5 pm. I checked the on-call list again. 👀 Who’s on my team? What surgeries might drop in tonight?
I told myself it’s just being responsible. But my heart knew better. The knot in my stomach wasn’t just about planning—it was worry trying to take control.
I prayed, but still kept refreshing the list. 😅 Until it hit me: no amount of checking can guarantee a smooth call.
Jesus reminded me He’s the one in charge, not me. His care doesn’t depend on perfect prep. 💛
That truth finally let me breathe. Full story’s on my blog 👉
Not long ago, I had an extended conversation with one of my juniors—a senior registrar in the final year of training—about what it really feels like to be on call. Her openness and the depth of our discussion reminded me how our professional growth and spiritual growth often move in parallel.
Early Days: Careful Preparation and a Desire to Be Responsible
When she first stepped into the registrar role, she would never go into a call without doing her “homework.”
Before each shift, she made it a point to find out who her house officer and medical officer were. Knowing her junior team in advance gave her a clearer mental map of how the night might unfold.
She also checked the emergency theatre list early, scanning for potential hip fractures, polytraumas, or complicated cases. If she anticipated something major, she would read up on the steps of the surgery, mentally running through each part of the procedure.
It reminded me of an athlete before his first race: rehearsing pacing strategies, picturing every turn of the track. Likewise, a junior senior doctor rehearses the key steps of a hip fixation or trauma operation. Her goal wasn’t to show off but to be a responsible leader for the team and for the patients entrusted to her.
How Anxiety Shaped Those Habits
Behind that diligence, she admitted, was a quiet but real anxiety. No one can honestly say they feel exactly the same on a call day as on a free evening. The unknowns—emergencies that arrive unannounced, surgeries that stretch past midnight, decisions that carry weight—naturally stir the heart.
Checking the team’s seniority gave her a sense of preparedness. If she knew she had experienced juniors, she could focus on the complex cases. If she sensed the team was very new, she could plan when to review the wards, when to grab meals, and how to pace the night so that everyone stayed safe and cared for.
I appreciated her vulnerability in naming what many of us feel but rarely put into words. Beneath the surface of every “just another call” is a very human mix of duty and unease.
Growing Through Experience and Exposure
Fast forward two to three years, and the pattern has shifted. Now, she rarely checks who is on the team or pores over every case in advance. The difference is not carelessness but growth.
Experience teaches that the unpredictable will happen no matter how much you read the night before. Exposure to countless team combinations and surgical surprises builds an inner steadiness. Like a seasoned runner who lines up for a familiar distance without overthinking the course, she now trusts her training and instincts.
There is something beautiful about that slow transformation. It shows that medical training really does what it is meant to do—shape competence and confidence over time.
Where the Christian Faith Speaks In
Yet as we talked, another layer emerged. What does this progression look like through the lens of faith?
First, we can thank God for the order He built into creation. Just as muscles strengthen with repeated training, skills deepen with faithful practice. Sanctification—the process of becoming more like Christ—unfolds in a similar way. We do not wake up fully patient or fearless overnight. We grow, often imperceptibly, through ordinary days and repeated trust.
For the junior doctor staring down a daunting call, this is a freeing truth. God is not rushing our development. The slow, steady pattern of growth is His design.
The Limits of Human Experience
Still, no amount of experience can remove all uncertainty. No one can guarantee that the next call will spare you a multi-fracture trauma at 3 a.m., or that every procedure will proceed without complication. Preparation can reduce anxiety, but it cannot eliminate it.
This is where the gospel brings deeper rest. Our security is not in a perfect team list or a flawless plan but in a sovereign God who knows our limits, provides wisdom at the right time, and is present when cases spiral beyond our control.
Faith in Christ does not promise a smooth call or a full night’s sleep. Instead, it promises something better: that every circumstance—whether calm or chaotic—will be used for our ultimate good, shaping us to know His presence and trust His care.
True Rest for an Anxious Mind
I left that conversation grateful. Grateful for the growth that years of training bring. But even more grateful for a God whose sovereignty and goodness never shift.
As surgeons, we can—and should—be diligent and responsible. Yet our deepest peace is not in preparation or seniority. It is in the unshakable truth that the Lord watches over every operating theatre, every patient, every sleepless night.
That is where anxious hearts finally find rest.