Today it begins. Well, to be honest, that is a sweeping dismissal of the preparation that has dotted the past few months, and if I am honest, years.  Yet, it is accurate to state that the first day of classes designed to turn me into a chaplain has arrived. I will climb onto a train as if I am a bona fide commuter instead of an intern pretending to know what I signed up for. Four men and I will sit expectantly at the conference table with sharpened pencils and full attention, eager to absorb the experience of an octogenarian. The syllabus contains such spoiler alerts as "Relationships and Boundaries", and "What to Expect from an Overnight Shift". 

Tiredness. That is what I am expecting. But no one yet has looked askance at me and muttered, "She does not have what it takes." So here I go. 

It remains to be seen whether the medical dramas I have watched are accurate. They include twenty-four hour shifts smashed into one episode, and have yet to portray a resident curled up on a lounge chair ignoring her pager. 

A pager is one of the other words on the syllabus. There is a black one that is passed from the day chaplain to the night attendant, and conveys the codes and room numbers of those patients we must track down. Thankfully, one entire lesson is devoted to those cryptic details and their urgency. 

I think about the ineptitude of myself as a third grade teacher, back in 1979. The minister who hired me probably understood my deficiencies, and yet handed me the responsibility of seven precious students. That commitment lasted a school year, while the vulnerable people whose bedsides I'll visit will pass through my care for a brief time. Yet I am banking on the hope that it still matters, to look into the eyes of someone whose mortality is showing.