Article: Writers write. Ministers minister, and...

Writers write. Ministers minister, and so in my #day job# I am known as #Reverend Kate Braestrup.# As a law enforcement chaplain, my work is primarily crisis ministry. I am called to the scenes of accidents, mishaps or (occasionally) crimes when someone is probably or definitely dead.

People routinely risk death for the sake of amusement, or pride, love-of-country, or the need drive down to the store for a gallon of milk. Although my work involves an awful lot of death, I am convinced that the biggest human fear is not of dying, but of abandonment and isolation. When I spend time with the recently, suddenly and often violently bereaved, I am first, a nice, cozy, middle-aged minister named Kate. But I am also and perhaps more importantly, a temporary surrogate for their own moms, spouses, childhood friends, siblings, college buddies, parish ministers, #all those dear, vital relationships that will sustain them in long, long months and years of mourning still before them. Because I stand for family and community, I also stand for the love of God, since God#s love is and always has been best expressed in the love of neighbor for neighbor.

So all right: That#s ministry. And now I must admit to something stupid: I thought writing and ministry were two separate things, expressions of distinct aspects of myself. They are nothing of the kind. Prior to being trained in ministry---which is to say, prior to being trained to see the world constantly and (one hopes) permanently in terms of love, I could write, and reasonably well, but I did not yet know what I was writing about. No wait. I didn#t know who I was writing for.

The answer is perfectly simple: I am writing for you. Whoever you are. I am writing to be with you, just as you are graciously consenting to be with me for however long it takes you to read what I#ve written (or to get fed up with me and stop reading!)

Yesterday, I received a high compliment from a bookstore owner here in Maine: #I received an advance copy of your book,# she said. We were at a memorial service for the young daughter of good friends, who had died suddenly of a misdiagnosed infection. A terrible thing, a tragedy. #I read it last night,# Jeri told me. #And it helped.#

In many ways, our culture no longer encourages us to cultivate social resources for times of trouble. Maybe we all feel so safe and confident that privacy and flexibility are valued over commitment and community, and #virtual# relationships usurp the flesh-and-blood ties we will need when the time comes. (And it does come.) Neither a chaplain nor a book can take the place of people who love you, their familiar voices in your ear, their hands clasping your hands. But a word ( or The Word) can name the thing you yearn for. It can move you toward the source.