A handsome, charming twenty-eight year old, “Michael” had spent recent years making money, dating successful women, wining and dining and feeling fulfilled. I met Michael in an isolated, stark white room, in the locked psychiatric unit of the hospital where I served as chaplain. Michael had attempted to take his own life the night before, by swallowing extreme amounts of painkillers.

The first time I was scheduled to serve overnight as the on-call chaplain, I was paged at five a.m.  I groggily called the Intensive Care Unit, and spoke to a nurse who requested that I visit an anxious, weeping patient who would be undergoing surgery later that morning. I was told that the patient, "Andrew," was Orthodox Jewish. The nurse said that Andrew had a tracheotomy, and therefore could not speak.

On the first day of my chaplain residency, a nurse called me to provide spiritual care for a grieving couple on the hospital's birthing unit. This was my first crisis referral, and the couple was Greek Orthodox. I entered the room quietly, and met "Ana" and "George." When I told them I was the chaplain, and that I was Orthodox, they embraced me, kissing me on both cheeks." There was an immediate closeness among us.

One of the most inspiring experiences of my chaplaincy occurred when I met a young man of Greek descent with lupus, a potentially fatal disease that can attack multiple organs in the body.

In October of 1993, while making rounds through the hospital, I observed the name Papanickolas written across a piece of paper taped to the door of a family room reserved for the intensive care unit. When the young woman inside learned I was a Greek Orthodox chaplain