From the Bedside · From a Believer · For the Church
A Message to My Brothers and Sisters in Christ
I would rather be at the bedside than behind a microphone. But the bedside is exactly why I am speaking up. This is what I have learned from them.
That our shared mortality is not a problem to be managed. It is a doorway that can lead conversations directly to the foot of the cross. Every time I sit beside someone who is dying, I am reminded — in the most personal, un-theoretical way possible — that I am next. That I need grace. That our faith does not make us immune to the mortal shackles we all wear. And that this is not bad news. Because at the foot of the cross is exactly where we need to be.
That every person's story is woven into every other person's story in ways we cannot fully see. I have watched this again and again — how one dying person's final days ripple outward, changing a family, changing a nurse, changing a pastor, changing me. These are not private moments. They are formative ones — for everyone in the room and everyone who hears the story afterward.
That what we owe the dying is not silence — it is presence shaped by love. Equipped for dialogue, ready to listen. And sometimes in that space, when words run out and love stays, the Holy Spirit fills the room. That stillness isn't emptiness.
We are called to be representatives of the cross — not from a distance, not with polished words, but with our actual presence in the hardest rooms. The cross was not a comfortable place. Neither is the bedside. That is precisely why it is holy ground.
"Today I choose to walk in the battle with the terminally ill. My patients have taught me too much. And now I share it with you — fellow brothers and sisters — as a call to remember the daily grace given, to speak with honest love, and to remind one another that we need His mercy now more than ever."
What follows is research and references, grounded in study, shaped by the bedside, and offered to the family of God I love. Not as condemnation. As a gift from the patients who gave it to me first.
72%of U.S. clergy want more end-of-life training — Balboni et al., NCI/Harvard, 2017
75%of clergy want training in pastoral care of the dying — Palliative Medicine, 2006
↑ ICUClergy who avoid EOL conversations = less hospice, more ICU deaths — Balboni et al., JPSM, 2017
Waldo Rios, NP · Hospice Nurse Practitioner
Special Thanks
Waldo Rios, NP · Hospice Nurse Practitioner
Acknowledgments
Before anything else, I want to give thanks — because everything that follows has teachers behind it.
To my mother — who had patience with me daily, who encouraged my faith without ever making it feel like a requirement, and who still sits across from me in theological conversation today. She is one of my favorite people to wrestle Scripture with. I like to challenge her on the finer points of biblical interpretation — even when it is mostly just me pushing her buttons. She handles it with more grace than I probably deserve. Sorry, Mom.
To my father — who has been, for as long as I can remember, a quiet emblem of what a man of God looks like in ordinary life. Not in the pulpit. In the dailiness. I have a great deal to work on before I can honestly say I am like him. He gave what he did not have so that I could have it. And now I am giving it back — not to him, but to what he would most want me to give it to, which is the world.
To my brothers — who know exactly what kind of clown I am and have loved me anyway. Your patience with my particular brand of annoyance has been its own form of grace. I will always be a clown to them. I am okay with that.
To my grandparents — two contrasting personalities, equal in their loving grace, and both of them funny. My grandfather is the proudest and loudest grandfather I know. I was driven to school in a 1979 Oldsmobile with velvet cloth seats and chrome that on a summer day would give you third-degree burns without warning. I have a scar somewhere that proves it. I would not trade a single moment.
To my uncle — who taught me small things that became large ones: the importance of respecting the elderly, learning from those who came before us, giving without needing to be recognized, and the value of simply thinking. He introduced me to musical genres that to this day are part of my daily listening — windows down, driving from patient to patient. More of a gift than he will ever know.
To Jim and Debbie — who were the first family to pray for me in a different way. Not over the care. For me. With me. For whatever God intended to do with any of this. Your prayers form part of this message.
To Dr. Felipe Garcia — who occupies a category I did not have a word for until I met him. Mentor. Colleague. Brother is the closest thing. He has continued to encourage my creativity. From boxing to nutrition to music to medicine. Love you brother.
And to Dr. Alexander Peralta — who sharpened my clinical instincts and taught me the difference between attentive care and task-oriented care. He may not have known it at the time, but in shaping how I listened at the bedside, he was doing something beyond clinical mentorship. He was taking a musician and carving in him an ear for a different kind of song — not played with a violin, but with presence. He has given me the encouragement to keep going, to keep building on the work we have both dedicated our lives to. I hope these pages carry something of his footprint forward to the generations that follow. That is what this is.
