One afternoon, I stepped into the Psychiatric Emergency Department (Psych ED) of the small city hospital where I served as a Buddhist chaplain.

The Psych ED is a deeply spiritual place—a space where people confront life’s hardest questions: Should I keep going? Can I change? Is there hope? There, you find children labeled with disorders, overworked staff balancing compassion with exhaustion, and family members clinging to faith. There’s dark humor, whispered prayers, and, always, the presence of God.

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That day, my attention was drawn to a teenage girl lying on a gurney in the hallway, her forearms wrapped in bandages. Beside her sat an older woman, her hands twisting anxiously in her lap. She introduced herself as the girl’s grandmother before stepping away to give us space.

Though we were not truly alone, our brief conversation held weight. I asked about her scars, what she had used, and how it had felt. I noticed the earrings she had crafted from paper clips. She answered sparingly but without shutting me out. Before long, our time was up, and I went to find her grandmother.

Her eyes shone with relief. “I’m so glad you came,” she said. “I was praying and praying to God for help, and then you walked in.” Something had lifted in her.

I was humbled. I had been so focused on the patient that I’d momentarily forgotten a simple truth: spiritual care is for everyone. Healing moves in unexpected ways, sometimes appearing in the smallest, most fleeting moments.

Even the act of unwrapping her bandages had meaning—the delicate unraveling mirroring the complexities of her family ties. It was also an unspoken plea: See me.

Again and again, we forget how connected we are—how deeply we affect one another in ways we may never fully understand. In hospital chaplaincy, we serve patients, families, and staff alike. And sometimes, in these quiet, chance encounters, we are reminded of just how much we all need each other to heal.