Sunday mornings look a little different for me. On Sundays, instead of getting dressed for church, I'm putting on scrubs. Instead of sitting in a pew, I'm walking hospital halls. Instead of hearing a sermon, I'm listening to call bells, monitors, worried families, and patients who are having some of the hardest days of their lives.
I've struggled with that before.
There is a part of me that feels like Sunday should look a certain way. Church. Family. Rest. Time spent intentionally with God.
But lately I've been thinking about something different.
What if sometimes the place God has put me is exactly where I'm supposed to serve Him?
Being a nurse gives me access to people in incredibly vulnerable moments. They're scared. They're hurting. Some are lonely. Some are frustrated. Some haven't had anyone sit down and really listen to them all day.
And no, I can't stand at the bedside and preach a sermon. Truthfully, I'm the one who needs the preaching. But I can show my faith in the way I care for the person in front of me.
I can be patient when someone is difficult.
I can preserve someone's dignity when they can't care for themselves.
I can explain something one more time when they're afraid.
I can pull up a chair instead of standing at the door.
I can be gentle with the confused patient who has asked me the same question fifteen times.
I can treat the person in the bed like a person instead of another task on my list.
And maybe that's one of the ways people are supposed to see Jesus in us.
Not because we're constantly talking about our faith, but because there should be something different about the way we love people.
Jesus didn't only love people when it was convenient. He noticed people others overlooked. He touched the sick. He had compassion for the hurting. He served.
That's something I'm still learning.
Because nursing can test every ounce of patience God gave you—and occasionally some ounces you're fairly certain He forgot to include. 😂
There are exhausting shifts. There are patients who are difficult to love. There are days when I'm overwhelmed, behind, hungry, tired, and just trying to keep everybody safe.
I'm certainly not going to pretend I handle every one of those moments perfectly.
But maybe that's part of my Sunday prayer:
Lord, help people see You in the way I treat them today.
Help me be patient when I'm frustrated.
Help me notice the person who needs a little more kindness.
Help me remember that the patient in front of me is somebody's moma, daddy, husband, wife, son, or daughter. Someone's friend.
Help me serve people well, not because they're always easy to serve, but because You have called me to love people.
Today, my Sunday won't be spent inside a church.
It'll be spent in scrubs.
And I'm beginning to understand that serving God isn't limited to a building. But that doesn't mean I don't need the church. I do. My children do, too. There is still so much I'm learning myself, and I can't always teach what I don't yet understand or put into words. I need people who know His Word better than I do to help teach us, guide us, and grow our family closer to Him.
Maybe part of growing in faith is realizing we need both: a place to be taught and strengthened, and a world outside those walls where we get to live it out.
And sometimes our mission field looks a whole lot like the place we clock into.
“And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men.” — Colossians 3:23
Love,
Fowler Homestead
