I am not sure that I have anything of value to write here, but when you turn 42 it is tough to turn down the chance to write something with the title above (it is a reference to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a book I haven’t read but did see the 2005 movie starring Martin Freeman and Zooey Deschanel). Spoiler alert: I have not acquired that cosmic answer.

I don’t feel like I have a lot of answers lately. Which is unfortunate because I spend a decent amount of my life right now sitting in hospital rooms being asked the question “What do I do?” I find myself saying things like “I don’t know” or “I wish I had some sort of magical answer to fix everything.” People figure out fairly quickly that I am not an answer man. I have suggestions, insight, and the occasional flash of wisdom, but I’m not going to be posting any social media content or writing books about what someone else needs to do.

But I hope that they also figure out that I am going to sit with them through the questions and all the emotions that come with them. At this point in my life, I guess that is what I am trying to do. Not just with people that I meet in the hospital but with whomever I find myself. I am just trying to be present with the people who are in the room. I am trying to leave the space for them to be who they are and I am trying to authentically be who I am; even when I am experiencing emotions like hurt, anger, disappointment, or other things from which I would shy to theoretically protect myself and others.

This brief reflection contains spoilers from the latest MCU movie Thunderbolts*

I keep going to movies and taking my boys with me because I love stories. And there is always a chance with a story that there might be something onto which I can grab that helps me make sense of my world. Or perhaps it will put into moving pictures that for which I have struggled to find words. These cinematic epiphanies don’t happen all the time, but you’d be surprised how often they do appear. But even I don’t think I was prepared to have one of these moments when we went to see the newest MCU installment Thunderbolts* (and, yes, the asterisk is part of the title).

Usually these superhero movies conclude with a third act CGI slugfest. Although these special effects extravaganzas can be done well, there is an element of diminishing returns when it happens in nearly every single blockbuster movie. Thunderbolts* feints in the direction of a supervillain wreaking havoc upon a city, but then it zigs where you think it is going to zag.

I have been struggling with a question these last few weeks: What does Easter look like inside a hospital? How does talk of hope and resurrection sound within a place where so many people die? (Parenthetically, this thought is somewhat unfair as hospitals are just as much places of life and healing as they are of death; people just don’t generally call chaplains for the celebratory stuff). Those abstract musings became more concrete this past week as a patient whom I have been following for several months suddenly and unexpectedly died.

Over the past seven months at the hospital, I have bore witness to a fair amount of death. I do not write that with any particular pride; it is simply an unavoidable part of where I work right now. All of the losses have touched me in different ways, but the one from this past week cut deeply. I spent many hours in this patient’s room talking with him or his wife. I met their children. I witnessed recovery, setbacks, recovery, and then ultimately loss. I care deeply for this family and I wish to God that this all could have turned out differently.

So what is resurrection in the face of grieving widows, crying daughters, and hopes cut down? All I have been able to grasp is admittedly not that original, but it is this: what happens in the hospital does not have the final word. This death, this heartache, this loss is not the end. That is the hope to which I cling. The empty tomb and love defeating death can sometimes be my only hope.

Ash Wednesday hits different in a hospital. “Remember you are dust and to dust you will return” seems painfully obvious in a place where so many people die. I half imagined a doctor or a nurse responding, “Yeah, I’m well aware.” This is a place where it would be hard to forget that we are dust.

I found myself wondering how different this remembrance would be in a church if the imposition of ashes was done not by pastors in robes and suits, but nurses in scrubs, doctors in lab coats, or children in hospital gowns. Would that be too over the top? At the very least it would be more difficult to shake the reality of our finitude and fragility.

For some of us, the fragility of life is not that far from our minds. Every news cycle can seem like another chaos monster careening out of control. And I realize not everyone feels that way. It’s getting a bit harder for me to understand why, but it is the reality whether I know why or not. Yet in the midst of this chaos, I take some solace in the fact that we are all dust.

Twenty-seven degrees is cold. There has never been a moment when I saw that the temperature was in the 20s and thought, “Oh boy, let’s go outside!” Yet it is funny how a few days of temperatures in the early adolescence can make 27º feel almost pleasant. It was that cold this morning as I walked into work and I found myself thinking, “This isn’t too bad.” It is fascinating how quickly our bodies can adapt to what at one time was the abnormal. I think that our spirits do the same.

This season is a weird one for me. This is the eighth Sunday of the year and I believe that I have been to church once; back in early January. It is almost certainly the least that I have been to church since I was a fetus. And since my mom was in church regularly during that time then it might as well be the least that I have been to church ever.

The irony is that this absence is due to my presence at the hospital providing spiritual care. On Sundays, I hold a pager, check the network for consults, make rounds, and sit with folks navigating peaks, valleys, and everything in between. Sometimes, these encounters are just chitchat. Many times, it is a sacred experience. Even when God is not mentioned, the divine has this way of showing up in the room. What I experience on Sundays is not exactly church, but it’s not not church either. I’ll often experience community, a passing of the peace, an exchange of wisdom, and sometimes prayer.

So…it’s been a bit of a week. There was yet another school shooting in our area, which has torn open wounds for people who have experienced these tragedies before and scared anew children in schools including my own. On the national front, it seems that calling on people to protect the frightened and vulnerable is seen by many as a radical leftist agenda rather than, as I have understood it, basic human decency.

Of course, there have been other things good, bad, and in between. Everything is not lost but, Good Lord, the dark clouds loom ominously and I feel tired. You might feel tired too.

I would like to give you some sort of rousing speech about things being darkest before the dawn, but we don’t really know how long the arcs of history bend. I’m reminded of my favorite Frederick Buechner quote, “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.” I actually quoted that to one of my sons this week talking about the shooting in Antioch. But, you know, it’s okay if you feel a little scared. You are a person after all (I said this to my son also).

So we’ll go from Buechner to the mid 2000s arena rock banger “All These Things That I’ve Done.” Not the lyric “I’ve got soul but I’m not a soldier” though there is something in there too. But simply this: “If you can, hold on.” Throughout scripture, people are encouraged to not grow weary in doing what is right (Galatians 6:9-10 pops into my mind immediately) even though said weariness is warranted.