The Nurse and the Community

By Chayah Sparsham (pseudonym), a registered nurse in the United States.

This essay is the final part of a three-part series. Although each piece can stand alone, we encourage you to read part one and two to get a full picture of Chayah’s contributions.

“Those who regard worthless idols forsake their own mercy.” (Jonah 2:8)

Is it safe to say that in the Asian Christian community, the worthless idol may be our own community? We say we are Christians, yet we worship what we honor. We worship reputation. We worship marriage prospects, careers, trajectories, church standing and the opinions of aunties and uncles. We say Jesus is Lord, but the moment faithful obedience threatens family image we choose secrecy instead of truth. So if we are called to a field by Jesus alone, but the call He has called you to defies honor, defies reputation, and threatens marriage prospects, threatens careers, threatens church standing, and threatens cultural opinions, what do you choose? My conviction stands in one place, with Christ alone, to be a light in the world of psychiatry, amongst the darkest of individuals. Yet, the Asian Christian community I stem from, has frowned upon this as a call. Allow me to share a few moments that continue to weigh on my heart.

“Thank God you left.”

“But I’m planning to go back.”

“No, don’t ever. Its flaws run deeper than they first appear.”

Oh, Asian ministry leader.

I remember your face before your words. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, as if bracing yourself. It was a sigh of relief–the kind taken by someone who believes they are protecting someone else from danger. You spoke with disturbance. You spoke with finality. You spoke with love, to the extent you understood.

But I stood there unsettled, because what you were warning me against was not sin. You were warning against obedience.

So if we are called to a field by Jesus alone, but the call He has called you to defies honor, defies reputation, and threatens marriage prospects, threatens careers, threatens church standing, and threatens cultural opinions, what do you choose?

Is this not the Great Commission? This urge to reach the lost, to stand with the broken, to speak hope into hopelessness, and refuse silence while so many suffer in the shadow of this dark world of mental illness. Is this not what Jesus commanded as He stood on the earth after the cross, scars still fresh. He said to go and make disciples of all nations. And, as He was going up to heaven, He placed the weight of the mission into human hands. Did I not tell you how clearly the Lord opened this door, Asian ministry leader? How prayer after prayer confirmed this decision of mine was not recklessness. It was calling. I did not choose the job lightly. I did not drift into it because every other door was closed. I did not step in out of curiosity. I was led. And I fear disobedience far more than I fear the darkness of the place I am called to walk into. I know I am going back. Not impulsively. Not stubbornly. But in His time. Under His authority.

“It’s been so long. What are you doing now, young one?”

“Pediatric psychiatry. Going to leave soon, then return back.”

“Oh boy, that’s not good. It’s not a good thing.”

Oh, Asian family friend.

Your face was serious. Older. Strong. Your words came swiftly, sternly, as though you were stating a universal truth. In your world, some professions are simply labeled as bad, especially the ones that deal with “Mental health”.

But I do not do this profession because it is good or not good. I do this because the Lord gave me this work. The Great Commission was never about cultural approval.

“This is why you can’t get married. I’m glad you left. It stopped a lot of people from considering you. No one wants someone who works in this field.”

Oh, Asian family member.

You said it plainly, as if marriage were the final measure of a faithful life. As if obedience were negotiable if it interfered with others’ desires. But I did not do this for marriage. And I will never lose a calling to be more desirable to a future prospect. I want a husband who covers me in prayer, knowing I am stepping into a mission field. The Great Commission was never meant to protect our image. It is costly.

“Can you pursue another field?”

Oh, Asian friend.

You sat there polished and put together. Trendy clothes. Perfect makeup. Slick hair. A smile that did not quite reach your eyes. You searched my face, hoping I would succumb to worldly ease.

But the Great Commission asks us to go. And going often means entering places people warn you away from. This work is not pleasant. Safety is unknown. The danger is profound. But Jesus never promised ease. He promised He would be with us.

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Well…”

“The mental, emotional, and spiritual warfare there. It can affect you–or your kids or your family– if you are not praying continuously. ”

Oh, Asian Gen Z.

You squinted, avoided eye contact, careful with your words. You gave valid advice --Mandating prayer isn’t refutable. This is why covering matters. I did not walk into this field because it is impressive. I did not walk into it for a following. I walked into it because the Lord made it undeniably crystal clear in prayer. The Great Commission will only be upheld by surrender.

“Can you do general pediatrics? I think it’s a great field. My mom asked.”

Oh, Asian future prospect in marriage who I no longer speak to.

I stared at your sweet smile on the screen. Button-up shirt. Crisp. Eyes looking to the corners of your room in the silence, clinging to hope that I would change my mind about working in this field. But this dear one, was never about what you wanted, what I wanted, or what your mother wanted. This is a divine calling and only Jesus assigns the divine calling.

“You can do psych if you really like it. How about at this hospital?”

Oh, Asian auntie.

You were driving. Jacket zipped, holding tightly to the steering wheel, chin down in your scarf. Focusing on the brisk cold air still in the car more than the awkwardness of silence. You suggested a prestigious place. Clean. Controlled. A hospital that protects its reputation. A place that does not take the worst cases. A place that avoids controversy. A place that is one unit in a medical hospital and not a full locked down facility, which I quickly learned provides two totally different experiences in psychiatry. It looks amazing on paper to come from there. But that is not where I was called. Great pay, great name, great safety, great benefits. It isn’t where I was called. At least not at that time. The Great Commission does not send us where it looks respectable. It sends us where people are breaking to the point where no one wants to go a foot near them. Not even another so called psychiatric unit.

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Writing this hurts.

I did not expect a wound I could feel in my body. A tightness in my chest. A heaviness that presses inward. Especially as someone who rarely feels emotion this deeply. But this wound is clearly felt.

It is a wound for the lost, broken, those labeled the worst of the worst.

It is also a wound for the Asian American Christian community. A community strong in doctrine and discipline. Strong in preaching holiness and separation regardless of denomination. It is embedded in us. Yet often hesitant when obedience, God ordained obedience requires lifelong inconvenience.

This pain is present because I realize so many may never follow their calling if it requires departing from comfort. This pain is present because I realize some may not remain faithful when obedience costs status or safety.

Can we for once, when the Lord of the universe calls for it, break luxury? Where is our fear for disobedience to Christ?

Can we remember what the Great Commission should look like on the ground?

I’m in pain as I write freshly. A pain that ascends from a piercing in my heart and radiates to the bridge of my nose as I tighten my muscles.

Because on the ground, I know the Great Commission does not look clean. Oh, Asian American Christian, stop being poche.

Romans 8:18 reads, “For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.”

The Great Commission to me looks like broken glass scattered across a unit floor. Bleeding forearms. A nurse being sent to the ED. Computer monitors ripped from desks and smashed against walls. Sheet rock dust in white smoke as more is being torn open, insulation exposed like bone. The loudspeaker blaring for help until the sound becomes constant. Chairs overturned. Papers soaked with spilled water and sweat. Yet, this suffering is minor to the glory that will be revealed.

This suffering is microscopic but to the everyday individual it does look like chaos.

It looks like the moment I saw a nurse thrown down to the ground three times in less than a minute with multiple punches to his chest. His body hitting wood. His face tight with pain and shock. It looks like a coworker pinned against a wall, breath caught, eyes wide, frozen in the split second where strength is lost. It looks like staff moving quickly but carefully. Muscles tense. Voices firm. Hands shake after the moment passes. Silence is heavy once the crisis ends. Everything cleaned up with no time to process what happens seven, eight, or nine times in a day. And wanting to flinch is frowned upon, is seen as weak, is seen as odd. Showing the love of Christ amongst coworkers who do not know Christ means I do not just make little sense to my patients in crisis, but to my fellow coworkers.

I write this in pain. As I remember the smell of disinfectant and adrenaline and broken doors. It feels like locked doors to units clicking shut with seconds between us and danger. It sounds like sobs and screams. It feels like standing in hallways where pain plays frisbee and trauma is not just a theory in class anymore.

And still, there is a divine pull.

Not loud. Not dramatic. A steady pull.

A drawing toward these locked units. Toward children who cannot name what hurts. Toward families breaking under the crushing weight of continuous torment. Toward places where dignity is stripped and humanity is still somehow not.

2 Corinthians 4:17 reads, “For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.”

The ache is heavy. Pressing. It sits beneath the ribs and does not leave. The ache has a peculiar peace, it outweighs and is light in affliction knowing whose name will be glorified.

The cross stands at the center of this.

Jesus did not move toward suffering reluctantly. He moved boldly. Wood scraping torn skin. Weight collapsing organs. Blood and dirt drenching his body. He entered pain knowingly. And as He ascended, He left behind no illusion of comfort. He left a commission that mirrored the cross.

On earth, it once looked like a fisherman leaving nets. Tax collectors leaving titles. Families leaving families. Safety no longer guaranteed. In Acts, it looked like persecution, exile, prison time, homelessness, hunger. Paul left education, honor, status, and wealth behind. He traded robes for rags and prestige for visible scars.

In comparison, the calling I am walking in is miniscule.

Yet, even this feels unbearable to some.

This painful ache, I cannot describe as I write. This pull to this group is not for success or admiration, but toward wounds that need tending and souls that have been abandoned.

This is why I go.

I go not for goodness.

I go not for an award.

I go not because the ache will one day loosen.

I go because the pull to continue in Christ’s calling does not release me.

I go because the One who sends me still has pierced hands.

And I follow, step by step, into places where light is thin, trusting the same hands once pierced now goes before me.

The ache has a peculiar peace, it outweighs and is light in affliction knowing whose name will be glorified.