Breaking the news to military families is never routine

For me, Memorial Day has a face. It is the face of the family members whose loved one made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. Since 9/11, I've met these faces in at least 30 homes in my community.

If I could introduce you to these families, I would. But because I can't, I'd like you to imagine today that you've joined my casualty notification team.

We unite with our team of four inside a nondescript military office where we watch a training video, map our route to the home of a newly widowed woman and memorize our scripted lines. The commander will deliver the bad news, the medic will watch for signs of stress, and you and I will offer pastoral care.

Within the hour of being paged out of our everyday routines, we drive our dark blue military sedan into a civilian neighborhood where we find an address that doesn't want to be found. As we step from the car, we look much like a small parade formation, a living breathing cliché.

We park a few hundred yards from the house and you use the walking time to ask me questions.

"Will this notification be like your previous ones?" you ask. "How long will we stay?" and "How will the people respond" you want to know. I tell you that the only certainty is that my past notifications will give us no working schematic for this day. Nothing about these no-notice visits is ever predictable.

All I can say is that in the past I've heard an anguished father launch into a political diatribe blaming the president for his son's death. I recall another visit where I interrupted a child's birthday party, and in yet another instance, I recount stopping a family's airport reunion to tell them their son wasn't on the plane.

You shake your head and I stare at the Disney welcome mat while the commander knocks on the door. I catch a side-glance of the commander mouthing his script. It's a script that will go something like this:

"Are you Mrs. John E. Jones?"

"Yes."

"Is your husband Capt. John E. Jones?"

"Yes."

"Ma'am, the Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deep regret…."

It may seem rote, but the script is the only way we all get through without cracking. Our effort is compassionate, but professional. Of course, it'll be unusual if we aren't interrupted by the sobbing screams of denial, but we will stay with our lines until they are delivered.

Fortunately, you're not a part of this team today. Gratefully this column is just a composite script of several of my team experiences.

However, it is a script that churns in the mind of every person who has ever served in the military. Every person who wears the uniform of this country fears that their family may one day hear these words of regret from a team such as ours. Yet, despite their fear, they deploy. They do their jobs and most of them come home.

So, as we pause this weekend to memorialize the sacrifices made by these few, let us imagine being on the color guard at the funeral as a stiff commander accepts a folded flag from his detail and presents it to this family.
"On behalf of the president of the United States … and a grateful nation," she says, "please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for service to our country. God bless you and this family, and God bless the United States of America."

Breaking the news to military families is never routine

For me, Memorial Day has a face. It is the face of the family members whose loved one made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. Since 9/11, I've met these faces in at least 30 homes in my community.

If I could introduce you to these families, I would. But because I can't, I'd like you to imagine today that you've joined my casualty notification team.

We unite with our team of four inside a nondescript military office where we watch a training video, map our route to the home of a newly widowed woman and memorize our scripted lines. The commander will deliver the bad news, the medic will watch for signs of stress, and you and I will offer pastoral care.

Within the hour of being paged out of our everyday routines, we drive our dark blue military sedan into a civilian neighborhood where we find an address that doesn't want to be found. As we step from the car, we look much like a small parade formation, a living breathing cliché.

We park a few hundred yards from the house and you use the walking time to ask me questions.

"Will this notification be like your previous ones?" you ask. "How long will we stay?" and "How will the people respond" you want to know. I tell you that the only certainty is that my past notifications will give us no working schematic for this day. Nothing about these no-notice visits is ever predictable.

All I can say is that in the past I've heard an anguished father launch into a political diatribe blaming the president for his son's death. I recall another visit where I interrupted a child's birthday party, and in yet another instance, I recount stopping a family's airport reunion to tell them their son wasn't on the plane.

You shake your head and I stare at the Disney welcome mat while the commander knocks on the door. I catch a side-glance of the commander mouthing his script. It's a script that will go something like this:

"Are you Mrs. John E. Jones?"

"Yes."

"Is your husband Capt. John E. Jones?"

"Yes."

"Ma'am, the Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deep regret…."

It may seem rote, but the script is the only way we all get through without cracking. Our effort is compassionate, but professional. Of course, it'll be unusual if we aren't interrupted by the sobbing screams of denial, but we will stay with our lines until they are delivered.

Fortunately, you're not a part of this team today. Gratefully this column is just a composite script of several of my team experiences.

However, it is a script that churns in the mind of every person who has ever served in the military. Every person who wears the uniform of this country fears that their family may one day hear these words of regret from a team such as ours. Yet, despite their fear, they deploy. They do their jobs and most of them come home.

So, as we pause this weekend to memorialize the sacrifices made by these few, let us imagine being on the color guard at the funeral as a stiff commander accepts a folded flag from his detail and presents it to this family.
"On behalf of the president of the United States … and a grateful nation," she says, "please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for service to our country. God bless you and this family, and God bless the United States of America."

If you can be true to yourself, you can be happiest with who you are

Last week, while working a per diem shift in my reprisal as a hospital chaplain, I was mistaken for someone I am not. It happened as I entered an unfamiliar nursing station and offered the busy staff a morning greeting.

In response, a young nurse stood with a deferential offer, "Please take my chair, doctor."

Oh, I'm not a doctor," I said patting my Tweetie Bird necktie. "I just wear the tie."

My remark brought welcoming giggles from her nursing colleagues.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said.

"I'm not," I said in a pronounced emphasis and then rolled the chair back to her.

My second remark brought an unwelcoming glare from a nearby doctor.

Nevertheless, it was true. I wasn't disappointed that I am who I am. I wasn't sorry that I didn't hold the position for which the nurse found high regard.

Jesus actually had the same problem, which caused him to flat out ask his adoring crowds, "Who do people say that I am?" The throng fired back some wild-eyed guesses, as some even said he was the ghost of an old prophet.

Others said he was a lunatic, but Jesus brushed those speculations aside and turned to those who were important in his life, his students, and asked, "Who do you say that I am?"

Peter stood and set it straight. "You da' man!"

OK, he didn't exactly say that. Peter said, "You're the Christ."

Jesus responded to this astute conclusion with an astounding command. He told them to not tell a soul.

Why would Jesus ask for such anonymity? Some scholars say that he was trying to avoid being crucified prematurely. I think it was much more.

I think Jesus had arrived at the moment in his life where he knew that he didn't need to "proclaim" who he was. His walk, his breath, his talk exuded the confidence of one who was truly different. He knew his purpose, and he knew he was the only one who needed to feel contentment in that purpose.

We all need to know such contentment. I had such a moment during my Ordination Council in 1981.

The council was an inquisitive group of ministerial peers who pitched me random theological questions for 90 minutes. Finally, after I'd successfully navigated most of them, the council president concluded with a scripted query designed to elicit a scripted answer.

"What," he asked, "will you do if this council refuses to ordain you?"

I told the council that even if they mistook me for someone who was not "called," I would continue to pursue the purpose God had for me. Even if they didn't affirm my call, I would continue to minister and share the unending love of God with all.

The truth of it is, council or no council, there will always be people who will refuse to affirm you. Or there will be people like the young nurse who want you to be someone you are not. But as I learned from this council, maybe we spend too much energy trying to proclaim who we are and not enough effort just being who God wants us to be.

Nevertheless, as much as I struggle with this issue, I continue to be mistaken for someone I am not. Last month, my sister-in-law mistook me for a fashion-clumsy geek when she laughed at the unique way I tie my shoes off to the side. Just goes to show it's going to take perseverance to become who God wants me to be

Sometimes, uncertainty might be only certainty

A few months ago, I returned to work as a hospital chaplain and have rediscovered what it's like to straddle the chasm between certainty and uncertainty, between clarity and obscurity.

The hospital constantly reminds me that uncertainty is the only form of certainty. If you come here seeking moral inevitability or religious certitude, you'll run headlong into insanity.

For instance, if you believe that hell is reserved for those rejecting your faith brand, then follow me to the hospital bed of my Mormon stepfather. My Baptist upbringing taught me that Mormons go to hell, yet Bob breathed an inarguable faith until his last breath.

But if you are confident that there is no hell, then you must come to the treatment room where I met a girl who was ritualistically abused. Or sit on a chair with me listening to a woman describe how she used a clothes hanger to beat her child comatose. Encounter these victims and you'll pray that there will be a hell for the ones who did this.

Once you step out of the certain world, you may never find anything indisputable again. For example, if you are convinced that the Affordable Care Act is a bad thing, then come to the emergency room where the elderly clog the length of two hallways for 10 hours seeking relief for a persistent cough.

But don't be too all-sure that it's the right thing, either. Remain with me in the ER as able-bodied people seek free treatment on the taxpayer dollar and it'll make you want to scream, "Get a job, get a life, and pay for your own damn medical insurance."

If you want to march against abortions, then march with me into our hospital chapel where I sat with a couple agonizing over her choice to abort her Trisomy 18 baby, a infant that would certainly die in his first weeks, if not minutes, of life.

On the other hand, if you are pro-choice, then pace the floor of that same chapel where the weeping father begged his wife to deliver that baby. Or perhaps you'd like to watch a nurse diaper a 2-pound preemie.

If you are clear that we ought not to use any dramatic interventions to prolong the life of the terminally ill, then stand with me while the miracle of resuscitation gives a man his last chance to see his daughter.

Or if you think we ought to fight for every inch of life and use machines to keep people alive in whatever way possible, then clip your "God" name badge to your lapel and visit the wife who lost everything as she kept her nearly brain-dead husband "alive" for a few more months.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not promoting any of the above positions. I'm just saying that the hospital constantly reminds me that life is rarely, if ever, black and white. We don't have all the answers and the hospital tells me to listen more before I impose my beliefs on others.

By the end of most days, I've witnessed hospital miracles capable of converting the atheist, but I've also seen tragedies that have caused ministers to tear off their clerical collar in disgust. And I'm grateful to God that I've kept most of my faith.

So let me take this opportunity during National Nurse's Month to say thank you to all those who somehow manage to choose this world.

Thank you to all the people who are not afraid of the questions and never back away from the fight for life.

Running gives purpose to bravado

Readers,

If you wish to change your email address or subscribe or unsubscribe, please visit my web site at www.thechaplain.net and click on the mail icon.

Thanks so much!

Chaplain Norris


Running gives purpose to bravado

Two months ago, life was good. I'd lost 28 pounds while jogging with my pound puppy Toby, I was writing my second book, and at 54, I still had comb-able hair. In short, I was feeling on top of my warped and wobbly world.

Then my wife introduced me to Eva Nelson, a teacher colleague from our church. After a few minutes of church chat, Eva mentioned her recent half marathon runs and challenged me to race with her team.

Unfortunately, my male ego sometimes trumps my chaplain card. "Eva is only five years younger than me," I reasoned. "I should be able to do anything a 'girl' can do." So, in that altruistic vein, (or perhaps, vain) on a Thursday, I paid my registration for the American River Parkway run in Sacramento.

I'm not sure why, but all my cocky ideas start on Thursdays. I think that's because I finish writing my column by Wednesday and can't imagine that my Wednesday deadline will ever come again.

Finally, six weeks after meeting Eva, I stood on the starting line awaiting 13.1 miles of party with my team and another 4,000 people. Lightened by 28 pounds, but loaded with Thursday swagger and a testosterone-driven ego, my engine was racing.

However, race day jitters had allowed me only two hours of sleep and I was living up to my racing nickname of "Chatty Chappy" when I started cracking gallows humor. "If anyone dies out here, I'll do the funeral right along the river -- gratis of course." This may be why some of them considered leaving me after the second mile.

They have a great sense of humor but they find serious running motivation in the story of Rhett Seevers who was born Feb. 7, 1997, with severe cerebral palsy. His parents, Beth and Randy Seevers, worked tirelessly for seven years to lessen his disabilities, but, on March 13, 2004, Rhett died unexpectedly.

On the first anniversary of Rhett's passing, a friend introduced Beth to her first half marathon. During the next two years, she enlisted others to run alongside her until, on Dec. 7, 2007, friends and family founded the Runnin' for Rhett nonprofit foundation.

Their mission is to "Let Rhett's story inspire, uplift, and encourage all to move into life." And while not everyone in the group has such a tender story as the Seevers, most of them do have a story in which they are "born again" after bad health, careers or relationships.

These days you'll find them running past or through their bad days as they apply the scriptural admonition to "Put everything out of our lives that keeps us from doing what we should." Let us keep running in the race that God has planned for us.

And that's exactly what this team did during this half-marathon, they followed the course and they kept running the race. They sustained encouragement for themselves, for me, the newbie and for the teammate that kept losing her stomach contents.

Finally, at 12.9 miles, when I still couldn't see the end of the road, I had one question: Did some joker move the finish line? I was expecting it see it five miles back. And at 2:34:18, still the comedian, but 30 minutes behind Eva's best time, I bolted across the finish line.

Now that Eva girl has suggested I train for a half-triathlon (1.2-mile swim, 56-mile bike and 13-mile run) I think she's crazy, but Thursday comes again next week.

Norris Burkes is a syndicated columnist, national speaker and the author of No Small Miracles. He also serves as an Air National Guard chaplain and is board certified in the Association of Professional Chaplains. You can call him at (321) 549-2500 or email him at ask@thechaplain.net or visit his website at www.thechaplain.net. Write him at P.O. Box 247, Elk Grove, Calif., 95759.

Learning to forgive in a war zone

On Easter morning, 2009, I was the chaplain in the Air Force Field Hospital in Balad, Iraq when three patients were wheeled into our emergency room from a Black Hawk UH-60L helicopter.

The first patient had shrapnel in her right eye and a broken left hand, but seemed OK.

Suddenly she blurts, "I couldn't save him! He's dead, isn't he?"

"Who?" someone asks.

"Our team leader," she says.

In the next few moments, the 98-pound-soldier recalled riding as a medic in a vehicle hit by an EFP (Explosively Formed Projectile) designed to penetrate an armored vehicle. When the half-blinded medic found that her team leader lost a leg, she reached into his hip cavity to pinch the femoral artery closed.

"You did the right thing," our trauma czar told her. "That's what we would have done."

"He kept talking about his wife and unborn child," she added, "But I couldn't maintain my hold."

"Just relax, now. You're safe," said the anesthetist prepping her for surgery. "There's no way to close a hemorrhage that close to the groin."

Soon, after she'd been sedated, I made my way to another soldier with shrapnel injuries to his left leg. As quickly as I offered my help, he voiced a request.

"I want you to pray, chaplain." But there was something in his voice that implied an incomplete sentence. It was as if he was saying, "It's your turn to pray now."

He'd been praying ever since the explosion and, now, with the spent fury of a relay runner he was stretching his prayer baton to me. "I want you to pray that the insurgents will understand that we are trying to make their country better."

"I can do that," I said, giving the naiveté of his battlefield spirituality an assenting nod. "The Bible does say pray for your enemies."

"Yes," he said, "but it says more."

With that cryptic remark, I felt my eyebrows furrow and my neck stiffen as he offered further guidance. "I want you to pray that God will forgive the insurgents that killed my friend."

"What would that kind of prayer sound like?" I asked, reversing our naive roles.

"You know the prayer Jesus said on the cross?" he coaxed as if trying to remind me of a forgotten password, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Of course I knew it. It was the prayer Jesus prayed as he, too, bled to death.

The prayer wasn't for himself; it was for the mob who unjustly crucified him.

Jesus had seen his killers not as evil people, but as ignorant ones ­ ignorant of their complicity in their own downfall. In fact, his prayer echoes through the eons, for me, for the wounded squad, and for the insurgents and for you.

"I think that's a great prayer, Private." I said, still a little unsure of whether I was placating his battlefield shock or mine.

Then, after I said the prayer, but before I allowed my eyes to open, I saw something ­in the flash of a bloodied collage. I saw the insurgents planting the bomb, the explosion, the medic struggling to treat her squad, the team leader bleeding out, and the private praying for them all.

At that moment, I understood. Our world will remain an unending circle of revenge until we learn, as did this simple and wise soldier, to continually repeat Jesus' prayer. And, as we pray it with all our hearts and souls, it will be answered. If not in this world, then in the next when we hear the promised words of Jesus, "Well done, good and faithful servant."