With each passing hour, my hospitalization became a meeting place with the Lord. Only one obstacle stood in my way, the hours anticipating a pastoral visit from the ministers of my church. I wanted desperately to discuss with them what God was teaching me; what He wanted me to do. No one came; disappointment overshadowed the open line of communication with my Heavenly Father. Oh, Roger, Susie, the kids and my best friend Sharon visited, but they were unable to feed me the food I frantically focused on. When a coworker brought me flowers from the office and a beautiful doll her mother made specifically made for me, I did my best to show excitement. Yet, nothing, no one could take the place of a pastoral visit, a touch from the Lord, a Jesus "with skin on." I hungered hopelessly for spiritual support. Even a visit from the chaplain would be nice, but that never arrived either, which made me more furious.

Having walked in the shoes of a chaplain once, I knew one of the major responsibilities was visiting new patients and following up on them. The hospital where I served was the sister hospital of this one and that meant the same plan for ministry. Astounded, I pleaded with God to tell me why I was in this spiritual desert, but my cries were to no avail. What was God trying to tell me in His silence? I knew the importance of feeding on His Word and payong attention to details, but each time I tried I drew a blank. Somewhere in all of this, God had a message for me. In one brief moment I felt a brush of peace, I knew He would tell me in His time.

The only place I felt totally comfortable was outside on the patio for smokers. Most of the smokers were from the drug and alcohol unit (strange coincidence huh?). They shared with me their quest to find God while applying the twelve-steps. I told them the story about Wanda and they moved closer to me. They too were hungry for a visit from God. They too wanted a touch of the Master's hand. We quickly understood each other.

Daily I shared with them that healing could only be found as they searched for the heart of God. Yet, as I shared with them, I wondered if I knew, really knew, what I was talking about? Was it all head knowledge that had never made its way to my heart? I mean, here I was in the "psych" ward of a hospital, what could I know about God's heart?

Once, while sitting outside alone, a song from the upcoming Christmas pageant unceasingly resounded through my mind. The major emphasis of the song was, "When you can't trace His hand, trust His heart." Could it be God was allowing all of this to happen so I would reach a point where He was all I needed? Should I reach such a point, would He truly be sufficient? I knew I needed to give this more thought, but I found myself wanting to run from the idea.

The more I talked with each of my peers; I discovered three basic mindsets among both smokers and non-smokers. The first group, being the smallest, did not believe in God, nor give it much thought. They stayed as far away from me as they could. The second group believed there was a God, but saw Him as a God of punishment, and felt that was why they were in the hospital . . .He was punishing them for something they had done. The third group consisted of people who, at one time, had committed their lives to Him, but never seemed to fit the mold of what the church expected from them. Many grew up in church-going families and still never felt they were part of the body of Christ.

People from each group were trying to deal with abusive childhoods. Most were shunned by the church at some time in their lives. Several turned to drugs and alcohol as a way to cope with the heartbreak and anguish. They found acceptance from their cohorts in sin, an acceptance they never received from the church. Naturally, I gravitated toward the last group. I relished hearing their ideas of what churches could do to support or encourage people, like themselves, who were rejected.

I longed to see my church develop a lay counseling ministry built on encouragement. Having been trained in a program for laity in another church, I knew what the results could be. I even suggested the idea to my pastor once, only for my idea to be ignored. Yet, another time a fellow church member, the pastor, and I prayed over a plot of ground owned by the church, claiming it as a place of healing . . .a counseling center. Nothing ever came of it.

Now, here I was in a hospital on the floor for the mentally sick. Such a ministry would help me now if there were one. I needed a touch from a fellow Christian who would love me in spite of my failure. God was allowing me to be this for those around me, but there was still no one for me. Deep in my heart I knew God wanted to do something with this. I had to keep my eyes on Him and stop thinking about the pastoral staff of my church. Yet, the sense of being forgotten kept me swimming in the sea of self-pity.

I encouraged everyone to attend chapel the Sunday morning I was in the hospital. Yet, when the time came, I dreaded attending. Only two years had passed since I had led a chapel service myself the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and now I had lost my faith. What happened to me? Where had I made a wrong turn?

When Sunday came, I in no way wanted to attend chapel, I was too angry. Yet, when my hospital friends appeared at my door I submitted to their need for me to go with them.

Beautiful music was being played as we walked into the chapel. A nice looking woman was playing the organ, but I saw no Chaplain. As the place filled and people were talking, I remember wondering when the Chaplain would arrive. After chairs were added to accommodate the overflow, the woman began addressing us. She was the Chaplain.

She shared some verses from Psalm 103 and told about an experience she had while on station as a missionary. Most of everything she said escaped me. I was concentrating on, "For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love for those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us." (Psalm 103: 11-12 NIV)

Within myself I prayed, "Okay Lord, you say you remove our sins as far as the east is from the west. Why then, does the church hold against us the very things you forgive us for? Show me the answer to this Lord, please. You know I want to proclaim your message to set the captives free, but who are the captives? Who is it you want me to reach? Tell me Lord, and I will go."

Before she dismissed Chapel, she advised us that she would come to our room and talk if we needed her. I made a mental note of this, shook her hand, expressed my appreciation of her message, and left. I immediately went back to my room and called. She would come at 2:00. It was the first time I was late for a meal.

Mealtime that day wasn't too great. Five of the nine people on my ward were there for shock treatments and they simply were not themselves that day. So, I shared with the ones who had not gone to chapel about how wonderful it was. They listened eagerly.

As I shared about God casting our sins as far as the east is from the west, a kind old gentleman to my left reached over and touched my hand. He motioned for me to listen to him say something. Leaning down toward him, he whispered in my ear, "Will you pray with me later?" I almost cried. This man had said nothing for three days. Now he was asking me to pray with him.

I hung around and we prayed together. He had no clue what was bothering him or why he was so depressed. His depression had increased until he was unable to function. I listened. At one time he was an active deacon in one of the largest churches in the Birmingham area. He was still an honorary deacon or something like that, but for years God's voice remained absent in his life. He was sad. All I could do was affirm him of God's continued love for us, a love not based on feeling but fact. He smiled.

No one was outside when I went out for my smoke. I sat outside in the sunshine for some time reading a novel by M. Scott Peck, M.D., A Bed By the Window. In it there was a woman who was bed ridden. A young nurse loved being with her because of the wisdom the patient constantly exuded. One day, when the nurse was somewhat upset over a fight with her boyfriend, the kind patient shared herself with the nurse.

She spoke about how hard she had tried to be nice for years. She was a divorced woman, taking care of three children. She had to be nice. She had to work hard. Yet, in the process her children had gone wild. Finally, she was hit with multiple sclerosis. Her comment regarding what happened hit me hard that day,

After reading that section, I closed the book and went back to my room. I prayed, confessing my overactive need for acceptance to the Lord. I truly had worked myself into a state of exhaustion. I wanted to be accepted by my church, my family, my friends, and my co-workers. God was showing me the error of my ways. Just as I finished my prayer time, I heard a knock on the door. It was the Chaplain.

After a few moments of chitchat, I told her my story from God's call to this time of failure. She listened intensely. She not only listened with her ears, but with her entire being. She understood my frustration, I could sense it.

When I finished she asked me a question, "Sharon, while serving as a Chaplain, what was one of the main things you learned?"

I sat staring at her. I knew what she was getting around to. "Pay attention to the smallest details. It is in those small details that God speaks."

"Yes," she responded. She went on to remind me that when we stop seeing God in the little things, he often sends a crisis to wake us back up. I cried. We talked some more and she prayed with me that God would help me reach an acceptance of where I was and what He wanted me to learn. I was exhilarated.

After she left, I prayed fervently that God would show me what to do about church. I wanted to know whether I should even think about returning there. I asked him to please show me a sign, a road map of what He wanted me to do. I asked for His divine guidance and direction for every moment of my time in the hospital. When I finished, I walked outside again.

The sun was still out, and even though the day was a bit chilly, I was extremely comfortable. I picked Peck's book back up and started to read as I lit a cigarette. A nurse opened the door and announced I had some visitors. Expecting my family I turned around with the cigarette in my hand. To my surprise it was four people from the ensemble I sang in at church. I wanted to crawl under the floor.

They showed no signs of shock or acknowledged the cigarette in my hand as they came and sat down with me at the table. We chose to sit outside and enjoy the afternoon. Only one of the people made me feel slightly uncomfortable. The other three were open and talkative, showing genuine concern.

We talked about depression and how unaccepted it was in church. One of the ladies shared how she had tried desperately to cover up her depression in the past and how miserable it had been for her. We talked about the idealistic way the church could handle people with emotional problems and we all were tearful. It was a wonderful time of fellowship, a time I hated to see end.

I told them of the prayer I had prayed before they came. We all felt that their coming was definitely a sign that I should stay in the church. They vowed their support of me and assured me that they would keep me in their prayers. What a way for a wonderful Sunday to end. I was uplifted. I felt God had touched me in an enormous way and I was ready for the next lesson He had for me to learn.