Sitting elbow to elbow in a small conference room early one morning, a dozen or so hospital workers study files and histories to decide how best to care for patients in the nearby oncology ward.

Joining the daily ritual at Little Company of Mary Hospital in Torrance are nurses, dietitians, physical therapists, hospice workers and other medical professionals, who take turns gauging the best course to help comfort the sick people in their care.

At a far end of the table, two women quietly take notes to prepare for their rounds through the sterile hospital corridors. But they're not health-care providers. Unlike others in the room, South Bay residents Judith Sommerstein and Ruth Belonsky won't be administering medicine.

They'll be ministering to souls.

As hospital chaplains, their job is to provide spiritual counseling and guidance to the injured, the sick and the dying.

The two friends are part of a cadre of chaplains who visit every patient at the hospital. Like the rest, they offer solace, comfort and spiritual counseling.

But there's something about Belonsky and Sommerstein that sets them apart from their peers. With the small knit skull caps they wear pinned on their heads, there's no mistaking the fact that they're Jewish.

And with religious icons scattered throughout the lobby and a Christian cross as part of its logo, there's no mistaking the fact that Little Company is a Catholic hospital.

After the morning meeting, the group splits up. Sommerstein and Belonsky head off in di

fferent directions. In a few minutes, they will gently tap on a patient's door, poke their heads in to introduce themselves and ask if there is anything they can do.

A visit can be as short as a few seconds -- not everybody wants the company -- but the chaplains will stay with a patient who wants to talk for as long as they need. Some conversations are quiet and respectful, others friendly and filled with laughter.

The chaplains are ferociously protective about what happens inside a patient's room. Discussions can be profoundly personal, and gaining someone's trust is vital to their work. A patient may want to talk about something they would never say to a loved one, especially when they are facing their own mortality in places like the oncology ward.

"Sometimes the patients don't want to talk in front of their families," Belonsky said. "They don't want their families to suffer. They need someone else to talk to."

While Belonsky steps into a room and pulls the drapes for privacy, Sommerstein takes the family of a dying man into the lobby to offer some relief. They hold hands and bow their heads in prayer. If a patient asks for a chaplain of a particular religion, one will be sent to them. But for most patients, religion is less important than the search for God and the meaning of life.

"I had a Jewish patient who wanted to talk theology," Sommerstein said. "One patient wanted to talk about his lack of faith in God."

For Sommerstein and Belonsky, becoming hospital chaplains was the culmination of a midlife spiritual journey they started together a few years ago. Their backgrounds are vastly different, but they share a deep faith, a strong friendship, and have been through good and bad times together.

A musician and political activist, 63-year-old Ruth Belonsky moved to the South Bay in 1979 after leaving her native South Africa, where apartheid was a government-approved way of life. Her family was forced out because of her outreach to the country's black majority. She grew up in a religious home, but became disillusioned with members of her temple when they were reluctant to support her cause.

"When we came here, I lost every connection I had with the Jewish community," she said.

Sommerstein spent years working as a career counselor in Torrance.

Religion was part of the women's lives, but not a driving force. And yet, they both felt something tugging deep inside.

"My parents did not belong to a synagogue," Sommerstein said. "But I always had spiritual yearnings."

The two met about 10 years ago when Sommerstein was president of the Jewish Federation Southern Region in the South Bay and she invited Belonsky to talk about the evils of apartheid.

Sommerstein knew about a man in Lomita who was alone and suffering from Lou Gehrig's disease. She knew that Belonsky, with her warm eyes and nurturing spirit, would be the perfect person to check up on him.

It was a turning point for Belonsky.

"I found myself saying I would visit him," she said.

Around the same time, a rabbi asked Sommerstein to develop a healing component for her temple's Friday night service.

"That was the beginning of my interest in working with the ill," she said. "I saw the impact it had. That was the trigger for me."

The die was cast for the two friends. It had taken years for them to reach this point, but they both feel it was something they were destined to do. "These things don't just happen to us," Belonsky said. "The more I look at my life, the more I see there are no accidents."

Like her friend, Sommerstein believes she was summoned to the path that brought her to the bedsides of hospital patients.

"I feel I was called," Sommerstein said. "I don't know how I would have made this decision otherwise. All of my work in social services, battered women, homeless shelters, it was a path, but I didn't know it. This is not a career for me, it's a calling."

If there are no accidents in their lives, then it was no coincidence that just as the pair were ready to take the next spiritual step, the Academy for Jewish Religion, California, was gearing up to start a chaplain program. A chaplain is someone who works in a religious capacity, often in the military, a prison or hospital, but is not affiliated with a specific church, temple or mosque.

"The only chaplaining option was full-time rabbinic school," Sommerstein said. "I plucked up my courage and called Mel Gottlieb."

Gottlieb, a rabbi at the Academy for Jewish Religion, where no class for chaplains had ever been taught before, helped set up a program a few years ago after realizing there weren't enough rabbis around to meet the need for chaplains.

The only difference between studying to become a full-fledged rabbi and a chaplain is the time involved. While it takes five years of study to become a rabbi, chaplains do it in three. It's a master's degree program in Jewish studies.

"They take a lot of courses to develop skills in Judaic knowledge, how to counsel people, and develop a whole way of acting in the world of elevating people's souls and improving society," Gottlieb said. "They have to know how to work with death and dying, how to impart meaning and be a good listener. They help people during those times when they struggle with meaning."

Students then train an additional two years in places most people would rather avoid.

"They get to work with people in nursing homes and recovery centers," Gottlieb said. "Some can be even placed in prisons."

Of the five people who started the program, three graduated.

"It's rigorous and there are standards to be met," Belonsky said. "It takes a lot of soul-searching."

That Belonsky and Sommerstein wound up at a Catholic hospital was of little consequence to them. They wanted to help people in need no matter where those people choose to worship.

"I was with a Catholic patient who was waiting for a spiritual presence," Belonsky said. "It didn't matter what faith I was."

And if it does matter, the hospital will connect the patient with the proper religious leader.

"Buddhist priests have come, those of the Islamic faith," said hospital Administrator Michael Hunn, a former priest. "Regardless of religion, we are going to treat everybody with compassion and respect."

Sometimes religion isn't even mentioned. The patients, not the chaplains, decide what direction the discussions go in.

Florence Quintanar, who was recovering from open-heart surgery, just wanted to spend a few minutes chatting.

"We talked about my children," said the 69-year-old Lawndale resident.

After learning that lavender was Quintanar's favorite color, Belonsky tracked down some violet rosary beads to give her.

Meanwhile, Sommerstein was consoling the family of a man who was nearing death.

"I was helping them to see that whatever time he had left, to make it as meaningful as possible," she said. "None of us knows how much time we have left. None of us."

When it came time to pray, Sommerstein bowed her head and joined along. But since the family was Christian, she led them in an ecumenical prayer.

Something they sometimes need to remind their patients is that although they are sharing personal thoughts, the relationship is a professional one. Once a patient leaves the hospital, the visits stop.

Sommerstein and Belonsky, who in March will transfer to the Little Company campus in San Pedro, also had to learn to deal with their own hurt feelings when a patient says they're not needed. If that happens, they quietly leave, but make sure the people understand that they will be available if they change their minds.

"I had to learn to deal with rejection," Belonsky said. "Some people say, 'I don't want to have anything to do with God, religion or you.' "

If having Jewish chaplains in a Catholic institution seems an unlikely marriage, it fits perfectly with the hospital's mission.

"We serve people of all faiths," Hunn said. "Our mission is to reveal God's love for all, particularly the poor and the vulnerable. We want to make sure we show everybody compassion, respect, excellence, justice and stewardship."

Encounters with the sick take their toll on health-care practitioners. Chaplains are often called to help hospital personnel deal with the stresses and sadness of their jobs, especially when they are unable to help a patient in need.

"We have instances where a child will come to us very ill," Hunn said. "They may not be able to recover or maybe died as a result of injury. Our chaplains are there to help our doctors and our staff."

After spending time with a patient, both women need a few minutes alone to recharge their own spiritual batteries. But it also leaves them with an appreciation of their own lives.

"Things that annoyed me a few years ago, sometimes they get to me, but rarely so," Belonsky said. "It's all relative. You put it in perspective."

Sommerstein agreed. What they do is difficult and challenging, but like they said, it's something they feel they were called to do.

"I come home and everything is in Technicolor," Sommerstein said. "When you see what I see, nothing is bad. It's very hard, but I get more than I give. My life becomes more precious."