“You have a hard job,” said the man I was sitting with at 3:30 am, whose elderly mother had just passed away. I sat with him so he wouldn’t be alone, and listened to him share feelings of disbelief, which he acknowledged sounded unreasonable given his mother was in her 90s. But he had somehow imagined they’d have more time together. I invited him to share about what she had been like, and he told me stories that painted a picture of a woman who was socially progressive, devoutly Irish Catholic, and who liked Chinese food. The two of them had shared a uniquely close bond, and her loss felt shattering.

I do have a hard job. It’s very common for family members of the dead and dying to turn to me, the chaplain, and acknowledge this to me. I realize that for them, in the throes of grief, it seems unconscionable that a person would bear witness to this kind of devastating loss on a regular basis, often multiple times in one night. And a lot of times it feels unconscionable to me, too. No matter how many times I do this, I’m not immune to their pain. If I were, I don’t think I could be of much use to them anyway.

The last people I talked to before I left the hospital this morning were a couple asking for directions to Labor and Delivery, clearly about to have a baby. As I stepped out into the muggy air of a summer morning in New York City, tears of wonder and gratitude filled my eyes. What a unique blessing a privilege to work in a place like this, in a hospital, where lives are always coming in and going out. Where the most critical moments of our human existence take place every day. Where the most urgent and probing existential and theological questions are common vernacular on the lips of individuals wrestling through life-altering illnesses, losses, and crises. Where my job is to bear witness to the Holy.

After a busy night on call—attending deathbeds, comforting the lonely and helpless, praying for the sick, sitting in silence with the bereaved—I am exhausted. I have a hard job. I have a beautiful job. And I am grateful.

In the first unit of my residency, I wrote a song about the role of the chaplain, to the tune of “Piano Man” by Billy Joel. I won’t share the verses, as they contain personal information about some of my colleagues. But I will share the chorus here. It feels just as accurate today.

Sing us a song, you’re the Chaplain

Sing us a song today

Whether bitter or sweet, you don’t have to retreat

Feeling helpless? Well, here that’s okay.