My first solo hospital visit as a pastor did not go as planned. In fact, it went so badly that I hoped that the lady, whom I was visiting, did not remember the visit. I never even told her that I came to see her that day.

I was serving as an associate pastor of a little church while attending seminary. I was primarily responsible for student ministry. But on this occasion, our pastor was out of town, and I was covering the hospital visits. This was to be my first official pastoral visit. Sure, I had visited the hospital before, as well as gone with other pastors on such visits, but this was to be my first solo visit. I had no worries, why should I? Every other such visit I had been a part of seemed easy and tame. How could I have imagined that on that day, my experience would leave an indelible mark on my memory but one I would never reveal to the person I was visiting.

She was one of those ladies that was always proper and demanded everyone around her to adhere to the same level of civility. Hair always perfect, makeup the same, attire crisp and dignified, she was on every occasion the model of dignity. This is not to say that she lacked personality or was stoic but to be sure, she enjoyed a level of dignity and respect that few have the fortitude to acquire or demand. Our church was small, so I knew her well and was looking forward to visiting with her. She and her husband had always been kind to me and my family, and I knew that she would appreciate the time that I took to visit with her in the hospital.

I made my way to the hospital and looked for the parking spaces marked “Clergy,” wanting to take full advantage of my pastoral role. As I stepped out of the car, I wondered if anyone was watching, I wondered if I looked pastoral enough. I pondered if anyone would ask if I was really a pastor. To this last concern, I brought along a few business cards that somehow seemed to me to be proof enough of my identity. Walking into the hospital, I made my way to the front desk and asked for directions to her room. Ascending in the elevator and walking the halls seemed to give purpose to my task. I was not just another visitor I was here in an official capacity. With that sense of importance and confidence, I approached the Cardiac Care Unit’s door. Picking up the intercom phone, I announced to the person on the other end of the line, who I was, half excepting her to be impressed, and paused for just a second to listen for indications of her reaction. I then informed the nurse that I wished to see Mrs. Sample (not her real name). As I stood there talking on the intercom phone, I read the sign indicating the visitation times and enjoying the pastoral “perk” of being able to do visitation any time. I may have spoken with more volume than needed for the benefit of those “regular people” lingering in the waiting room. The door buzzed open, and I walked in. As I walked toward the door, I imagined that the nursing staff was all taking notice of my presence. I approached the glass door of Mrs. Sample’s room while imagining in my head the anticipated reaction.

She was in her late seventies or early eighties and had enjoyed good health most of her life. This was possibly her first time in a hospital as a patient. Earlier that morning, she had undergone quadruple heart bypass surgery and was now recovering in her room. As I came closer to her door, I could see her lying in the bed. It was raised to a high level for the comfort of the nursing staff. There were tubs, IV lines, and pumps attached to her. She was sleeping.

Not sure what to do, I contemplated just leaving my business card, but I wondered if she would see it. I contemplated if the nursing staff would find such a short visit odd. I considered praying for her while she slept but rejected the idea just because it felt weird. I know now that she was well medicated, the medication that relieves pain but also causes the patient not to be completely coherent.

I do not remember how I woke her, possibly because of what followed. Maybe I called her name or said hello, the result was I was able to wake her up. She opened her eyes, and somewhat to my surprise, she recognized me. With a drug-induced slowness, she called my name. It was odd to see her like this. Her hair showed no signs of her standard diligence, her face was clear of makeup, and she lay in the bed clothed in the unflattering attire of a hospital gown. I asked the usual questions. How are you? Are you hurting much? To which she only answered with short one-word answers. Recognizing that she was tired and needed her rest, I decided that my visit needed to end. I intended to ask if I could pray as a prelude to my exit when she started to tell me about her surgery. Most of what she told me were things that I already knew, but I answered with a respectful “Yes, ma’am,” knowing that the drugs were robbing her of her normally sharp mind. She told me that she had had surgery that morning. She said that it was heart surgery and that they had made an incision down the middle of her chest. I felt a little uncomfortable as she moved her hand down her chest, indicating where the surgeons had cut. However, for all my seminary training and work in the church, nothing had prepared me for what came next. Because of her incision, they had her hospital gown on backward with the split in front. As she continued to explain to me her surgery and the incision the surgeons had made, she proceeded to pull open her hospital gown and show me the incision!

I did not know what to do. Should I gently rebuke her? Should I reach over and pull her gown back up? Should I just turn and run out of the room? Paralyzed in the moment, I closed my eyes and started to pray out loud. I prayed for a very long time. I prayed for the woman’s healing, her family, her doctors, all the hospital staff, the church, for our nation, and anything else I could think of. I prayed and prayed and prayed.

At some point, I paused, still with my eyes shut, and listened. The room was silent. I opened my eyes, just a little, to see that once again, the drowsiness of the pain medications had put her back to sleep. I said, “Amen,” turned around, and left the room without saying another word.

As I quickly made my way out of the building and to my car, I decided I would never tell her about the visit. She would have been horrified, and I was terribly embarrassed. I may have approached her room with an attitude of confidence, but I ran from it, knowing that I had much to learn about pastoral ministry. I never did tell her about the visit, but I have also never forgotten about it either.

I have made many hospital visits since that day. I have prayed beside many hospital beds since then too. And I have had many other shocking encounters in the context of doing ministry. But I do not believe that I have ever prayed more fervently, intensely, or lengthy since that day.