Connecting with Rev. Nathan Kohashi
While retirement may have changed Rev. Nathan Kohashi’s routine, it has not changed the heart behind it. Since retiring from ministry in 2024, life has slowed. Physically, each day requires more effort. His balance is less steady than it once was, getting around now takes planning, and his voice is quieter. However, despite those changes, his presence remains thoughtful, engaged, and attuned to the people around him.
“Cognitively, I’m doing okay,” he says with gentle assurance. What he notices most is not what has been lost but what remains: another day, another chance to connect. His gratitude has only grown stronger, a feeling that has stayed with him throughout his life in ministry.
When asked about the legacy he hopes to leave, Rev. Kohashi does not speak in terms of programs, titles, or milestones. Instead, he offers a simple metaphor. “There’s a saying about camping, leave a place better than you found it,” he reflects. “I want to leave a person a little better than when I first met them.”
It became a quiet guiding principle: every encounter matters. Each conversation, no matter how brief, carries the possibility of kindness and encouragement. Legacy, to him, is not something declared, but something lived.
Looking back on his years in ministry, no single defining moment stands out. What stands out instead is how often things could have gone differently. “I look back now and think of all the times I could have turned left instead of right,” he says. “I’m humbled by how many times God stepped in without me knowing.” Rather than crediting his own decisions, he speaks of being guided, sometimes protected from mistakes he never even realized he was about to make. That awareness has left him not proud, but deeply humble.
That humility shaped how he worked with others, especially in community. One of the experiences he remembers most fondly is initiating chaplaincy programs through Pacific Health Ministry (PHM) at two hospitals that had never had chaplains before. Just as meaningful, however, was discovering the strength of working as part of a team through PHM. “The team effort is what really helps,” he says. “When you’re excited, they learn with you. When you’re struggling, they support you. When you’re unsure, they walk forward with you.”
One of the most important lessons he learned with PHM is the power of vulnerability. Letting go of the need to appear strong opened the door to shared wisdom. Sometimes the clarity he needed did not come directly from advice, but from listening and hearing different perspectives. That lesson proved invaluable in the most difficult moments of his ministry.
He recalls supporting a woman who had been hurt by her partner. She trusted him with her story but pleaded with him not to report it, fearing further harm. Unsure how to proceed, he turned to fellow chaplains for guidance. Their differing opinions did not provide a simple answer, but through the process of sharing, reflection, and trust, a path emerged that honored her dignity and safety. In time, she found her voice again, testified, and began to reclaim her life.
In another moment, a nurse caring for a dying patient came to him, overwhelmed by grief. She felt powerless, unable to stop what was coming. He helped her see that while she could not change the outcome, she could shape the experience through compassionate care, being present, and giving the family peace of mind. “She realized she wasn’t helpless,” he says. “She could still make a difference.”
These moments reflect what he believes chaplaincy and leadership offer – the ability to help others recognize their own capacity to care, even when circumstances feel overwhelming.
If there is one thing he hopes his community remembers most, it is that he created space for others to shine. “I hope people remember that I gave them a forum to find their gifts,” he says. “And to use them.”
That belief shaped even the smallest details of his work. He made a point of not staying hidden in an office, but of walking the halls, checking in with staff, and noticing how people were really doing. Presence, he believed, was never incidental, but essential.
Even compassion itself could take unexpected forms. He remembers praying with a patient who was anxious about her hospital room, convinced it was haunted. Rather than dismissing her fear, he met it with kindness. Together, they prayed not in fear, but in peace and for whatever spirit might still linger there. By the next visit, her anxiety had softened into empathy.
Now, in retirement, he has been surprised by how little has truly changed. Friends visit often. Former PHM and church colleagues check in. Hospital leaders he never expected to hear from still remember his work. One even sent flowers a year after his departure, a simple gesture that meant a lot. “I didn’t expect that,” he admits. “To know I made enough of a difference that they still think of chaplaincy and of me fondly.”
Despite living with a progressive condition, there is no bitterness. Only gratitude for the people who show up, for the work that mattered, and for the continued opportunity to connect.
His message, like his ministry, is quiet but enduring – every person can make a difference. Every day offers another chance to care. And every encounter, no matter how small, holds the power to leave someone a little better than before.
