Seventeen strangers, we sat in a circle.
Fourteen students and three facilitators, we looked across the circle at each other with interest touched by a measure of wariness.
Thanks to an on-going energy crisis, the space, a children's room in a church, was chilly.
We perched on adult sized chairs, but around the edges of the room sat little plastic chairs in primary colors, looking as if they are there waiting for us to retreat back to our pasts at a moment's notice.
This was scary stuff we are about to undertake.
These were the beginning moments of forty hours of training as hospital chaplains, compassionate listeners who were to issue forth into the local hospitals and extended care facilities, providing a quiet ear for people struggling with illness, loneliness and death.
Our first exercise, even before introductions, was to sit in silence for three minutes.
It felt like an hour.
People sighed, feet shuffled, stomachs grumbled, throats cleared.
I found myself wanting to squirm, to sneak peeks at the others.
My knee itched.
Certainly I was not sitting with an empty mind, which I (wrongfully) assumed was the purpose, although we had not been told so.
My mind headed toward the little chairs, a child unable to behave even for a minute.
I was sure I was failing the exercise.
In the end I did not fail that exercise, nor any others the training presented.
Eventually I assumed my role as a non-denominational lay chaplain in an assisted living facility.
During my time as chaplain to the aged and ill my training continued in unexpected ways.
When you take the time to listen to those who often do not have the pleasure of just talking, you learn all sorts of things.
One dear old lady repeated her story each time I met her, a story that broke my heart every week.
Yet she told it with dignity and a certain peaceful acceptance I found hard to fathom.
A flirtatious old resident declined surgery to remove a gangrenous toe, choosing instead to meet his maker with all parts still attached.
The peace of mind with which he talked about this decision that ultimately hastened his death was inspiring.
And until the end he continued to flirt outrageously.
Usually after checking in I would first visit a woman around my age who was dying of bone cancer.
She loved to talk of her life prior to her illness.
She also had quite a philosophical side and would broach surprisingly thought-provoking questions.
During one of my last visits with her she wondered if you stared at a blade of grass long enough whether or not you would see its soul.
Not long after that this marvelous woman died, but her question has lingered in my mind, along with the memory of how she seemed to experience such peaceful moments in spite of her deteriorating condition.
The chaplain role was deeply challenging for me and emotionally draining.
Eventually I needed to take a sabbatical, a sabbatical that in the end became permanent.
The work proved to be too tough for me.
But the lives and deaths and lessons of the residents I visited with remain part of my daily life.
If I could award each person on my visit list a Nobel Peace Prize I would do it in a heartbeat.
Each in their own way taught me something about acceptance and gratitude, and that coming to peace with your life, regardless of the circumstances or when you do it, reaches out and touches others.
And when the heart is at peace the world is at peace.
One moment at a time, one heart at a time, peace IS possible.