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Jesus has a sense of humor

BY NORRIS BURKES NOVEMBER 14, 2010

This month, I went to the Laity Lodge in the Texas hill country to speak to mental health chaplains about methods to relieve stress in their lives.

One of the talks I gave was about the numerous studies on the benefits of laughter to reduce stress. For instance, there are physical benefits of laughter that include boosting the immune system, circulation and improving cardiovascular health.

To get these benefits, it is sometimes necessary to force the laughter. I started our retreat by asking six chaplains to give their best Santa Claus laugh. We made a contest of it and a few of their laughs made you feel you were in Santa's workshop.

So, with the pump of frivolity fully primed, I shared with them some of the stories I've shared with you in previous columns.

I told them how humor helped me in the midst of a difficult deployment to the Middle East. The humor came at my expense when I dropped my Air Force officer's cap into a toilet.

Since it carried my name and a Christian cross, I was obliged to retrieve the soiled cap. The funniest part came, however, when I went to requisition a new hat from our senior chaplain assistant.

As I stood explaining my predicament, the master sergeant bent over, slapping both his knees.
"Give me one good reason," he said, "that I should get you a new hat after you made such a dumb mistake."

Well, I explained, "There are a few bad officers who carry a hat full of crap, but it takes a really good officer to admit it."

With that remark, the sergeant fell prostrate, hysterically beating the floor with his fist.
"I give up, chaplain," he declared. "You got your new hat."
When I wrote that column, I got a hand-written letter from a reader who asked me not to share that kind of bathroom humor. I'm sorry I offended her, but I have to say in my own defense I'm sure Jesus would have laughed hysterically over that one.

Finally, I reminded my chaplain audience of the emotional benefits of laughter by telling them it reduces stress, anger and anxiety. It improves mood, optimism and emotional intelligence. But the best thing about laughter is it can get you off your backside and unstuck.

The point is well-made in the humorous poem that I read to myself whenever I need a little encouragement to stop feeling sorry for myself and move forward.

The poem is a parody of the famous poem, "Footprints in the Sand" by Mary Stevenson (Zangare) that describes the promise of God to "never leave you."
The parody is called, "Buttprints in the Sand," author unknown.

One night I had a wondrous dream,
One set of footprints there was seen,
The footprints of my precious Lord,
But mine were not along the shore.
But then some strange prints appeared,
And I asked the Lord, "What have we here?"
Those prints are large and round and neat,
"But Lord, they are too big for feet."
"My child," he said in somber tones,
"For miles I carried you along.
I challenged you to walk in faith,
But you refused and made me wait."
"You disobeyed, you would not grow,
The walk of faith, you would not know,
So I got tired, I got fed up,
And there I dropped you on your butt."
"Because in life, there comes a time,
When one must fight, and one must climb,
When one must rise and take a stand,
Or leave their buttprints in the sand."



Norris Burkes: Sign reflects only a fraction of wars' cost

BY NORRIS BURKES Ñ FLORIDA TODAY Ñ NOVEMBER 7, 2010

Nearly every day I walk my dog, Toby, past a neighbor's whiteboard sign.
Sometimes I stare at it and sometimes I'm repulsed by it.

The board changes every week, but for now it reads:
War Dead:
Afghanistan 1248
Iraq 4417

I tried to turn my glance aside again, but with the upcoming Veterans Day, my curiosity got the best of me. I stopped to introduce myself to the resident, Lorraine Krofchok, and her husband Steve, who were out working on their yard.

Toby greeted them with the unadulterated lick of a little kid going after his first ice cream cone. Lorraine responded with the spoiling love of a grandmother, refusing to let Toby be scolded for jumping on her.

Since Toby tends to steer clear of politics and religion, he makes a lot of friends.
"What's the story on your whiteboard?" I asked her, unaware of what my question might stir. "Did you know someone who died in the war?"

She sighed in recognition of a common question.

"When people ask me if I have someone in either war, I tell them we all have someone over there. They are all Americans and we should think of them as part of our family."

Good point, I thought. But knowing that full neighborhood approval was unlikely, I asked if she'd had complaints. Her answer was reminiscent of the just-the-facts-ma'am dialogue of the '60s television show "Dragnet."

"What are they going to complain about? It's a fact.

"Are they going to say, 'I don't like seeing the numbers'? If they complained, I'd tell them, 'I don't like putting the numbers up there.'

"But, no one has complained. Mostly, I watch people go by and look away."
Nevertheless, it's apparent a few people don't like her sign, because the statistics have been erased three times during the past eight years.

In response, she's attached a note refuting magical thinking: "Erasing the numbers doesn't mean it didn't happen."

She is right, of course.

"The sign is not a sermon," she said, defending the simplicity of factual truth. "I think we need to be reminded that there are still people being killed on both sides."

I looked at the numbers once more before Toby and I said our goodbyes. Back at my house, I readied the flag I annually post on my lawn and wondered, did I, too, need a sign personally reminding me of the cost?

"No, I don't think so," I said aloud, thinking of the 30 names I'd deduct if erasing the board would bring them back. I had notified their families of their deaths.
While I thank Grandma Krofchok for updating my neighbors with the current count, no one knows the true cost of war in the same way a vet and his family knows it.

So this month, while we celebrate contributions of the veteran amid the carving of turkeys, by all means, wave a flag, hang a poster or tally the count.
But above all, thank a vet. Because a vet always will know the cost, and you can be assured he or she will never forget the count.




Silence often is the best sound

BY NORRIS BURKES • FLORIDA TODAY • OCTOBER 31, 2010

"Toby Dog," as I like to call my new puppy, accompanies me on a jog through our quiet residential neighborhood. During our jog, I'm groovin' to my favorite iPod playlist when I notice a sleek, one-eyed bandit pull onto our street.

So, I wave the car down as Toby gives the driver a howdy growl.
"You probably know this already, but you have a headlight out," I tell the driver.

"Oh," he says rather puzzled. "My car didn't tell me."

And with that perplexing remark, Toby tilts his head as if to say, "Stupid car!"
Toby's a smart dog, but he has no idea that the man is talking about his smart car features and not the reincarnation of K.I.T.T., the talking car from the twice-canceled television series "Knight Rider."

While it seems pretty silly to be listening to a car for advice, the whole thing starts me wondering about the kinds of noises we have coming at us all day, like computers and television. What about the voices or sounds that can be heard when one is willing to really listen?

So, after dismissing the driver, I nix my playlist and ask God to help me hear the sounds his creation might have to share with me on this fall day.

At first, I hear plenty of sounds willing to mute the resonance of God's world. My ears are partial to the hum of modernity. Overhead, an acrobatic plane traces the perimeter sky with the impatience of a raging motorcycle swirling inside a circus cage.

Not to be outdone, a nearby train track ushers in the roars of the undisputed king of the concrete jungle, the modern freight train.
Of course, in quiet suburbia, there are the chirping sounds of car alarms being disengaged and the accompanying thump of car stereos launching high schoolers into a tizzy.

As I tune out the efficient sounds of planes, trains and automobiles, I hear the voice of nature in debate.

The birds are especially active this morning. A cacophony of carousing crows erupts as they chide their neighbors for their trespasses. They fester fastidiously and pester insidiously. They want to perch in their own private tree wherever and with whomever they wish.

Local dogs join the crows with a similar tune of mischief and suspicion. A German shepherd rebukes my attempts to approach his fence. Toby and I try to make friends, but Shep won't hear even a whisper of friendship.

As I find another path, however, I'm suddenly aware that the best sounds to be heard are the sounds of the Earth awakening to a chorus of life. These are the unheard sounds, which brings to mind the phrase made popular by Simon and Garfunkel's, "The Sound of Silence."
I "hear" the sun, well off the horizon, blasting through the trees and colliding with the leaves doused with morning dew.

On this trail, I'm even aware of the screeching of a stubborn moon as she slides off her evening sky hook and reluctantly gives up her celestial perch. Smack in front of me, I hear the maternal joy of a spider releasing her eggs attached to a silk parachute onto a rain-soaked lawn.

The sound of silence is something we miss way too often. Yet putting silence on our playlist is something crucial to our spiritual survival.

Perhaps the thought is best expressed in the words of the Psalmist, "Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the Earth."