That’s when the name-badge on the chaplain’s neatly pressed shirt triggered a flashback to a conversation I’d shared with another chaplain some 20 years before. You see, this wasn’t my first stent in a psychiatric hospital, so much as a replay of a residential eating disorder program I’d undertaken my freshman year of college. I, a slightly obnoxious agnostic-anorexic endurance athlete at the time, came to appreciate visits from the resident chaplain, who would stop by to pray for the patients and entertain my philosophical ponderings.