God is always speaking to us in various ways and through different people. Sometimes it’s hard to understand what the message is and sometimes it’s quite clear. On a single day last month, as you can see through a recounting of my day, God spoke to me very clearly.

7:30 a.m.—I arrive at work, ready to begin a new day. There were two patients in particular who had requested that I make a return visit to their rooms. They would be my first stops of the day. I printed my census, which consisted of 25 Jewish patients—several in the ICU, one in hospice, several in the cardiac units and others scattered throughout the hospital.

I remembered that I needed to return a call to Joe, whose wife, Rachel, 76 years old, had been my patient. Rachel had passed away several weeks earlier from chronic illness. I had formed a relationship with Joe, as he was by Rachel’s bedside day in and day out for months while she was in the hospital.

9 a.m.—I hung up the phone with Joe. The conversation had been close to an hour. Joe had always been a “talker,” but this conversation had gone a bit longer than my anticipated 20 minutes. He cried throughout the conversation, telling me how hard it has been for him these past few weeks without his wife of 50 years by his side. How could I hang up the phone? He was calling to vent and to thank me for all that I had done for him and his wife.

Joe also wanted to know if I knew someone who buys jewelry. Rachel apparently had a lot of gold and silver pieces that he now wanted to sell. I told him I would ask some of my colleagues in the hospital, but unfortunately I did not know of anyone.

I was feeling very behind schedule and now was feeling pressured to see the many patients I had on my census.

9:15 a.m.—I headed to the ICU. As I was about to enter, I noticed a large Muslim family congregating both in and outside of the nearby family waiting room. A young gentleman from the family stopped me and asked where he could buy coffee. As I began to direct him to the hospital Starbucks, I figured that actually showing him where the Starbucks was would be the most efficient. As we walked together, he asked me what my role was in the hospital. I explained that I provide emotional and spiritual support for mainly our Jewish patients. He then proceeded to tell me, with tears in his eyes, that his uncle had gone to a different hospital for a routine heart procedure, went into cardiac arrest during the procedure and was now transferred to the present hospital. His uncle, Mahmoud, was seemingly fine beforehand and now on the brink of death. This young man told me that he was Muslim and “Palestinian.” He mentioned how he felt that we were “like family.” I was unsure how to respond to that and just acknowledged his statement with a smile. The man bought six coffees for his family and insisted on buying me one, too. He then kindly asked if I could offer support to his family back at the room. I answered that I would.

10 a.m.—I approached the waiting room to see Mahmoud’s family. Around 12 people (men and women) were gathered both in and out of the room. Some of the women were wearing hijabs and some not. The screams, the cries were those that I will not forget. Mahmoud’s wife was hysterical, crying on the floor, begging God to spare him. Other women were praying loudly, mostly in Arabic. The men were pacing up and down in the room and the hallway. Mahmoud, I was told, was barely hanging on to life. I sat on the floor with the many family members and had conversations with some in the hallway, all the while listening to their cries and hearing stories about Mahmoud. Several relatives asked me to go into the coronary care unit and speak to the involved staff members to find out if they could go in to see Mahmoud.

10:30 a.m.—I entered Room 3 in the CCU. The large room was filled to capacity with doctors, nurses and equipment. It was an organized chaos. Mahmoud was barely visible, covered from head to toe with tubes, surrounded by the medical team. Staff were working relentlessly trying to stabilize him. I was told to deliver a message to the family that they would only be allowed to enter when things were more stable. I saw Dr. M., who said he would update the family once again.

10:45 a.m.—Dr. M. left the family room after delivering unsettling news to the family. The prognosis was grim. There were many questions left unanswered and tests that still needed to be administered. There was an eerie silence for a solid minute after Dr. M. had left the room. The family was left to process this in shock and disbelief.

There was a pit in my stomach which seemed to grow and grow throughout the time I spent with the family. I felt compelled to be present both physically and emotionally with this Muslim family, both as a chaplain in the hospital and as a mere human being. But yet another piece of me was thinking: Who are these people? What are they really thinking about me? Whom are they related to? Can they be trusted? Would I have felt this way before October 7? Should I stay with them? Should I pass “this case” on to a different chaplain colleague?

It was feelings of empathy that completely overcame me. This family was going through a human experience, that of suffering and pain. I felt my role was to be present. However, I felt a tremendous amount of uneasiness at the same time.

After a long, draining and very depleting hour of focused listening with all members of the family, I felt it was time to leave. It was a gut-wrenching time, filled with so much sadness and anxiety. I brought the family some water, crackers and fruit, as I knew that they had not eaten for many hours. The family thanked me profusely for my time and helpfulness.

As I walked away, I wondered how the medical staff in Israel manages similar situations all the time.

11:45 a.m.—I began the five-minute walk back to my office. Along the way, I noticed a Muslim looking gentleman, probably in his 40s or 50s, standing in the hallway outside the restrooms. He clearly looked lost, so I asked him if he needed help. He began to tell me that he was visiting his uncle who was in the CCU. Quickly making a connection, I mentioned to him that I had just spent a lot of time with his family and had just actually returned from the CCU. This man vented to me in the hallway his feelings of bewilderment as to what had happened.

And again I found many thoughts racing through my brain while listening to him. Who are you? Whom are you related to? Be kind, but be careful. Be empathetic, but guard yourself.

I felt the pit in my stomach resurface.

Spontaneously, the man then handed me two of his business cards, thanked me for my listening ear and for being there for his family. He said, “Shalom” as I directed him toward the CCU.

12:30 a.m.—I was about to continue the quick walk back to my office in order to chart the few patient visits I had. Time was ticking … I had many errands to do and I needed to leave the hospital. I was very disappointed that I did not have time to visit the two patients who had specifically requested my visit, because of the long phone call with Joe from the morning and the time I had spent with the Muslim family. I figured those two patients would be my priority the next morning.

Before I was able to take more than two steps, a chasidish gentleman suddenly appeared next to me, taking me by surprise. “Hi. How can I help you?” I asked. This young man needed help finding the bikur cholim room. As exhausted as I was, I knew that escorting him to the room would be easier. I put the business cards from the Muslim gentleman on my office desk and started the walk toward the bikur cholim room.

We headed down one of the hallways with four elevators. After pushing the elevator button for Floor B, we waited. Within five seconds, one elevator door opened. Out walked Mrs. F., the spouse of one of the patients I had intended to see! “Hello!” she said. “We didn’t know if you were coming today. My husband really wanted to see you.” I couldn’t believe it. Of all the people to see! I apologized and had Mrs. F. convey the message to her husband that I would stop by first thing in the morning. Right then, another elevator door opened. Out came the mother of the other patient I had intended to visit! My mouth dropped open.

“Hi Debby! We were waiting for you, but figured you got busy. We hope you can swing by tomorrow.” I told the mother to please send regards to her son.

Meanwhile I couldn’t believe what had just happened! Of all people, of all times—Hashem had placed not only one, but both of the people that I needed to see, right before me.

12:50 a.m.—I began the walk back to my office after showing the chasidish gentleman the room. He was grateful to see the bikur cholim room and was grateful for the conversation, in which he had the opportunity to talk to me about his current sad situation.

1 a.m.—I finally returned to my office and sat down at my desk. I was physically and emotionally spent at this point. I needed to quickly chart my patient visits and head out of the hospital.

I had so many emotions that I needed to process and so many thoughts running through my head. However, one unsettling thought kept returning: Did I spend too much time with a family I am not sure I can trust? A family who just might have relatives and friends who continue to torture and kill many of my own.

I glanced over my desk and noticed the two business cards the Muslim gentleman had handed me. I reached for them. One said he was a real estate broker. But it was the other one that sent chills down my spine.

It said he buys jewelry.

Perhaps the message was that God places you exactly where you need to be. And that when you do the right thing and help humanity, God, in His unfathomable ways, will somehow take care of the rest.

Debby Pfeiffer is a board-certified chaplain working at Morristown Medical Center through its affiliation with the Jewish Federation of Greater Metrowest New Jersey. She resides in Bergenfield with her husband and children. She can be reached at [email protected].