The e-mail from the secretary at the office wasn't overly helpful, though.  _______ is in the hospital and would like you to visit her.  She has attended Bible Studies at the church.  She's at Cottage Hospital, Room ___.  I've never heard the name before.  Granted, I'm new at the church and still nailing down the last of the 80-odd names and faces that I see or speak with on a weekly basis.  But this woman's name isn't in my member spreadsheet, and isn't in any of the older directories I've stashed away as I've continued cleaning out my predecessor's paperwork from my office.  If she's been to Bible studies here, it hasn't been for quite a while.  

I find the room fairly easily.  A shared room with another patient.  There's a nurse tending to one of them and I mention who I'm here to see, and she nods me towards the woman she's finishing up with.  She looks to be in her early 50's.  But it's the sort of aging indicators that mean she might really only be 35.  She's lying down when I come over, working to turn herself onto her back and sit up.  Her straight dirty-blonde hair hangs to probably her shoulder blades.  

I introduce myself and indicate that I had come at her request.  It's immediately clear by the look in her eyes that she doesn't know who I am or what church I'm with.  I'm struck immediately with the realization that at some point earlier today, this woman was probably leaving messages on voice mails at churches all around the Santa Barbara area.  I'm ____________________.  I used to come to Bible studies at the church.  I'd like the pastor to visit me.  I'm in Cottage Hospital, Room ____.   Whether she believes that she really has attended Bible studies isn't an avenue I'm willing to go down at this point.

She's difficult to understand.  The television in her room mate's corner is blaring loudly, and the thin sheet that circles around the other bed to divide the room is terrible sound insulation.  It would be helpful if the sound were turned down a notch, and I hope briefly for this as visitors arrive for the other woman.  But the television continues to blare unhelpfully.  

She lives in town in her travel trailer.  She was attacked.  She was harassed.  Repeatedly.  There was a beating.  She's suffering post-traumatic stress symptoms.  I'm tempted to ask whether or not she was in the service, but it's clear very quickly that the stress is attributed to the beatings and harassment she's received here, not in some foreign battlefield.  At some point in her childhood she was going to Catholic church with her grandmother.  But then her grandmother was gone.  Perhaps she said she died.  I can't be sure.  I know it's not a detail to stress over.  With her mother or some other woman she didn't go to church anymore.

She's co-founded a new church here in town.  I've heard of it, and whether or not she really co-founded it or not is irrelevant at this point.  Who are you again? she asks, and I repeat my name and the congregation.  Again there's the confusion in the eyes, but she speaks quickly to mask it.  She has trouble walking.  She can't keep her balance.  Her meds were stolen at one point and now she's all out of whack inside.  The doctors aren't sure what to do yet.  She's been here almost a week now.  

She mentions other churches, other times in her life.  The narrative flow would impress Tarantino.  It's hard to piece together what has happened when.  Were the beatings recent?  She doesn't have scars or bruises or scratches that would indicate it.  I imagine that perhaps my confusion is only a flickering shadow of her own internal confusion.  She mentions needing a pair of sweat pants.  The confusion has settled on a desired pair of sweatpants for some reason.  A pair of eyeglasses.  Perhaps asking for these things is a way of getting a handle on reality, on linking on to something tangible, controllable.  Perhaps it's a reflex.  It would be easy to believe that she has spent a lot of time asking for things.  I chastise myself for wondering and doubting.  How helpful is doubt here?  What does it accomplish?

What church are you with again?  I repeat the name of the church.  She talks about another church somewhere else in town, but I'm not sure where she's referring to since I'm new in town myself.  She smiles as she starts talking about some of these places.  Places of happier times, perhaps.  Distant moments of clarity or beauty.  It's clear that the confusion is likely to be with her for some time.  I suspect it's not an unfamiliar companion in her life, and I wonder what the meds that were stolen were for.  

I offer to close us in prayer and to visit her again.  I have a meeting to go to.  I'm already rationalizing how I'm really not being much help to her.  She probably won't remember me when I stop by tomorrow.  Or what church I'm with.  Not that either matters to her, really.  She needs a pair of eyeglasses.  Maybe some sweat pants.  She needs a handle on the world that swims around her and leaves her without the ability to stand or balance and instead pins her to a hospital bed.  What does it matter where those things come from or how?  Isn't it the same creator behind the gift?  Isn't it the same Giver regardless of whose hands actually convey the gift?

Her own hands are rough and thick.  Hard hands.  Hands well accustomed to work, to effort, to struggle.  

I pray, chastising myself for criticizing my own prayer, or worse yet, for praying while considering how formal and stiff my prayer for her must sound.  What sort of prayers is she used to?  What sort of prayers do they use in the church she co-founded?  I draw the prayer almost to a conclusive Amen, leaving time and space for her to say something if she wishes.  She rocks back and forth very slightly, eyes closed, lips moving.  I wait another few seconds and pronounce Amen.  She continues to sway, lips parted and moving, eyes firmly shut.  I squeeze her hands.  

I don't know what help I can be to her, but that doesn't mean that I'm not helpful.  I wonder how many other pastors came by today, or will stop by tomorrow.  Curious.  Uncertain.  I wonder how many will feel guilty for not wanting to come back, for not wanting to spend time with a woman who is lost enough to know that it doesn't really matter who helps, as long as help comes.  Part of me wonders if I will come back tomorrow.  The cold calculating part of me is busy whirring away the calculations of time and effort and ROI.  As though my time is my own, or as if I exclusively determine it's value.  The calculations continue, but I already know that I'll be back.  That maybe just by coming back I'll be helpful.  Even without sweat pants or eyeglasses.  Just a stranger that came back.  Maybe the coming back is the helpful part.  But I won't likely know that until long, long after she and I are both gone.

I find my way back to the elevators.  A doctor of some sort is heading down with me.  I ask for the first floor.  Do you know where you're going? he asks.  I resist the sudden urge to shoot back Do any of us really know where we're going?  and tell him that I think I do, but that I'm still learning my way around.  Actually, this evening, I'm pretty confident of where I want to go.  Helpfulness comes at odd times.   A woman races to jump into the elevator with us before the door closes.  You just barely made it in time! the doctor observes.  

This way I'll make my bus! she responds.

We descend to the second floor where the woman exits.  The doctor is indicating that if I get out here, It will take me to the main lobby.  I need the Castillo street entrance, I assure him.  He's clearly unconvinced.  I have become a charge of his, and he seems determined to see me where I need to go.

We reach the first floor and he seems uncertain whether he should let me out here.  I assure him he should.  He steps partially out with me, giving me directions around the corner and down the hall.  I'm already walking as he concludes the directions.  I thank him and keep walking.  Sometimes helpfulness isn't very helpful.  But it sure can be reassuring.