s mostly first day jitters, I know that. I’ll be a much nicer person when I get home.” Olympia shook her head and smiled apologetically.

“I’ll feed the cats and chill the wine. Any idea when you’ll be back?”

“If this weather keeps up, God only knows. I’ll give you a ring when I’m leaving. Oh, and will you call Jim Sawicki at the rectory and tell him I said yes to the first question, and I’ll need at least a week of lead time before he does.” With that she was off, head bowed against a blast of weather that belonged in a 1920s black and white horror film. Frederick, dear heart that he was, stood in the open doorway, waving and getting drenched, until she turned out of the leaf-strewn driveway and sputtered off down the rain-soaked street.

The Reverend Doctor, no longer Professor, Olympia Brown was at a turning point in both her personal and professional lives, and it was not surprising she felt tense and unsettled. Last May, after no end of internal debate, she had made the decision to cut her ties with the college where she’d worked for the last twenty-five-plus years and pursue full-time ministry. In that same time frame she’d invited Frederick Watkins, her English gentleman, to move into her antique farmhouse. The house, which had a curious history of its own, was in constant need of repair and restoration and thus offered not only shelter but an ongoing salvage project the two could share in the months (and perhaps years) to come.

Two major life changes in almost as many months and a third, if she counted the delicate white gold diamond ring Frederick had held out to her while kneeling on a bathroom floor on Martha’s Vineyard. Even now, in the rainy gloom with almost nothing for it to reflect, the tiny flicker of light on her left hand reminded her of one more unanswered question: Frederick. She held on to the steering wheel with both hands and lurched along in first and second gears through the storm-stalled traffic on the Southeast Expressway. There was no way in hell she was going to make it on time.

Olympia took pride in her own punctuality and could be less than patient with habitual late-comers. So when the combined elements of bad weather and rush hour traffic prevented her timely arrival on that first day, she was not at her professional best as she galloped toward the Kessler conference room.

“You must be one of the chaplains?”

Startled, Olympia caught her breath and turned to see a man carrying a black leather briefcase hurrying to catch up with her. He was dressed in a dark suit and was wearing an imposing hammered silver cross on a chain around his neck. She had not heard him approaching.

“Y-yes, I am,” said Olympia. “How could you tell?”

“I guess it takes one to know one. I’m glad somebody besides me is going to be late.”

“I’m not so sure I agree with you on that. My mother used to say, ‘Misery likes company,’ but she also said, ‘There’s strength in numbers,’ so one of those two is sure to apply to this situation.”

The man smiled, held out his hand and fell into step close beside her.

“I’m Luther Stuart. I’m planning to be an interfaith hospice minister. And you are?”

Olympia took his hand. “I’m Olympia Brown.”

When they reached the doorway of the glass-walled conference room, Luther pulled open the door and stepped aside so she could enter ahead of him.

Right, let me go first, she thought. That way I can get the dirty looks for being late. I’m starting to dislike you already.

The other four members of the chaplaincy team, along with the Pastoral Care Supervisor, Sister Patrick, were already seated along either side of a long oval table. In the uncomfortable silence Olympia and Luther made their way to the two empty seats. Sister Patrick looked down at her watch before speaking.

“You must be Olympia Brown and Luther Stuart. Come in and get settled. We’re only just getting started.” The nun paused to look around the table at the two men and four women that would be the pastoral care cohort group for the next four months. She was a solid woman, neither fat nor thin, wearing a gray, street-length jumper, a white blouse and a gray shoulder-length veil. Olympia noted the gold wedding band on her left hand.

“Before we begin let me congratulate you one more time on your acceptance to this program. You are an elite group. As I said in your individual letters, I had over fifty applicants for this session. That means slightly fewer than one in eight were accepted.”  She smiled and gave them all a quick nod of approval.

“Starting today, and in fact right now, it will be up to you to see that our longstanding tradition of excellence in faith and practice at Mercy Hospital is carried forward.” Sister Patrick adjusted her glasses and sat straighter in her chair. She was a powerful and direct woman in both speech and manner, but Olympia sensed from looking into her eyes that she was also a woman of wisdom and compassion.

“You must never forget that you are dealing with human beings at their most vulnerable. You will be ministering to people who are gravely ill and, in many cases, actually dying. You will be caring for family members who are trying to come to grips with what is happening to their loved ones and also to themselves. Sometimes even members of the medical staff will seek you out for comfort and spiritual guidance. It goes without saying, but I’ll remind you anyway, pastoral confidence is a sacred privilege. There may be times it will feel like more than you can bear, but that particular act of trust is both the gift and the burden of our religious calling.”

 Sister Patrick paused for a second time and glanced across the table at Luther. He was tracing the letters on the cover of the Bible he’d placed on the table in front of him and nodding agreement.

“Always remember,” she said, spacing her words for maximum impact, “as a hospital chaplain, you are here to serve God. You must never, ever, be tempted to play God.”

“Sister?”

“Yes, Luther.”

“Could we go around the table and say our names?”

Olympia looked at Sister Patrick and thought she saw a flicker of irritation but quickly dismissed it as her own first day nervousness.

“You must be a mind reader. As it happens, that is the next item on my agenda. I’d like each of you to say who you are and a few words about how you think this experience will help your future ministries. You may remain seated.”

Luther started to speak but fell silent when Sister Patrick held up her hand.

The nun turned and looked across the table to Olympia. “Rev. Brown, I’ll ask you to begin, as one who has done this before. It might be a help to the others.”

Olympia wished that the nun hadn’t singled her out but nodded yes, cleared her throat and decided on a minimalist approach. Her mother used to tell her it was better to let people discover who you are over time rather than blasting it all out on impact.

“My name is Olympia Brown, and I’m a Unitarian Universalist minister. Before I say anything else I want to apologize for being late. It is not habitual, I assure you. Six months ago I retired from over twenty-five years of teaching Humanities and Religious Studies at Meriwether College in order to take up pastoral ministry. It’s been a long time since I graduated from seminary, and I thought this would be a good refresher in terms of transition and re-entry to the profession.” She paused and then added, “To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what kind of work I might end up doing, but I do know this is one way to help me work through my own process of discernment.”

 Olympia pushed back her short hair, which was still wet from the dash from the car.

Sister Patrick cleared her throat. “I admire the sincerity and honesty of your intentions, Olympia, but don’t be surprised if you find your experience here at Mercy turns out to be more than a refresher, as you put it. Medicine and the health care system have changed dramatically over the last decade. As I said earlier, we have one of the finest chaplaincy programs in the state, and we’ve earned that reputation through our ongoing commitment to professional integrity and hard work. This has not changed.”

If Olympia felt the sting of a veiled rebuke she accepted it in silence and waited for the next person to speak.

The woman sitting to the left of Olympia was about as big a woman as she had ever seen. She had a deep full voice and introduced herself as Timothea Jones. She told the group she was a single mother of a son, and she wanted an inner-city ministry.

“I got the call when my boy was grown and out of the house.” She made a soft noise at the back of her throat, half hum, half breath, between sentences. “I believe the Lord knew I wasn’t ready to hear him until then.”

Olympia turned and smiled. She felt an immediate kinship with the woman beside her. She, too, had been a single mother for most of her own two sons’ growing up years (and all of her daughter’s), and like Timothea, she had come to her own ministry somewhat later in life.

Seated next to her on the other side was a small, dark-haired woman who introduced herself as Alice Whitethorn. Olympia was desperately trying to lock names and faces into her fifty-plus-year-old brain, and to that end, she was making quick notes on the inside cover of her notebook.

Alice twirled a lock of hair and never looked up while she told everyone she was in her last year of seminary, and when she graduated, she wanted to work with AIDS orphans in Africa somewhere. She went on to say that because she was adopted, she felt a strong calling to help children who were abandoned.

It took everything Olympia had not to jump up and throw her arms around the young idealist. The longing for her firstborn, a daughter, adopted and raised by another mother thirty-five years earlier, was still an open wound. One day she would find a time and a way talk to this young woman.

Timothea hum-grunted an “uh huh” that only Olympia could hear.

 Across the table from Olympia was a woman who introduced herself as Jenny Abelard. She appeared to be about a decade older and whole lot tougher than Alice. She spoke in a raspy smoker’s voice and told everyone she was an ex-convict and recovering alcoholic. “I found Jesus when I was in prison, and now it’s time to give back what I got. It’s been a long road home, and I’m not there yet. Just takin’one day at a time and waitin’ on Jesus to show me the way.”

Timothea nodded with her whole body and hummed her approval in some deep internal register.

When all but two of the new chaplains had spoken, Luther Stuart took his turn. He sat forward in his chair and curled the fingers of his right hand over the cross hanging around his neck. He told them all that he was currently working as a social worker but believed God had now called him to become an interfaith minister and work as a hospice chaplain. He added that he’d been raised and confirmed as a Lutheran but now felt that representing a single denomination was too confining for someone like him.

Timothea leaned back folded her massive arms across her even more massive bosom. This time she didn’t hum but made a noise that sounded like a low growl.

Sister Patrick smiled. “Thank you, Luther. I’m sure this will be a challenging and exciting time for you—for all of us, really.” She turned to the other man in the group who had not yet spoken. “Joel, will you complete the circle of introductions?”

A bearded man of medium height and stature, who appeared to be in his early to mid-forties, stood to speak. He was wearing a black crocheted yarmulke with a thread of silver stitching bordering its circumference.

“My name is Joel Silverstein. I’m a medical doctor and a rabbinical student at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York. I’ll be staying with my wife at my parents’ house in Brookline while I undertake this program of pastoral education. Before beginning my religious studies, I had a family practice outside of Boston; but the longer I practiced medicine, the more I saw the need for something beyond the stethoscope and the prescription pad. When I complete my rabbinical studies, I think I’ll be going into medical ethics, but that’s still a long way off.” He lowered his eyes and smiled modestly. “By the way, I keep kosher, so I’ll be bringing my own food and utensils, but I’m happy to sit with you for meals. Thank you, Sister Patrick.”

Joel Silverstein made a slight nod of his head to the nun at the head of the table and then took his seat.

 Sister Patrick inclined her own head in acknowledgment and began to gather up her papers before addressing her new chaplains.