It is a dark night and I am following a woman I do not know to her home. I shadow her closely. I am nervous about our ensuing encounter. I follow her up the driveway and pull in behind her. We get out of our cars and our eyes meet. "Thank you for coming, this is very nice of you," she says. I assure her that it is no problem. Once inside her home, still feeling the tension of the situation, I sit down on a couch in a spacious living room. "I will be fine," the woman says to me, "but it helps to not have to come into the house alone." I ask a few questions about her husband, who passed away about an hour ago.

I am a volunteer chaplain at the hospital. Sometimes, when I am on call, I get asked to come and attend to a need. That evening I received a phone call from the switchboard. I never know what to expect, I just go. That’s my job. I just know that whatever it is, they probably wouldn’t be calling me if it was good news.

Indeed, I found a woman at the bedside of a motionless man. Less than an hour later, after some clumsy attempts to bring comfort, a short prayer and a 10-minute drive, there I sat, listening to a bereaved woman reminisce about a man she was married to for over 40 years until tonight. How do two strangers end up sharing such a personal moment? The answer is pain and a calling.

On a wintry Saturday afternoon I stand outside the dressing room in the hallway of an old hockey arena as a team of 10-year-olds troop into the room inside. My fellow hockey parents offer words of encouragement to the kids as they stomp past having endured another sound beating.

I look over at the man beside me. I know him a bit. Our kids play hockey together; sometimes he attends my church. His demeanour tells me that our kids are not the only ones taking a beating these days.

"How’s it goin’?" I ask, looking directly at him. My voice implies that I am asking the question out of more than just courtesy; I am open to an honest response. There in a dimly lit hallway, with wintercoated people and youngsters struggling with overpacked hockey bags streaming by, he shares about his week, the stress of being a small business owner, and having a father slowly dying of cancer in a town two hours away.

After several minutes we move away from the wall and into the small, crowded dressing room where we find our sons unlacing skates. I offer a word of encouragement and we agree to get together for a coffee. How do two men end up sharing such a deep part of their hearts in the hallway of a bustling hockey rink? Again, the answer is pain and a calling.

A pastor’s calling to shepherd people will inevitably intersect with their pain. At those times I am highly aware that I am nobody special. I lack answers and confidence. I do know, however, that I cannot run away. I have been called to this. My calling connects with someone’s pain. In those times, the one I have the privilege of sharing the moment with supplies the pain; I supply the calling to listen, love, serve and pray.

In a park, a woman’s eyes meet mine. She is walking toward me. She smiles; she’s very brave. I know that she is not really in a smiling mood. I do not know her well, but I do know that less than a month ago she gave birth to a baby. The baby was born dead. Again two realities intersect. Two people, one a woman courageously carrying pain and the other a pastor trying faithfully to carry a calling.

Lee Beach has been a pastor for 16 years. He currently serves as associate teaching pastor at Scarborough Centre Alliance Church in Toronto.