A Chaplain’s Day

Listen to the reflection

To protect privacy, identifying details have been changed or omitted. The heart of the encounter remains true.

Chaplain here. Welcome to a day in my life.

Not the whole day, really—just one of the many visits I will make as I go out to see dear people in the final seasons of their lives.

There is one woman I have visited for months. She is very old now, and there are layers upon layers of life behind her.

Each time I enter her room, the scene is almost the same. The bed is neatly made. A few snacks sit on a small table. A lamp casts a warm glow. Paintings from another chapter of her life hang on the wall. The blinds are partly drawn, allowing only a narrow ribbon of sunlight into the room.

She sits in the same place in her wheelchair, usually facing the television. Her lipstick is a little too thick. Her eyebrows, carefully drawn by an unsteady hand, are never quite even. Still, the effort says something: she has tried to make herself ready for the day.

Memory no longer comes easily to her. She can talk. She can laugh. She can be fully present for a moment. But dates, places, names, and whole chapters of her life have disappeared into a heavy fog.

She cannot reliably remember what happened yesterday. She cannot explain the work she once did or describe many of the people who once mattered to her.

But one memory keeps finding its way through.

I usually bring my guitar. She loves old country songs and gospel music, so I play while she smiles, taps her hand, and sometimes claps along. For a little while, the room feels larger. The fog seems thinner.

When the music ends, I ask her the same question.

“Darling, how do you feel?”

“Chaplain, my father was a good man to me.”

Then I say, “Tell me more.”

And she does.

She tells stories about growing up. She remembers a father whose presence made her feel loved, cared for, and safe. She does not usually remember his exact words. She cannot reconstruct every event. But she remembers the emotional weight of his presence.

He was steady.

He was strong.

When she felt insecure, his presence told her she did not have to be afraid. Whatever happened, he would remain a strong pillar in her life.

Nearly everything else has faded. But that remains.

What Remains

Whenever I leave her room, I feel as though I have stepped into a time machine. Chaplaincy often lets me stand near the end of a person’s journey and look backward with them. It gives me a glimpse of what may remain after titles, achievements, possessions, and carefully made plans have lost their sharp edges.

This woman lived a meaningful life. She accomplished much and influenced many people. Yet when the fog lifts, the memory that rises most clearly is not a professional achievement.

It is the memory of being loved by her father.

That does not mean words and actions do not matter. They matter deeply. Words and actions create the atmosphere of a home. But long after children forget the exact sentence or the details of a particular day, they may still carry the imprint of what our presence communicated.

• Were they safe with us?
• Were they seen?
• Did our strength protect them—or frighten them?
• Did our correction leave them with courage—or with discouragement?

A Word to Fathers

“Fathers, do not exasperate your children, so that they won’t become discouraged.”

Colossians 3:21, CSB

When I read a command that tells us what not to do, I often ask what the positive obedience looks like.

Do not exasperate your children.

Then what should a father do?

Create a space where they feel loved. Build courage into them. Give them room to grow without making them afraid that one mistake will cost them your affection.

Strength is not always displayed by force. Sometimes strength is displayed by restraint. It is power held under control—strength held back so love can move forward.

There will be moments when anger would be easy. Your child will repeat the same foolish behavior. A plan will fall apart. A grade will disappoint. A relationship will end. A dream will collapse.

In those moments, you can add to their sorrow, or you can increase your presence.

You can take them for ice cream. You can sit across from them over a late pancake dinner. You can put your arms around them, look them in the eyes, and say, “It’s okay. We will face this together. I love you.”

Feelings are not the whole measure of faithful parenting. Children also need truth, boundaries, discipline, and wisdom. But they should experience those things within the steady assurance that they are loved.

That assurance may become one of the strongest memories they carry.

The Legacy of Presence

You do not have to be wealthy to give your children this kind of inheritance. You do not have to plan a spectacular adventure every weekend. Those things can be wonderful, but they are not the foundation.

The foundation is presence.

It is the ordinary moment when your child expects frustration and receives patience. It is the failed attempt that is met with encouragement. It is the quiet assurance that your love is not hanging by a thread.

One day, many of the details may fade. The expensive gifts may be forgotten. The vacations may blur together. Even the words you chose so carefully may become difficult to recall.

But the emotional imprint of faithful presence can remain.

Near the end of a very long life, a woman sits in a quiet room. Much of her story is hidden behind the fog. Then the music plays, the fog lifts, and one truth returns:

“My father was a good man to me.”

Fathers—and mothers too—may that be part of the legacy we leave.

Not perfection.

Presence.

Not fear.

Love.

Not merely what we said or what we did, but the deep assurance our lives gave them:

You are safe with me. You are loved. I am here.