Final column Oct 3

Thank you for Walking With Me

 

"Happy Birthday," my wife sweetly whispered as we woke.

 

"How does it feel?" Becky asked.

 

"What? Being 68?"

 

"No. How does it feel to be footloose and deadline free. Your newspapers just published your last column today."

 

"Feels like I just lost a lot of friends."

 

"Maybe not. Aren't you going to stay in touch with readers through weekly email?"

 

"I hope so," I said.

 

"Plus, some readers will be joining you on the Chispa volunteer trips next year."

 

She's right.

 

I've always felt that you, my readers, walked along side me. Even though anyone in earshot would think I was talking to myself, I was often talking to you.

 

We began our conversations in 2002 as I left active-duty Air Force and restarted my hospital chaplain career.

 

From that beginning, I feel we have been walking the hospital halls together. Those years were not easy ones for me, but I felt encouraged just knowing that you were listening. You responded with kindness and understanding as I recounted my ministry with pediatric cancer patients, premature babies, parents who lost children, and children who lost parents.

 

On other days, we found a moment to laugh together, chuckling over the military hat I lost in the toilet, over my unintentional theft of toilet paper, and my OCD that had me noting expired license plate stickers.

 

And even though I employed the help of a freelance editor, you still corrected my spelling, my grammar, and my punctuation. You factchecked my references to movies, songs, books, and ouch, even Bible verses.

 

You prayed for me as I made death notifications for Iraq war KIAs. I felt like you followed me to Iraq as you sent hundreds of care packages to the service members serving with me at Joint Base Balad.

 

You were there for my biggest losses — my mother-in-law to a stroke in 2011, my brother, Milton, to COVID in 2020, my best friend, Roger, in 2020 to cancer and my mother last year from natural causes.

 

Still, through all that trauma, we managed to share a lot of fun the last 23 years as you read my column in over 50 papers — Alabama, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Florida, Indiana, Michigan, Missouri, Nevada, New York, Ohio, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, Washington, Wisconsin, and even Ontario Canada.

 

Readers in those states invited me to speak in their churches, schools, clubs and veteran events. They read my books, bought them, donated them to troops, and one Florida church even commissioned me to write one.

 

Along the way, I snagged a few awards from the Amy Foundation, the National Society of Newspaper Columnists and the Religion Newswriters Association, BUT, I'm forever most proud of the award you gave me.

 

I say, "You" because it was solely your response to Chispa Project that sent me to New York in 2019 to receive the Will Rogers Humanitarian Award "… for positively affecting readers' lives and producing tangible humanitarian benefits."

 

Now this last column is your recognition for positively infuencing my life!

 

But alas, I won't stop writing entirely. I'll still appear weekly in the two newspapers closest to my home, The Union in Grass Valley, Calif., and the Auburn Journal of Auburn, Calif. Of course, I'll share these columns with everyone who signs up for my email list.

So, don't lose touch.

 

Get my weekly muse by sending an email to comment@thechaplain.net. Or sign yourself up at www.thechaplain.net/newsletter. Remember to spell chaplain correctly, not chaplin. We've talked about this.

 

Finally, please continue to support Chispa Project either by donating or volunteering for a trip in 2026 as they get ready for the next Honduran school year. Find info at chispaproject.org.

 

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All of my books can still be ordered on Amazon. Autographed copies can be obtained on my website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602. Email me at norris@thechaplain.net.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spiritual column for Sept 26

Finding New Challenges in Retirement

In October 2001, Florida Today editor Tom Clifford asked me to write a spiritual response to the 9/11 tragedy. 

"That's easy," I told him. "I'll whip that right up."

NO, I did not say that.

I struggled and dug into my soul that week and was overwhelmingly humbled by the response. Two weeks later, Tom officially began publishing my weekly column he titled, "Spirituality in Everyday Life."

Within six months, national editors at Gannett liked my combination of humor and spirituality enough to syndicate it in over 50 papers, landing weekly on nearly a million kitchen tables.

During the past twenty-four years of writing, this column has survived the layoffs of hundreds of editors and staff writers. I've pushed fourteen years past the ten-year average of most columnists.

So, maybe it's time to retire. 

But how do you know when it's time to retire?

That question haunts a lot of professionals as they wonder just how much greater they can become.  

For a print columnist writing in the post-covid world of dwindling circulation, the answer comes a bit easier. Retire yesterday.

I say "yesterday" because, after COVID, many of my newspapers were unable to pay this columnist. Fortunately for us both, they accepted my offer to continue pro bono.

But pay has not influenced my desire to retire. That guidance comes from Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist Mary Schmich who recently retired from the Chicago Tribune after 23 years. She advises fellow columnists to ask themselves, "Do I feel lucky to write a column this week?" 

Or do I often say, "I have to write a column this week, again."  

For the past few years, it's often been the latter. And, if I'm being honest, I've been rerunning several old columns, something I like to call, "Self-plagiarizing."

Still, I've learned a great deal from both critics and champions of this column.

Schmich says that "No matter what you write, there will be people who love it and people who hate it. Only the ratio changes."

My love/hate ratio has changed over recent years, especially as I endorsed vaccines and spoke against Christian Nationalism. 

But I do think I've followed Schmich's best advice: "Be careful not to pointlessly—I emphasize pointlessly—alienate the people who care about what you write."

And now my wife, Becky has only one question. "Is your retirement for real this time?"

She watched as I "retired" from the military but went to work for the VA hospital.

She engages the quotation marks as she recalls how I "retired" from hospital chaplaincy, only to go into hospice work.  

"Retired" from hospice and currently pastoring a church.

SO, I guess I'm not fully and completely "retired."

The cliché has some meaning, when I say "God ain't finished with me yet." 

I'll remain as pastor of my small church in the California foothills, even as attendance soars past 22 people. In some form, I'll continue to email both old and new writing to readers who've signed on. 

And of course, I'll redouble my efforts with Chispa Project.

For now, I have two favors to ask of you.

First, sign up to receive my weekly muse by sending me a quick email to comment@thechaplain.net. Or just sign yourself up at www.thechaplain.net/newsletter. Remember to spell chaplain correctly, not chaplin. We've talked about this.

Second, consider helping Chispa Project either by donating or volunteering for a trip in 2026 as they get ready for the next Honduran school year.  Find info at chispaproject.org.

See you next week as I return for my swan song.

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Be sure and order one of my books on Amazon. Autographed copies can be obtained on my website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602. 

 

 

Spiritual column for Sept 12

Readers: I began writing this syndicated column October 2001. Now, after 24 years, I'm retiring the column on October 12^th. You can stay in touch by joining my weekly email newsletter at www.thechaplain.net/newsletter or send email request to comment@thechaplain.net.

 

Does God Hear Me Now?

 

As I approach my 68^th year around our sun, I'm doing a lot of reflecting.

 

My active days are full of grandkids, home repairs, charity work with Chispa Project, all while pastoring a small church in the Sierra Nevada foothills.

 

With this summertime busyness, I was feeling that my God-connection was breaking up.

 

No, not a complete disconnect, but my reception of the divine felt crackly and fuzzy. You know, the kind you get from a fading phone signal. You walk in circles, waving your phone above your head asking, "Can you hear me now?"

I found myself needing to find a place, a moment, an event, to reconnect with God.

 

As I minister, I hear people claim they don't need a church to find God. They tell me that God can be found anywhere – even on a beach. 

 

So earlier this summer, I drove my wife and twelve-year-old grandson to Half Moon Bay for a few days off. I went to see if God indeed had beachfront property in California.

 

It had been one of those weeks where the inconsistencies of my faith had been apparent to more than just myself. It was one of those weeks where I was longing to simply be the same person I had been the previous week.

 

So, as my grandson dug tunnels in the sand and my wife kicked at the cold waves, I walked alone up the rocky beach, explaining to God my ground rules of our upcoming conversation.

 

"I just need a moment to double check stuff with you – a moment to make sure you're still covering my back.

"So, I thought I'd say 'howdy' here at the beach. I know that you make every day special, but I'm needing this day to be extra." 

 

There, on the water's edge, I found an isolated rock and quickly breached its top. Sitting atop the rock with my soul exposed, I began scanning the waves for some kind of epiphany.

 

As I searched, the cold wind pounded my heart like a burglar's hammer working to unlock a treasure, so I hid my face beneath my sweatshirt's hood. 

 

From this rock, I hoped to find a still place, a space where I could both hide and be exposed, see and be seen – an abode high enough to make my prayer heard but low enough to nurture humility.

 

My prayer began:  

 

Lord, find what I've hidden.

Touch what I've hurt

Open what I've closed.

Teach what I wouldn't learn.

Fill the places I've emptied.

And empty what consumes me.

Release what I've captured.

Hold what escapes me

Invade what I defend.  

And defend what I've surrounded. 

Amen      

 

Opening my eyes, I saw my grandson writing messages in the sand, but the finicky waves quickly rinsed them away, like an Etch-a-Sketch turned upside down.

 

On the horizon, I watched the pacific swallow the setting sun. "Wow! God really does own beachfront property!" 

As I made my way back to my family, I inched around a deep rocky tidepool and fell – hard. Blood oozed from my shins and elbows, but I still managed to get up to check if anyone was looking.

 

Becky came running over with my grandson.

 

The next day, bandaged, but ambulatory, I heard God's voice again.

"See what I did there, son.

 

"I met you on the top of the rocks where I heard your praises.

 

"But I also fall with you to the bottom of those rocks.

 

"I always hear you perfectly, even when you've lost reception on your end.

 

"I'm with you always and I will never leave you."

 

My reception was clear again.

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Column partially excerpted from my book, "Thriving Beyond Surviving." All of my books can be ordered on Amazon. Autographed copies can be obtained on my website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

 

 

 

Spiritual column for Sept 12

Chaplain Brings the Lucky Charm

I'm not a superstitious person, but during the years I served as an Air Force chaplain, I was occasionally passed off as the spiritual equivalent to a lucky charm.

One of those occasions happened at Patrick Air Force Base while I served as the launch crew chaplain at nearby Cape Canaveral (1999-2002). In that role, I gave the official prayers for most launches, which included shuttles and satellites.

In military tradition, my prayers were more ceremonial than a legitimate attempt to court God's favor. They were generic in nature, seeking good weather, safety and success.

It's normal for technical difficulties to delay launches, but in the late months of 1999, we had favorable results in launching on our first attempt. Crews began to tie these successes with the arrival of their new chaplain. Their thinking became so ridiculous that one superstitious commander actually checked with my boss to confirm that I'd be the chaplain delivering "their prayer."

These were the same folks who, in good fun, wore something for good luck on every launch day. They brought everything from lucky socks to coins or even a piece of a failed rocket. Now I'd suddenly become their "lucky charm chaplain."

But my luck wasn't going to hold.

One evening, after I'd been there for about six months, I composed a fervent prayer for a 2 a.m. launch. At the last minute, the mission was scrubbed because of weather but rescheduled for the same time on the next morning.

"God speed," I said, with a dismissive assumption that my job was done.

They looked at me as if I'd hung them with their lucky necktie. "You're coming back tomorrow night, aren't you Chaplain?"

"Uh, sure."

The next morning, I reported for duty, bleary-eyed, hoping to pass off the same crumpled prayer from the previous evening.

Same result. No launch.

As I offered condolences to the disappointed crew, Brigadier General Donald Pettit, the Wing Commander, barked at me. "Chaplain, your prayer didn't work! You need to write a new prayer."

It's possible that what I said next might explain why I had to finish my military career in the reserves.

"You're kidding, sir."

He assured me in general-like terms that he wasn't kidding.

I still thought he was ribbing me, but I was too new to our spacy business to be sure. So, a few days later, I brought a new prayer. Unfortunately for all concerned, I was forced to repeat the rewrites for the next three weeks.

When our rocket finally soared on our sixth attempt, I reached across the consoles to exchange handshakes with the ground crew. One engineer in his lucky sweater, slapped my back and said, "You finally did it, Chaplain."

"Did what?" I wondered, as I drove home on that early morning.

I wasn't the lucky horseshoe in this arrangement. I simply offered a prayer — not as a magical incantation, but as a reminder that God comes where he is invited.

It's the same idea I share in premarital counseling.

"I'm not the lucky god charm," I tell the couple. "I don't bring God's presence into your marriage. You must do that."

The next morning, I was walking across the base courtyard, when Gen. Pettit motioned me over to him.

I offered him a salute weakened by fatigue.

"Your prayer didn't work!" he said.

"But, sir, I saw it launch."

"We launched it, but it never reached the intended orbit," he said.

"That'll be all," he added, before returning my salute with a smirk that told me he really was ribbing me.

Nevertheless, that was the day their lucky chaplain lost his lucky charm.

 

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Column excerpted from my book, "Thriving Beyond Surviving."

All of my books can be ordered on Amazon. Autographed copies can be obtained on my website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.