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one day all would be made clear.
    Alice Whitethorn was rolling a pencil back and forth between her fingers as she spoke. Olympia noted that her fingernails were badly bitten. She told the group she wasn’t sure about ordination yet and hoped that the chaplaincy program here at Mercy would help her with that decision.
    “This is my first time working with children who are so sick, Sister. I think this is going to be much harder than I thought.”  She shook her head and drew in a quick breath. “They didn’t cover this in seminary. They’re all so sweet—the children, that is—and the charge nurse told me today that some of them might not live.” Then she raised her head and looked directly at Sister Patrick. “I just hope I can do it.”
    “Thank you for being so honest with us, Alice. It will be hard work, I promise you, but you’re not doing it alone. Part of the responsibility of your cohort group, these people sitting around you, is to pastor and support one another through the rough spots. We’ll be chaplains to one another as well as to the patients on your units. You will form a powerful bond with one another.”
    Timothea nodded what might have been approval but said nothing.
    Jenny Abelard told them all that in three years she would probably still be working with homeless and abused women, maybe in a prison setting, or maybe she’d stay on where she was in the South End. She went on to say that her first day on Med/Surg floor was okay. She got lost twice and managed to get back to where she belonged, but it really bothered her to hear one old woman calling over and over for her mother.
    “I tried talking to her,” said Jenny, “but it was like she didn’t even know I was in the room. I don’t know if I did the right thing or not. I just stood by the bed and read a couple of Psalms. The nurse up there told me to; she said it usually  calmed her down for a little while.”
    “You were a loving presence, Jenny,” said Sister Patrick. “Sometimes, that’s all we can be. Did it help?”
    “For about five minutes, Sister, then she started up yelling again.”
    “You did your best,” said Sister Patrick.
    Joel Silverstein told the group that his first day on the ICU had been a little disconcerting. “There didn’t seem to be much I could do. They were so sick and so uncomfortable. Most of the patients didn’t even know I was there. Finally, one of the nurses gave me a beeper and told me to go downstairs to the Med/Surg unit and visit people there, and if I was needed, she’d beep me.”
    “How did that work out?” asked the nun.
    “Well, at least I felt like I was doing something.”
    “I’ll talk to the nurse-manager of the ICU.  If you think you can do it, we might just continue with a split duty. We do that sometimes, and I think it makes sense for you. Come see me in my office before you start tomorrow, okay?”
    “Yes, Sister.”
    Sister Patrick looked across the table at Olympia.
    “Olympia, where do you think you might be three years from now?”
    For the last hour Olympia had been struggling with how much to tell these people. Trust was an important aspect of this whole experience. She certainly trusted Sister Patrick, and she wanted to extend that to the others; but she knew that with intimacy comes responsibility. If you reveal too much, you open yourself up to being hurt, or worse, betrayed. Do I tell them about my daughter Laura and my new granddaughter, the child that was born in a hospital across the street just a little over a month ago?
    Olympia sat up straighter in her chair before speaking.
    “I think I said before that one of the reasons I’m doing this is because I’m in transition. I really don’t know where my ministry will take me or, for that matter, where I will take it. I know I like teaching, but I also know that is a little removed from true pastoral ministry. So I guess the answer is, stay tuned.” 
    A tiny frisson of laughter rippled around the table