The pager of the hospital chaplain buzzes on the glass tabletop of his desk, rattling the pennies that lay beside it.
            He picks it up and squints at the screen.
            “Code Blue in the surgical waiting room. We need to go.”
             He stands and throws on his blue sports coat, then tugs on the bottom hem, “Follow me.”
            I am his shadow for the night, before I go “on call” myself next week.
            “Yes sir.”
            We dart through the maze of hallways under bright fluorescent light after descending several flights of stairs.
            “Now, when we arrive, I will try to understand the situation as best as I can. That means I say as little as possible, listen as much as possible, and pay especially close attention to physical and verbal cues. Oh, and as we walk, I always try and pray.”
             The nurse steps out to meet us in the hallway.
            “Thank you for responding. The woman you are about to meet is in great distress. Her husband just came for a routine surgery, nothing major. Had a massive heart attack in the waiting room. They are still doing CPR. She is in shock.”
             The chaplain nods. I gulp. We enter.
             The woman is wailing and wringing a magazine in her hands. The chaplain introduces himself and expresses his desire to be with her in her grief.
             The magazine crashes to the floor as she drops her head in her hands. “How this, now? My daughter…”
             The chaplain extends a box of tissue. “Ma’am?”
            “My daughter died in a car accident last week!!! Now…oh God! Oh God!”
             The door bursts open, and the nurse walks back into the room. A doctor is with her. He looks at the woman, then at the floor.           
             The chaplain places his hand on her shoulder. The woman brushes it off. “Go away. AWAY!!!”
             On our way back to the office, the chaplain breaks the silence. “Never take such reactions personally. One thing I have learned as a chaplain is the truth in the axiom that says ‘Be gentle with every person you meet because everyone is fighting a great battle.’”
              The tortilla chip crunches beneath my teeth. “Are y’all ready to order?”
            Across the table, my brother and sister-in-law scan their menus. I happen to notice the waiter at the next table. I catch a glimpse of his face and a chill grips my heart. The last time I had seen that face, a few weeks ago, tears ran down the young man’s cheeks as he placed his hand on the casket of his younger brother who had taken his own life.
            Everyone is fighting a great battle.
            My companions have no idea of the collateral damage strewn about that young man’s soul.  But I do, so in my mind, I slip away:  Lord, give him strength. Please. May he not despair.
            “Matt.”
             I look up. My brother nods to the waitress waiting to take our order.
             “Oh, excuse me. Got distracted.”
             I’m no longer hungry, but place an order nonetheless. Later on, a cook approaches our table with a plate of sopapillas. She addresses me in Spanish.
             “Padre! These are for you.”
             “Maria…so good to see you! Thank you so much. This is my brother and his wife. It’s his birthday. ¡Que Dios lo Bendiga!”
             “¡Igual, Padre!
             Two days ago, Maria was in my office to schedule a Mass for the anniversary of her teenage daughter’s death last year. 
             My brother smiles. “Who was that?”
             “Oh, just a parishioner.” I hand him the plate. “Look, free dessert.”
                “The Gospel of the Lord.” I lean down to kiss the book and then raise my head. Before me is a sea of familiar faces, but as a priest, it is hearts that are visible.
             I see Gerald, whose brother is in the hospital.
             I see Veronica, who was worried about her husband last night.
             I see Phil, who is begging the Lord for help with his addiction.
             I see Clare, who is ashamed of what happened last weekend.
             I see Eva, who was here late on Friday singing to God in the darkness of the Church.
             I see Juan, who came back to God last week in the confessional.
             I see children, children of a Father. The Father who gave me his Son. The Son who has made me his friend and has made known to me what he has learned from the Father.