When people hear that I’m both a man of faith and a practicing emergency room physician, they sometimes imagine those two worlds living in separate boxes. One box for Sunday mornings and another for weekday trauma calls. But the truth is, they are deeply intertwined. My faith doesn’t sit off to the side. It walks with me into every shift, every patient room, every tough decision. And if I’m being honest, it’s often what keeps me grounded in a field that can easily wear a person down.

I’ve been in emergency medicine for nearly three decades now. I’ve seen more than my share of broken bodies and broken hearts. There’s a rawness to the ER that strips away a lot of the fluff in life. People come in at their worst moments—scared, hurting, angry, confused. It’s holy ground in its own way. You see life begin and end in that space. And in all of it, I’ve come to believe that faith isn’t just relevant there—it’s essential.

A Different Kind of Strength

There’s a certain stoicism that’s expected in medicine, especially in the emergency room. We’re trained to stay calm, to stay objective, to act quickly and efficiently no matter what’s unfolding in front of us. But underneath that professional surface, we’re still human. And the weight of what we see and carry doesn’t just disappear after a shift.

That’s where my faith steps in. I don’t have the strength on my own to handle everything this job demands. But I do believe in a strength that comes from outside of me—a strength rooted in something deeper than skill or knowledge or training. I believe God shows up in hospital rooms, even when the outcome isn’t what we hoped. I’ve seen peace show up in families who should be falling apart. I’ve watched healing take place in ways that go far beyond what we can explain medically.

There are moments in this work where I feel helpless. I don’t have the answers. I can’t change the diagnosis. I can’t undo the accident. But I can pray, and I can love. I can be present. And often, that’s what people remember most—not the medical facts, but the compassion that came with them.

The Silent Prayers in Hallways

I don’t preach in the ER. That’s not my role. But I pray. Quietly. Often silently in my heart. I pray for wisdom when the diagnosis isn’t clear. I pray for steadiness when the pressure’s mounting. I pray for peace in the trauma bay when chaos is swirling around us. And sometimes, I pray with patients—if they ask, if the moment calls for it.

Faith may not change the outcome,but it changes how we walk through them. It reminds us that we’re not alone, even when we feel overwhelmed. It reminds us that every patient is more than a chart—they’re someone made in the image of God, worthy of dignity, care, and love.

Carrying Hope into Hard Places

One of the hardest parts of this job is dealing with death. No matter how many years you’ve done it, telling someone that their loved one didn’t make it never gets easy. And it shouldn’t. But faith gives me a framework for those conversations. It reminds me that death isn’t the end. That there’s something beyond this life. And that even in grief, there can be hope.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers. And I certainly don’t pretend to understand why some prayers seem to go unanswered. But I trust that God is near, even when it doesn’t feel like it. That He’s working in ways we can’t always see. And that part of my calling as a doctor is to be a vessel of that presence in some small way.

There are days when my faith is stretched thin. When the losses pile up. When the system feels broken. When I leave work wondering if I made any difference at all. But even in those moments, there’s a stillness that returns when I slow down and remember who I belong to, and why I started this work in the first place.

A Life of Service, A Life of Faith

I didn’t get into medicine for recognition or accolades. I got into it because I believe in service. And my faith is what taught me that service matters. That people matter. That showing up in someone’s darkest hour and offering them comfort—even if it’s just through presence or eye contact—is a holy act.

Every shift, I walk into the ER carrying my stethoscope and my training. But I also carry my faith. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t come with easy answers. But it’s real. And in this messy, unpredictable, beautiful work, it’s been my anchor.

In the trenches of emergency medicine, where the margins are thin and the stakes are high, I’ve found that faith isn’t just something to believe in—it’s something to live by.

And it’s what keeps me coming back.