The most recent module in my Mindfulness Meditation Teacher Certification Program concerned death and dying. It hearkened back to the training and clinical experience I received as a hospital chaplain. And I recalled stories that have stayed with me ever since.

The hospital’s policy called for the presence of a chaplain at every code blue and death. I took the first 24-hour shift among my peer group during which I was summoned to three deaths all with mourners my age – a wife saying good-bye to her husband, siblings witnessing the passing of a parent, and a sister at the bedside of her brother. I was anxious about doing and saying the right thing and a little triggered at being present in circumstances that could easily have been my own. Yet once I found myself in the moment, I realized that all I need do was be a loving and caring presence. That was enough.

Some weeks later, a 62-year man entered the ER having suffered what would become a fatal heart attack. He was Pakistani, and his family arrived shortly after he was pronounced dead. The women were dressed in traditional garb, and all but one of the family members were not English speaking. As I entered the ER and too in the scene, I had all kinds of noise going on in my head. I don’t speak their language. I’m not the right faith tradition. They won’t want me to intrude on their privacy. Yet I was duty bound to enter the space and express my condolences. The gentleman’s wife was sitting up by his head and holding his hand. I bent down to her ear and whispered, “I am so very sorry for your loss.” She reached her arm around my head and pulled me close to hers as we both wept. Then it hit me: We’re just two women brought together to share in a common experience of grief. Our differences don’t matter; our care for one another does.

Even families have difficulty knowing what to do at the end. A large one had gathered in the ICU for what was to be the final hour of their beloved patriarch’s life. They stood anxiously in the crowed space waiting for his passing… which didn’t come. As they started to disperse, I asked that they share stories about him. I found out that he loved singing in his church choir. I remembered that we had several hymnals in the chaplain’s office and brought them back to the room. The family selected song after song of his favorites and sang to him. He passed peacefully amidst this choir of angels.

Another gentleman kept vigil at the bedside of his lifelong friend and would not leave until he passed. Neither had family to which they were close, so it was an especially sorrowful time. The staff called for my support as they expected the patient to pass momentarily. Even though it was the end of my shift, I decided to stay until the end. I heard stories of how they met and all the adventures that they’d shared together. They both loved music, and the patient was especially fond of opera. As I was working up several arias at the time in my voice lessons, I sang several of them softly. (I felt silly doing it, but my supervisor suggested that we use all of our gifts in ministry. It seemed to be meaningful in this instance.) Fours hours later, the patient was still with us. I finally had to go home. Fifteen minutes after I left, the man passed and another chaplain provided prayer and support. It was as if the patient wanted to be a good host – or simply enjoyed the stimulation of our spirited conversation – and only departed when things quieted down. I was so sorry that I wasn’t there at the end.

Having been the attending chaplain for over a hundred deaths, I found a sense of peace at being in the midst of grief at the end of life. It helped me be present for my beloved father when he passed in 2016. His health had been faltering for several days and had endured an especially difficult night when I arrived that morning. He held my hand and settled in to his last few hours of life. I whispered in his ear, “You are the best father in the whole world.” With his characteristic sense of humor, he replied, “Are you sure you checked them all?” Those were the last words he spoke. He knew he was loved.

It is our natural tendency to avoid pain and suffering – our own and that of others. We fear wading into those waters, and our anxiety may cause us to try to may the anguish go away. It’s why so many folks rely on platitudes such as: “He’s in a better place.” “God must have wanted her in heaven.” “They wouldn’t want you to be sad.” Yet our hearts break and have their own time for healing and finding solace. What we most need are those who can “sit in the mud” with us. Care, compassion, love. It’s not so hard.