My last four columns

Helping the homeless can help us all

Normally, few people would care that Marvin Boyd, 55, will die before next Christmas. Alan Hardwick, 53, decided to start caring. Now an entire church will mourn his passing.

You may remember Boyd from the column I wrote five years ago recounting how Hardwick met Boyd, a homeless panhandler, on an intersection near our church. Hardwick gave him a few bucks, but soon saw that Boyd needed far more than money.

Hardwick invited Boyd to church and despite Boyd's disheveled resemblance to a worn-out Santa Claus, Hardwick remembers that "Marvin took to church pretty well and, everyone liked him."
Several months later, Marvin asked Hardwick if he would baptize him. He did.

When our pastor, Barry Smith, introduced Marvin for baptism, he reminded our congregation that, "Marvin taught us the power of the few. We thought we would change Marvin, but he's changed us more than we could've ever changed him."

However, Hardwick knew he must offer more than just a hamburger and a hymnal. He'd read the interesting question posed toward in the Christian New Testament from a guy named James:

"Suppose a brother or a sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to them, 'Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,' but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it?"

Hardwick answered the question with a down payment on a fixer-upper home for Marvin.

After Boyd moved in, he had a serious heart attack, but amazingly he did well through surgery and rehab. However, early last year, doctors made an "incidental finding."

Cancer! And not just a little cancer ¬— a boatload that includes bone, stomach and colon cancer.

Last Sunday, as Marvin and I stood outside our church, he said his doctors at UC-Davis found 12 spots in his stomach that will soon burst. Since that event will likely put him in a coma, doctors want him in hospice.

Marvin doesn't see bedrest as an option. He has a message to spread.
Surprised at his answer, I told Marvin that some people would find this as a justification to curse God. Again, not an option. "I try to be joyful no matter what is going on. I don't have no sadness. "

Hardwick believes that meeting Marvin has changed him. "Now, when someone asks me for a buck, I buy them lunch because I know Marvin."

Marvin recently thanked Hardwick, telling him, "I just can't thank you enough for what you've done for me over the past years." Then he made Hardwick this tearful promise: "I'm going to be standing there with a fishing pole waiting on you."

Burkes is a syndicated columnist, national speaker and 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, email him at ask@thechaplain.net , visit his website thechaplain.net or write him at P.O. Box 247, Elk Grove, CA 95759.


Loss of a child never goes away

In 2005, I wrote about Sue Wintz, a hospital chaplain whose 17-year-old daughter, Sarah Elizabeth Wintz, was killed in a Phoenix car accident on Dec. 2, 2003. Almost nine years later, she asked me to share with you how she has survived and thrived .

Sue still longs for her daughter and while she still has moments of deep sadness, she has "learned to grieve mindfully, to incorporate my new relationship with Sarah into how I see the world, and to embrace the newness and joy of each day. I am blessed."

Amazing things have happened since the accident. Sarah's boyfriend, Brian Northrup, survived "life-altering injuries" and graduated from college. He is now a software manager, and the Wintzes call him "the son of our heart."

Their son, Matt, finished college and graduate school. At his recent wedding, he and wife Amelia designed a special vase with Sarah's picture. Prior to the processional, roses were placed in the vase in a touching way that added to the importance of her brother's day.

Sarah also has a namesake. Karl Tilleman witnessed the accident, holding Sarah's hand and praying as she died. He promised Sarah he would look after her family. In 2004, he and wife Holly named their daughter Sarah Elizabeth. The families remain close.
"We survive with meaningful rituals."

• Every Dec. 2, family friends light a candle and say Sarah's name aloud. Additionally, the Wintzes hang Sarah's Christmas stocking and ornaments.

• On Sarah's birthday, the Wintzes encourage people to make a charitable donation equal to the age Sara would have been. This year, friends donated $26.

• The Wintzes participate in the International Kindness Project Day .
"People argue against making quick changes when you're grieving," Sue says, "but don't listen to well-meaning advice. Discuss with close friends, but listen to your heart."

Sue warns grieving parents that "Some people will treat you as if grief is contagious. They will avoid you in belief that if it happened to you, it might happen to them. Let those people go," she says. Don't try to measure up to their expectations."

As a chaplain, Sue knows support groups can be invaluable but she advises people to research the group first. "Go with an open mind, but if you leave feeling worse than when you came, try another group."

Sue was warned that bereaved couples will often divorce. "That's a myth," she counters. "Men and women grieve differently. A strong marriage recognizes those differences and keeps communication open, allowing each spouse to grieve individually as well as collectively." Sue and husband Mike will celebrate their 31st anniversary next month.

Sue says that "No matter how long it's been since a child's death, share your memories with their parents. Don't be afraid to say their name. There's a saying, 'Mentioning my child's name may make me cry. Not mentioning my child's name will break my heart.' "

Don't push people to "move on." A year after Sarah's death, Sue's supervisor told her to "move on."

There is no "moving on" from the death of a child. "You learn to live with it, but you are changed forever by it," says Sue. "Sarah is still very much in my heart and I miss her with every breath I take."

Norris Burkes is a syndicated columnist, national speaker and 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, email him at ask@thechaplain.net , visit his website thechaplain.net or write him at P.O. Box 247, Elk Grove, CA 95759.


Chaplain's prayer is to soothe a soul with faith

I never really cared for the Monopoly board game. My problem is that I could never decide which game piece I wanted to be. I hated the hat, and there's no way I'd take the wheelbarrow.

As a child, I always wanted the race car. But when I tried to claim the race car, my big sister would usually twist it from my hand and force me to take the little Toto dog. I wanted the race car because I had a need for speed and the car always made me feel I was getting somewhere.

I like a game that takes me places, not one that keeps me waiting. Unfortunately, a random roll of the dice often sent me to the worst place on the board — jail. For someone with a wait-aversion, I hated jail because I was confined to watch my siblings pass me to collect their $200.

As a chaplain in the dual careers of military and hospital chaplaincy, I'm acquainted far too well with waiting. The most dramatic place I've played the waiting game is the hospital waiting room.

The room provides the setting for the hardest part of my job, waiting with people. When you are stuck in this waiting room with me, it doesn't matter how important you are, how beautiful or rich or how careful you've been. You are wedged, fixed and trapped in a room full of people where life has told them they must wait.

For example, I've waited with women as they are hospitalized through high-risk pregnancies, praying for their 30th week to bring the best chance of their baby's survival. I've waited with an agonizing father as he prays for pain medication to bring final comfort to his dying daughter. As a military chaplain, I've also waited with families as they hope against hope that the official confirmation of their loved one's fate will be averted.

However, I'd say the hardest part about waiting with people in life's waiting room is standing with those who have not previously established the grip of faith in their lives.

Faith is the grip the parachutist feels when his harness tightens. Faith is the grip the trapeze artist knows as she hangs for a second in midair only to be snatched by a skillful partner. Faith is the grip we feel that comes from just beyond the edge of the darkness in which we stand. It's an authority that knows the darkness, but comes from the light.

Ancient Scripture tells of three men who knew the grip of faith while living through trying political times. When the men formed a prayer group, the king saw their formation as political protest and punished them by throwing them into a fiery furnace. I've been in some warm waiting rooms, but the thermostat in this room was out of control.

Witnesses saw the men rescued from the fire by a presence brighter than the fire itself, someone they described as "an Angel of the Lord." But the real miracle wasn't the angelic rescue; the real miracle was that the Angel went into the fiery room in the first place.

When life puts us in heated waiting rooms, we may not always be able to walk out unscathed. But my prayer for you is that you will know a faith that the New Testament writer in Jude 1 described as something that will "keep you on your feet, standing tall in his bright presence, fresh and celebrating."

Norris Burkes is a syndicated columnist, national speaker and 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, email him at about:ask@thechaplain.net, visit website thechaplain.net or write him at P.O. Box 247, Elk Grove, CA 95759.



Affection is complicated to show

Long before I was married, I kissed a girl whose practical German heritage gave her a keen sense of observation. Once kissed, she brushed her long blonde hair over her ear and said, "You kiss funny!"
While some men might get frightfully defensive, I saw an opportunity.

"Really?" I asked.

She nodded as she repositioned her 1970's style wire glasses higher on her nose.

"Maybe I need some tutoring," I suggested with a parenthetical arch of my eyebrows.

She thought for a second and wordlessly commenced the lessons.
Expressing affection can be a difficult thing, but most of us can use a lesson once in a while. Late one evening in 1998, I met an Army sergeant in need of such a lesson.

I was stationed as an Air Force chaplain in Izmir, Turkey, a city of 3.5 million. I'd just begun my mile walk home after an evening choir rehearsal when I heard a woman begging someone to release her.

Each time, the man answered her pleas with expletive-laced threats.
When I stepped close enough to initiate a point-blank introduction, the man identified himself as a sergeant. At first, he respectfully tried to dismiss me, but I had the better hand. He was a sergeant and I a captain — a straight beats a pair of deuces.

"Let her go, sergeant!" I ordered.

He paused.

"That's an order. A direct order!"

If your military knowledge is limited to "M*A*S*H," you might think captains are always barking orders, but declarative statements are rare from chaplains. In my 26 years of service, this was the first time I'd ever given such strong order.

It worked. He let her go. Then, after escorting them to separate quarters, I strongly advised him to bring her to my office the following day.

"That's the only way I can promise you confidentiality," I told him. "If you're a 'no-show,' I'll take your show to the commander's office."
The next day they both walked into the confidential sanctuary I'd provided, but immediately launched into venomous threats over divorce and child-custody battles. Within 10 minutes, I had to reschedule them for separate counseling appointments.

The separation worked. During the next several weeks, the husband opened up about the anger issues passed on to him by his "old man" and exacerbated by the nonstop stress of a soldier's life. Finally, he broke, admitting that he'd been sitting night after night in the open window of their fifth-floor apartment window ready to jump.
He asked me if there was hope.

I told him that hope might be found by renewing their marital commitment to the biblical admonition to "submit themselves one to another in fear of God." I chose that verse because he seemed to think marital submission was a one-way street. It's not. It's a mutual submission and compromise.

Over the next several weeks, I was able to counsel them together.
Additionally, he took anger management classes and they rejoined their faith community. A year later, they were planning another child and his promotion party.

With all my military transfers since then, I've lost touch with the couple, so I'm unable to guarantee a happy-ever-after ending, but the couple seemed well on their way to forever together.

As for me, I can report that the principle I shared of mutual submission has worked out well.

My kissing teacher thought I showed promise. Four years later, in a sacred Sacramento ceremony, the preacher told me that I could kiss her, and I haven't stopped since.

Norris Burkes is a syndicated columnist, national speaker and 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, email him at about:ask@thechaplain.net, visit website thechaplain.net or write him at P.O. Box 247, Elk Grove, CA 95759.