For the last decade of his ministry, my father — the Rev. Bert Mattingly — was the Southern Baptist chaplain at the Texas Children’s Hospital. He assisted at several other facilities in the Texas Medical Center in downtown Houston, working with chaplains representing a number of other churches and traditions.

I went to work with him several times. During one visit, we passed a small sitting room and my father said this was his private “crash” spot where he would go when he was overwhelmed and needed to pull himself together. Each of the chaplains had a safe place like this and only the chaplains receptionist knew these locations. (This was before cellphones were omnipresent.)

I also remember lots of prayers and the big questions. A hospital chaplain prays all the time, especially in a facility full of families with children facing cancer or leukemia.

There’s no way around the fact that most of a chaplain’s prayers are linked to big, eternal questions that never go away. Questions like this: Why is this happening to my child? Where is God in all of this pain? Does God understand that I’m scared? What do I do with my guilt and my anger? Is heaven real?

I thought about my father (and a beloved uncle who was a hospital chaplain for half a century) as we recorded this week’s “Crossroads” podcast (click here to tune that in). That’s easy to understand, since we were talking about a massive USA Today Network feature — from The Louisville Courier-Journal — that ran with this title: “ 'Hurry, he's dying': A chaplain’s journal chronicles a pandemic's private wounds.”

This is a remarkable feature story, in terms of human drama and suffering. It was built on the kind of source reporters dream about, in terms of a body of written material packed with dates, times, places and human interactions — a chaplain’s personal journal of the coronavirus crisis.

Yes, this is a stunning story. The writing is first rate. However, it’s strangely silent when it comes to the content of this chaplain’s ministry — in terms of the big questions and the prayers that follow This Norton Healthcare chaplain has no specific faith tradition, church or approach to theology. Readers never even learn if Adam Ruiz is ordained and, if so, by whom. My research online found a clue that he might be part of the mainline Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.). Here is a crucial chunk of the intro material in this feature:

Like colleagues across the country, Ruiz’s already tough job providing spiritual care amid loss had grown exponentially more difficult. Illness and death multiplied. Fear and uncertainty gripped front-line doctors and nurses. Visitor restrictions meant suffocating isolation for patients and families. Grief was interrupted, funerals denied. A mountain of need sprang up overnight.