By Sara Smith
When I tell people that I am a chaplain and that I work with the pediatric and neonatal populations, I am greeted with smiles and warm laughter. “What a fun job, you get to snuggle babies and play with children all day!” they sometimes say. Other times I hear, “Pediatrics must be such a great place to work, children bring such joy to the world.” And these people are right 99 percent of the time. I do have a great job. I spend most of my days with babies and children under 12 and their parents. I do get to hold babies sometimes, and most weeks I find myself coloring a picture of a Disney princess or watching part of a movie with a child who is recovering from a recent surgery. I also get to spend time with moms and dads who after three or four days in a hospital room are craving conversation with an adult who is willing to listen and engage. I love my job, and more days than not I leave the hospital with a smile on face.
However, some days are hard. Some days I wish that it was Groundhog Day and we could have another chance to do the day over again. Some days, horrible and unimaginable events take place that leave parents and families in pieces on the hospital floor. Those are the days when being a pediatric chaplain is more difficult than I ever imagined. Yet, in the midst of the pain and suffering something beautiful seems to happen.
One case in particular stands out in my mind. After being born with a genetic condition, a sweet baby was fighting to live. The baby’s parents were hopeful that the child would survive, but their hearts were slowly beginning to realize the inevitable. After a few weeks on the unit the doctors broke the news to the parents that there was nothing else to be done for the child and that in a matter of days the child would pass away. Mom and Dad were devastated and were inconsolable. Social work, family behavioral specialists and the chaplaincy department worked alongside this family as they grieved. They finally decided to send their child to a hospice home where they could spend their last days with the precious little baby that they loved so much.
The next day came and we all helped the family prepare for the transition. Wires and tubes were removed. The parents bathed their baby and put on a brand new set of clothes. Foot molds were taken, and handprints 
were placed on card stock as lasting memories of a life so precious. Prayers were said and blessings were given not only to the child, but also to Mom and Dad. Then the ambulance showed up to transport the family to the hospice house. Before the family left we all gathered around the child’s bed. Family, nurses, myself as the chaplain, the social worker, and the hospice liaison stood shoulder to shoulder and gazed upon a child who didn’t look sick at all. But we knew the prognosis and it wasn’t good.
Yet in that moment the prognosis was lost. In that brief moment all that mattered was that this child and the child’s family was wholly loved. The face of God and the Divine was transfigured before us in the face of an innocent child, formed in a mother’s womb, and set upon this earth to bring joy and love to everyone that interacted with such a gentle and sweet baby. We prayed once more before the family left. And when they were gone and the door closed behind them we all lingered for a few moments in the noisy silence of the unit before having to go back to duties that called our names.
The suffering and heartache of the children and families I work with is balanced with the joy and laughter I also experience each day. However, each time I encounter a child or family that is walking through pain, suffering, or death, my own life is impacted. I never forget those children and their families. Their names and faces are forever engrained on my heart. They make me not only a better chaplain but also a better person. I long for the day when suffering is no longer an emotion the world has to feel. But until then I will move forward with the grace of God as the wind in my sails. I will hold babies, color Disney princesses, watch movies with recovering children, and talk with stir-crazy moms and dads. And when the time comes to enter into a place of suffering with a family, I will enter with the understanding that maybe, just maybe, God will be holding us all together in that unimaginable moment.
Sara Smith is an ordained Baptist minister and a Chaplain Resident at Wake Forest Baptist Medical Center.
