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Readers,

I recently made some corrections and you should no longer be receiving double mailings. If you are still receiving doubles, please let me know. See the two columns below.

By the way, if you are in Staunton VA, let me know. I'll be there next week.

Norris

Norris Burkes: Signs from God visible even in feline form
BY NORRIS BURKES • FLORIDA TODAY • October 10, 2010

If my new pound puppy, Toby, were able to express his feelings about cats, he'd likely tell you an interesting tale of meeting his first cat.

The meeting took place this month as he and I were out jogging. Toby is eight months old and 22 pounds. His mixed ancestry gives him the long hair of the Lhasa Apso and the excitable temperament of the Jack Russell.

It was a fine fall morning as we made our way onto the creek-side jogging trail. Cloud shadows moved alongside us, hinting at the first rain of the season. The fallen leaves filled the dry creek bed with a colorful crunchy carpet that tempted me off our usual trail and onto the crackling leaves to see what dormant creature we might stir up.

Suddenly, ahead of us, we spotted a shorthaired gray-and-white cat lurking among the trees. With his shoulders hunched and his body hugging the ground like his feline ancestors, he appeared to be hunting mice.

Toby's leash went taut and his curiosity propelled us on a trajectory toward the cat. Fortunately, I was able to pull him up short of the "target" even as she arched her back, giving out a soft, but discouraging scowl.
Toby responded hesitantly to the hissing by showing that his only desire was for a whiff, an acquainting sniff.

Amazingly, the kitty stood her ground, giving tacit agreement to Toby's inspection. Still, she occasionally stepped out of range as if disparaging the IQ of any animal that allows itself to be leashed.

For a few minutes, we all stood together in peace while I looked for the telltale signs I was in a Disney movie. Would birds settle on my shoulder while deer rubbed noses and squirrels sang on their hind legs?

Eventually, Toby gave a few barks to remind me that this Kodak moment wouldn't last and we should continue our run. We didn't get far before we realized the cat was following us, scampering amid the trees in our direction.

Toby anchored his feet, demonstrating his intolerance for a feline stalker, and once again, we allowed the cat to approach. Again, God's creatures hissed and sniffed, pawed and barked. Passersby incredulously asked: "Is this your cat? Does she jog with you two?"

We repeated our start/stop ritual four times until, finally, we shook our tail and jogged on.

Still, for the remainder of the jog, I kept thinking about how people describe such odd occurrences as a sign from God.

Was this such a sign? If so, would hundreds of people come to visit us like those who visit the Jesus-faced taco shells?

I'm a spiritual writer. Doesn't God have to give me a weekly spiritual message?
Well, yes and no. While this sort of thing shouldn't be interpreted as a message from God on a private line, there's room to hear a divine message in everything we see.

On this day, I was reminded that there are many miracles of daily life that contain wonder and awe. Yet they are often missed when sprinting down the path of least resistance, that neat path we've memorized and analyzed. Soon, the miracles lose their power to mesmerize.

True, we still can find them on our daily path, but I've always found that they are best discovered on alternate routes.
If you were to ask me whether this "epiphany" has improved the way I feel about cats, I'd reluctantly say "a little." But still, at the end of the day, I'd guess that if Jesus ever had a pet, it wasn't a cat.

Norris Burkes is a syndicated columnist, speaker and author of "No Small Miracles." He also serves as an Air National Guard chaplain. You can call him at (321) 549-2500, e-mail him at Norris@thechaplain.net or visit his website at www.thechaplain.net



Norris Burkes: Sometimes a friend need say nothing
BY NORRIS BURKES • FLORIDA TODAY • October 17, 2010

Being caught on the gay-dar is a regular occurrence for me and my best friend of 35 years, Roger Williams.

Gay-dar is what Roger started calling the assumptions salesmen make about us being a couple after we shopped for my truck last year. Of course, I'm sure it didn't help when we arrived in my wife's car sporting personalized plates: 25YRS N (heart).

And when Roger texted me to meet him for breakfast last week, we got the same reaction from the restaurant hostess who settled us into a cozy little table. We shrugged. Just another comedic story to tell our wives.

At breakfast, however, our conversation turned serious.

He had news about his mother, Jenny, who struggles in a Maine nursing facility with Alzheimer's.

"She eats well and walks a good deal," Roger said, "yet my dad says, 'This isn't your mom. Your mom's gone.' "

There's a Catch-22 in dealing with Alzheimer's patients. Since it's difficult to get them to lucidly describe their aches, life-threatening problems often go untreated until they are on their deathbed.

And that's how Roger's family came to be surprised about the latest development. Jenny has cancer.

After breakfast, Roger sent more texts.

"Her health is failing and she's been placed in hospice care."

With internal bleeding, Jenny's doctor predicted about a week.

Another text: "Charge nurse told family that I should get on a plane tomorrow!"

I volunteered to research airfares, but found bereavement fares to be only a few dollars cheaper than full fare. Dying isn't cheap, but neither is mourning. By evening's end, I combined frequent flier miles with some airline passes to purchase roundtrip tickets for Roger, his wife and daughter for about $600.

More texts, "Thank you so much!"

"I remember so well how you were there for me when my dad died," I replied. "Thanks for that."

The next day, I put them on the plane, but the messages continued.
"We are so tired! We only slept 4 hours last night," he texted before boarding a red-eye.

At 5:30 a.m., another text: "We just landed. My dad says, 'hurry.' "

Jenny was holding out. We both knew from our jobs as hospital chaplains that dying patients seem to hold out until they can see a family member one last time. Now, she waited for Roger.

The last text I got from him: "We are here. Sitting at bedside. She's pale and sedated."

"You're a good son," I told him.

As chaplains, the hospital bedside is a place both of us have been a hundred times. But I felt confused. Should I be the chaplain to him? Or was I his best friend?
Or was there a difference in this case?

I'm often asked what to say to people who are going through something like this. I tell them that sitting with people as they grieve is not show-and tell time.
It's just show time. It's time to exercise your right to remain silent and work on showing them your love. It's also time to show your courage by staying present with them during the scary times.

And that's the best answer I know: Don't tell people you love them. Show them. Even if showing them means getting caught in someone's gay-dar.

Burkes is a former civilian hospital chaplain and an Air National Guard chaplain. Write norris@thechaplain.net or visit thechaplain.net. You can also follow him on Twitter, username is "chaplain," or on Facebook at facebook.com/norrisburkes.