New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Pearl Harbor column for Dec 7


Column:

Pearl Harbor Veteran Remembers Where WW2 Began

"My name is Joe Feld," he tells me on our first visit. He pauses to chuckle. "My name is on of the few things I remember."

Feld is one of 15 patients I visit in my chaplain job for Hospice of the Foothills, Grass Valley, Calif. During my past ten visits with him, I've learned that he remembers more than his name. Much more.

Feld joined the U.S. Navy in 1939. After boot camp in San Diego, he was quickly assigned to the spanking-new USS Enterprise – "The Big E," as the aircraft carrier was nicknamed.

On board, Joe joined a remarkable group of men called metalsmiths, who fixed everything broken on the aircraft except the engine. Joe spent 18 months cruising the Pacific on almost leisurely trips between San Diego and Hawaii. He describes the gorgeous tropical duty almost dismissively: "All in all, it was nothing exciting, but it was fine."

And it was still "fine" when he and 30 other sailors were sent ashore in late November for a temporary assignment to fix land-based aircraft. As they went to work, the Enterprise returned to sea.

On December 7, hours before the Enterprise was scheduled to return, Feld tells me he heard an explosion outside his barracks and thought one of our planes had crashed.

"I looked out the window to see Japanese fighters strafing the airfield. I was close enough to see the red circle on the plane.

"I called to the other fellows, 'We're under attack!'

"We took cover in the mess hall. Outside, the explosions were huge. I'm sure I heard when the Arizona was hit.

"The ships were sitting two in a row. Hitting one ship caused chain reactions and it was like shooting ducks in a barrel. After the Japanese took care of the ships, they came after us.

"We fell on our stomachs as bullets flew through the barracks. The wood splintered on the columns that supported the roof and plaster rained down on us."

There wasn't much more Feld and the others could do until it was over about three hours later.

Now, nearly 80 years later, the next part of his story adds extra trembling to his aging voice.

A Chief Boatswain mate detailed Feld and others to go recover bodies at the dock. Feld remembers seeing six battle ships lined up, all burning. The water itself seemed to be an inferno, with flames shooting eight inches high from burning surface oil.

"But," Feld said, with a most certain pause, "We had our job to do, so we retrieved them out of the water, placed them on a blanket and brought them back to the mess hall.

"When you're 20 years old," he told me, "and you start fishing bodies out of the harbor, you don't last very long. It's a part of the war that I can hardly talk about because these guys had tried to swim in burning water to get to shore.

"But, he says again, "that's what we did."

He pauses for a nervous chuckle as if he still doesn't know where to store this information.

"We stood next to burning ships with flames going maybe 100 foot high. It was hot. You're not equipped to take all that in.

"We made three trips down to the battleships to help recover men. Well, three trips were all I could take. I had never ever seen even a broken bone in my life.

"However, we survived it and went on to other jobs that had to be done around the air station."

Feld and his fellow sailors stayed on the island another six weeks under blackout conditions, doing those various jobs. By the first of the year, most of them returned to the Enterprise believing it was their ticket home.

Not so.

Instead, he and his shipmates would sail into naval warfare history. The Enterprise drew first enemy blood in the war. Feld was aboard when the Enterprise participated in the Wake Island landing and the Doolittle Raid on mainland Japan. He personally witnessed the turn of the war in the Battle of Midway as Enterprise planes helped sink three enemy aircraft carriers and a cruiser.

On this 78th anniversary of Pearl Harbor, I think you'd have to agree that Joe Feld can still remember quite a bit more than his name.

****Listen to the audio of Joe Feld telling his full story at www.thechaplain.net*****

______________________________________________________________
Join Norris' mailing list at www.thechaplain.net or leave voicemail at (843) 608-9715 or email comment@thechaplain.net or @chaplain. Snail mail received at 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

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Thank you to all who make this column possible

Thank you Thank you Thank you MY GRATITUDE COLUMN If you read books, you're familiar with the Acknowledgements page of authors thanking everyone who has encouraged them toward publication. The concept has inspired me to write my own Acknowledgements for Thanksgiving week.  My column doesn't come out of thin air and I don't write it alone. Today I say a big "thank you" to those who've made this column possible for the past 18 years. Yes, it's time for a Beatle's quote – "I get by with a little help from my friends." IN THE BEGINNING On that point, I appreciate Tom Clifford who, during a Boy Scout camping trip in 2001, discovered my talent for telling touching campfire stories. He took a risk when he invited this novice to write a weekly spirituality column for Florida Today.   He's the reason I became syndicated in nearly 50 papers by 2010. When Clifford left Florida Today, he introduced me to the Montgomery Advertiser and the Charleston Post and Courier.  Thank you to your local newspaper that edits my weekly writing. I appreciate their commitment to real news. I thank them for always encouraging me to write whatever inspires me (including this breezy piece). Thank you for never, ever – not even hinting at -- telling me what I should or should not write. EDUCATION I'm grateful to Baylor University where I earned a double BA in Journalism and Religion. I'll never forget the ecstasy of being paid to write for the Baylor Lariat.   I'm grateful for the MFA in nonfiction writing bestowed upon me in 2013 by the faculty of Pacific University in Oregon. Thank you, Mike Magnuson and Debra Gwartney, for helping me transform my thesis about my Iraq deployment into my second book, "Hero's Highway." Also, thank you in advance to the faculty of the University of Nevada, Reno, for accepting me this semester into their Journalism Masters program 2020.  I'm off to a good start in the podcasting class where I'm producing an audio version of this column. ONE FAMILY  I'm thankful for my loving wife, Becky, who is the first to read this column every week. She pulls no punches. If my writing makes no sense, you'll never see it. Also, a shout out to her father, Wilbur Nuckolls, whose conservative viewpoint has helped steer this column with good theology.  When Becky approves, I forward the column to my team of proofreaders, consisting of Marcetta Musser in Florida, Roger Williams in California, and Joel Langton in Texas. They act as a kind of "focus group" and give edits and suggestions that add a fair balance to my writing.   Leading my team is Davalynn Spencer from Colorado. Spencer is a retired newspaper editor who turns my column inside out every week. Her edits bloody my page with fact checks, punctuation and grammar corrections.  By the way, I'm grateful she has never asked me to edit her work. She writes award-winning Christian romance books that are a little out of my lane. However, if you love romance, buy a copy of "An Improper Proposal" for yourself or someone who loves you. Also, thank you to Kathleen Niendorff, the Austin, Texas, agent who tirelessly pushed me to publish my first book, "No Small Miracles." READER FAMILY I'm grateful for all the people who have so willingly, and many times unknowingly, become the subject of this column. I appreciate the flight attendants, patients, family members, soldiers and congregants who've inspired my stories..  Over the years, many readers have invited me to speak in their churches, schools, hospitals and veterans' groups. I've answered invitations from Florida, Missouri, Ohio, Arkansas, New York, Pennsylvania, South Carolina and Virginia.  Many of you have invited me into your homes, fed me, housed me and driven me around town. From chauffeurs and pastors to professors and retirees -- Thank you! I'm especially grateful to Riverside Presbyterian in Melbourne, Fla., for commissioning my third book, "Thriving Beyond Surviving."  Most of all I appreciate all the readers who have emailed me, called me or written wonderful letters. I've not been able to reply to every single one, but please know that I read every word and listen to every voicemail. You, above all, make this column possible!  Thank you from the bottom of my heart. —————————————————————— Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.  Copyright © 2019 Norris Burkes, All rights reserved. You signed up to be on Norris' list! Our mailing address is: Norris Burkes 10566 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Beatles'. Kill the apostrophe in front of the s.


Column:

A note from my proofreader Regarding the mention of Beatles in my column

After looking at this again, I think Beatle's should be Beatles' .
Their name was The Beatles, plural. So that makes it Beatles' but not
Beatles's because we don't pronounce it Beatleses.

Sorry I missed it last night.

Here's an interesting commentary: Few would argue with the apostrophe in The Beatles' place in pop music history is assured. But how would you write this sentence: There are still countless Beatles/Beatles' fans out there. Although many would choose Beatles' fans, it should be Beatles fans—no apostrophe—because the sentence has turned Beatles into an adjective modifying fans rather than a possessive noun.

That's a brain twister if I ever saw one.

Whatever you decide, kill the apostrophe in front of the s.

 

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Am I my Brother's Keeper?

Am I my Brother-Man's Keeper? This won't be my usual inspirational column. It's about my brother who is dying one brain cell at a time. For his privacy, I'll use the nickname I gave him – "Brother-Man." I'm not sure when it started, but I can take you back to what was a beginning of sorts.  Brother-Man was born 15 months before me. As children, we were often mistaken for twins. By tenth grade we both stood about 6 feet. I was less than 150 pounds, he 15 pounds heavier. I was a clean-cut ROTC cadet. He was pushing out a beard.  As we neared graduation day in 1975, I was confident in my future, yet keenly aware that my brother lacked the social skills necessary to thrive. However, it turned out to be much more than that. One day when our parents weren't home, we took our father's archery set onto the front lawn of our rural home. My brother fastened a paper target onto a bale of hay and we took turns shooting, not losing a single arrow.  When I wasn't looking, he decided to mimic the Wordsworth poem and "… shot an arrow into the air. / It fell to earth, I knew not where." SMACK!!  Immediately I knew where. It stuck straight out of the hood of Mom's car, five feet from my head.  Not long after that, Brother-Man began the slow downhill slide of the death of his brain. He tried college, the military, marriage and parenting. He was unable to socially assimilate in college. The Army discharged him early "for the good of the service." His wife filed for divorce. His son still refuses to talk to him or call him Dad. A few years ago, I asked him why he so haphazardly shot the arrow. He said he was trying to prove that gravity didn't exist. When the arrow landed so close to us, he concluded that the earth didn't rotate, or the arrow would have landed hundreds of yards away. That's when I took him to the Veteran's hospital to see a neuropsychologist. The diagnosis was psychosis and a neurocognitive disorder.  These days, Brother-Man rejects all legitimate news sources as he thoroughly gorges himself on a diet of conspiracy theories. He disputes all NASA accomplishments, debates every form of science and decries mass shootings as being staged by so-called crisis actors. He believes that scientists are hiding the secret to perpetual energy, even as they weaponize the weather. I work hard to keep him off these topics as they only upset him.  There is no optimistic ending for his story, yet there is some relief. My brother still has family.  A few years ago, I helped him obtain Social Security disability. Our mom's monthly contributions help keep him in a senior-care facility near his prior Las Vegas home. Pharmacy techs give him his medicines, diet techs help him eat better and he regularly makes friends.   . His life remains tenuous at best, but it remains. Sometimes his nurse calls to say he's not taking his medications. Or he will call me, angry because Social Security has reduced his income for Medicare payments. Or he'll call raging over his interpretation of a recent news event. I know the end of this story. Sometimes it's unbearable to watch. Still, most days I find Brother-Man reasonably happy when I phone. I tease him playfully and he always returns my levity. A few times a year, I fly to Vegas and tweak his care plan. While I'm there, we go to a Vegas magic show or play with the inexpensive drone he got for a birthday. Most of the time, his disposition matches what was revealed by a social worker's recent question.  "Have you ever considered hurting yourself or someone else?" she asked.  He choked at the question, unable to consider anyone in pain, replied.   "No, I've only considered helping people." That's the Brother-Man I know and love. That day was one of the good ones, and I'll take every single one I can get. Copyright © 2019 Norris Burkes, All rights reserved. You signed up to be on Norris' list! Our mailing address is: Norris Burkes 10566 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Thanksgiving weekend column 2019


Column:

MY GRATITUDE COLUMN

If you read books, you're familiar with the Acknowledgements page of authors thanking everyone who has encouraged them toward publication. The concept has inspired me to write my own Acknowledgements for Thanksgiving week.

My column doesn't come out of thin air and I don't write it alone. Today I say a big "thank you" to those who've made this column possible for the past 18 years. Yes, it's time for a Beatle's quote – "I get by with a little help from my friends."

IN THE BEGINNING

On that point, I appreciate Tom Clifford who, during a Boy Scout camping trip in 2001, discovered my talent for telling touching campfire stories. He took a risk when he invited this novice to write a weekly spirituality column for Florida Today.

He's the reason I became syndicated in nearly 50 papers by 2010. When Clifford left Florida Today, he introduced me to the Montgomery Advertiser and the Charleston Post and Courier.

Thank you to your local newspaper that edits my weekly writing. I appreciate their commitment to real news. I thank them for always encouraging me to write whatever inspires me (including this breezy piece). Thank you for never, ever – not even hinting at -- telling me what I should or should not write.

EDUCATION

I'm grateful to Baylor University where I earned a double BA in Journalism and Religion. I'll never forget the ecstasy of being paid to write for the Baylor Lariat.

I'm grateful for the MFA in nonfiction writing bestowed upon me in 2013 by the faculty of Pacific University in Oregon. Thank you, Mike Magnuson and Debra Gwartney, for helping me transform my thesis about my Iraq deployment into my second book, "Hero's Highway."

Also, thank you in advance to the faculty of the University of Nevada, Reno, for accepting me this semester into their Journalism Masters program 2020. I'm off to a good start in the podcasting class where I'm producing an audio version of this column.

ONE FAMILY

I'm thankful for my loving wife, Becky, who is the first to read this column every week. She pulls no punches. If my writing makes no sense, you'll never see it. Also, a shout out to her father, Wilbur Nuckolls, whose conservative viewpoint has helped steer this column with good theology.

When Becky approves, I forward the column to my team of proofreaders, consisting of Marcetta Musser in Florida, Roger Williams in California, and Joel Langton in Texas. They act as a kind of "focus group" and give edits and suggestions that add a fair balance to my writing.

Leading my team is Davalynn Spencer from Colorado. Spencer is a retired newspaper editor who turns my column inside out every week. Her edits bloody my page with fact checks, punctuation and grammar corrections.

By the way, I'm grateful she has never asked me to edit her work. She writes award-winning Christian romance books that are a little out of my lane. However, if you love romance, buy a copy of "An Improper Proposal" for yourself or someone who loves you.

Also, thank you to Kathleen Niendorff, the Austin, Texas, agent who tirelessly pushed me to publish my first book, "No Small Miracles."

READER FAMILY

I'm grateful for all the people who have so willingly, and many times unknowingly, become the subject of this column. I appreciate the flight attendants, patients, family members, soldiers and congregants who've inspired my stories..

Over the years, many readers have invited me to speak in their churches, schools, hospitals and veterans' groups. I've answered invitations from Florida, Missouri, Ohio, Arkansas, New York, Pennsylvania, South Carolina and Virginia.

Many of you have invited me into your homes, fed me, housed me and driven me around town. From chauffeurs and pastors to professors and retirees -- Thank you!

I'm especially grateful to Riverside Presbyterian in Melbourne, Fla., for commissioning my third book, "Thriving Beyond Surviving."

Most of all I appreciate all the readers who have emailed me, called me or written wonderful letters. I've not been able to reply to every single one, but please know that I read every word and listen to every voicemail. You, above all, make this column possible! Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

——————————————————————
Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

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New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
22-24 Nov column


Column:

Am I my Brother-Man's Keeper?


This won't be my usual inspirational column. It's about my brother who is dying one brain cell at a time. For his privacy, I'll use the nickname I gave him – "Brother-Man."

I'm not sure when it started, but I can take you back to what was a beginning of sorts.

Brother-Man was born 15 months before me. As children, we were often mistaken for twins. By tenth grade we both stood about 6 feet. I was less than 150 pounds, he 15 pounds heavier. I was a clean-cut ROTC cadet. He was pushing out a beard.

As we neared graduation day in 1975, I was confident in my future, yet keenly aware that my brother lacked the social skills necessary to thrive. However, it turned out to be much more than that.

One day when our parents weren't home, we took our father's archery set onto the front lawn of our rural home. My brother fastened a paper target onto a bale of hay and we took turns shooting, not losing a single arrow.

When I wasn't looking, he decided to mimic the Wordsworth poem and "… shot an arrow into the air. / It fell to earth, I knew not where."

SMACK!!

Immediately I knew where. It stuck straight out of the hood of Mom's car, five feet from my head.

Not long after that, Brother-Man began the slow downhill slide of the death of his brain.

He tried college, the military, marriage and parenting. He was unable to socially assimilate in college. The Army discharged him early "for the good of the service." His wife filed for divorce. His son still refuses to talk to him or call him Dad.

A few years ago, I asked him why he so haphazardly shot the arrow. He said he was trying to prove that gravity didn't exist. When the arrow landed so close to us, he concluded that the earth didn't rotate, or the arrow would have landed hundreds of yards away.

That's when I took him to the Veteran's hospital to see a neuropsychologist. The diagnosis was psychosis and a neurocognitive disorder.

These days, Brother-Man rejects all legitimate news sources as he thoroughly gorges himself on a diet of conspiracy theories. He disputes all NASA accomplishments, debates every form of science and decries mass shootings as being staged by so-called crisis actors. He believes that scientists are hiding the secret to perpetual energy, even as they weaponize the weather. I work hard to keep him off these topics as they only upset him.

There is no optimistic ending for his story, yet there is some relief.

My brother still has family.

A few years ago, I helped him obtain Social Security disability. Our mom's monthly contributions help keep him in a senior-care facility near his prior Las Vegas home. Pharmacy techs give him his medicines, diet techs help him eat better and he regularly makes friends.

. His life remains tenuous at best, but it remains. Sometimes his nurse calls to say he's not taking his medications. Or he will call me, angry because Social Security has reduced his income for Medicare payments. Or he'll call raging over his interpretation of a recent news event.

I know the end of this story. Sometimes it's unbearable to watch.

Still, most days I find Brother-Man reasonably happy when I phone. I tease him playfully and he always returns my levity. A few times a year, I fly to Vegas and tweak his care plan. While I'm there, we go to a Vegas magic show or play with the inexpensive drone he got for a birthday.

Most of the time, his disposition matches what was revealed by a social worker's recent question.

"Have you ever considered hurting yourself or someone else?" she asked.

He choked at the question, unable to consider anyone in pain, replied.

"No, I've only considered helping people."

That's the Brother-Man I know and love. That day was one of the good ones, and I'll take every single one I can get.

 

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Chaplain Norris' column

Trouble with Incantations After serving 28 years as an Air Force chaplain, I can tell you that my counselees didn't always come to see me on their own volition.   Occasionally a supervisor sent an airman to my office in hopes the person could avoid a career-threatening visit to mental health. That arrangement usually worked well.    However, once while on duty as an Air National Guard chaplain, I had a young reservist come to my office who seemed bent on sabotaging the arrangement.   She came in looking for the right place to sit as she continuously mumbled the same complaint: "My incantations just aren't working."   I wanted to say, "And neither is your attempt to shock the Protestant chaplain," but instead I invited the sergeant to sit across from me and encouraged her to say more.   Over the next 30 minutes she revealed she was a cutter. If you're not familiar with cutting, it's an attempt to cope with emotional pain by deliberately cutting one's body.   As a practicing Wiccan, she told me how she'd failed to cast the right spell that would stop her cutting urges. Adding to her frustration was her mother, who was threatening to evict her unless she renounced her religion.   "I still practice," she whispered. "I just keep my crystals and candles hidden."   Lest you assume the woman's plight was due to her religious beliefs, you should know that I heard her story echoed by an Apostolic woman's not long after I met the Wiccan.    I was making my rounds as a chaplain in a Northern California hospital when I met a woman, in her early 30s, who was suffering from a life-shortening disease. In soft sobs, she told me how the Apostolic faith she'd adopted from her parents was failing her.   "My parents blame me for not getting well. They accuse me of praying with a lack of faith. They say I'm not believing God will heal me."   Both women were describing the same problem. This patient used different words than my Wiccan visitor, but she was expressing the same thought.   Both women voiced  doubt as to whether they were using the right formula for their prayer or spell. Both saw their beliefs ricochet off reality's hardened wall and hit them square between the eyes.   It's a dilemma people have when they assume there are only two explanations for unanswered prayer. They either believe there's something wrong with their faith or there is something wrong with them. The cutter thought there was something wrong with her, so she kept cutting. But as the Christian woman unfolded her story, she eventually explored a third option.   "Maybe," she said, "there's still a way to accept what's happening to me and enjoy the life that I have remaining. Maybe that's a better miracle than what my parents are praying for."   Something happened at that point in the conversation. She wondered aloud what it might be like if she lived her faith, not as a vehicle for getting what she wanted, but as a way to unlock the story of who she was. Perhaps it was possible, she said, that God wouldn't be manipulated through a formula or spell; maybe prayer was a way of expressing our hurts to God.   Sadly, the Wiccan sergeant's path led her to some poor conclusions about her self-image — those that  preceded her transfer into a mental health facility.   The Apostolic woman, however, went home with much improved spiritual health. She finally saw a God whose love isn't canceled out by our disappointments in Him. She saw a God who promises to remain present in our pain, even when things may seem out of control.   --------------------------------------------------------------------- Join Norris' mailing list at www.thechaplain.net or leave voicemail at (843) 608-9715 or email comment@thechaplain.net or @chaplain. Snail mail occasionally checked at 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.   Copyright © 2019 Norris Burkes, All rights reserved. You signed up to be on Norris' list! Our mailing address is: Norris Burkes 10566 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Nov 15-17 column


Column:

Trouble with Incantations

After serving 28 years as an Air Force chaplain, I can tell you that my counselees didn't always come to see me on their own volition.

Occasionally a supervisor sent an airman to my office in hopes the person could avoid a career-threatening visit to mental health. That arrangement usually worked well.

However, once while on duty as an Air National Guard chaplain, I had a young reservist come to my office who seemed bent on sabotaging the arrangement.

She came in looking for the right place to sit as she continuously mumbled the same complaint: "My incantations just aren't working."

I wanted to say, "And neither is your attempt to shock the Protestant chaplain," but instead I invited the sergeant to sit across from me and encouraged her to say more.

Over the next 30 minutes she revealed she was a cutter. If you're not familiar with cutting, it's an attempt to cope with emotional pain by deliberately cutting one's body.

As a practicing Wiccan, she told me how she'd failed to cast the right spell that would stop her cutting urges. Adding to her frustration was her mother, who was threatening to evict her unless she renounced her religion.

"I still practice," she whispered. "I just keep my crystals and candles hidden."

Lest you assume the woman's plight was due to her religious beliefs, you should know that I heard her story echoed by an Apostolic woman's not long after I met the Wiccan.

I was making my rounds as a chaplain in a Northern California hospital when I met a woman, in her early 30s, who was suffering from a life-shortening disease. In soft sobs, she told me how the Apostolic faith she'd adopted from her parents was failing her.

"My parents blame me for not getting well. They accuse me of praying with a lack of faith. They say I'm not believing God will heal me."

Both women were describing the same problem. This patient used different words than my Wiccan visitor, but she was expressing the same thought.

Both women voiced doubt as to whether they were using the right formula for their prayer or spell. Both saw their beliefs ricochet off reality's hardened wall and hit them square between the eyes.

It's a dilemma people have when they assume there are only two explanations for unanswered prayer. They either believe there's something wrong with their faith or there is something wrong with them.
The cutter thought there was something wrong with her, so she kept cutting. But as the Christian woman unfolded her story, she eventually explored a third option.

"Maybe," she said, "there's still a way to accept what's happening to me and enjoy the life that I have remaining. Maybe that's a better miracle than what my parents are praying for."

Something happened at that point in the conversation. She wondered aloud what it might be like if she lived her faith, not as a vehicle for getting what she wanted, but as a way to unlock the story of who she was. Perhaps it was possible, she said, that God wouldn't be manipulated through a formula or spell; maybe prayer was a way of expressing our hurts to God.

Sadly, the Wiccan sergeant's path led her to some poor conclusions about her self-image — those that preceded her transfer into a mental health facility.

The Apostolic woman, however, went home with much improved spiritual health. She finally saw a God whose love isn't canceled out by our disappointments in Him. She saw a God who promises to remain present in our pain, even when things may seem out of control.

---------------------------------------------------------------------
Join Norris' mailing list at www.thechaplain.net or leave voicemail at (843) 608-9715 or email comment@thechaplain.net or @chaplain. Snail mail occasionally checked at 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

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Thank the Veteran's spouse too

THE REASONS WE GO Listen to Chaplain Norris' column on his website. https://thechaplain.net/listen-to-audible-columns/ There are a lot of reasons men and women will volunteer for military deployments, but on the last day of 2007 my wife, Becky, flatly demanded to know my reasons for going to Iraq.   I wasn't sure I could tell her. Why did any soldier want to go to war? Perhaps their recruiter promised money, or they were drawn to the sex appeal of the uniform. Perhaps a wartime video game told them that a reset button would bring an extra life. I didn't really know, but I wanted to.    I tried to shrug her off.   "Norris," her stiff blue-eyed gaze shredded my trumped-up confidence. She's petite, but she wasn't going to be trivialized. "I really need to know why you must do this now," she said.    "What makes you think you'll be the only volunteer here?" she blurted. "What about me? Aren't you asking me to volunteer for 120 days of solo parenting?"   "What are you afraid of?" I asked her.   "First, I'm afraid you'll die," she said.   "Don't worry. There hasn't been a chaplain killed in the line of duty since Vietnam, so don't count on getting my life insurance."   She showed no appreciation for my gallows humor. These weren't things she found funny. She'd been afraid of the death possibility ever since I joined the Air Force, but this was the first time she'd been so blunt about it. As a chaplain's wife, she knew better than most how routinely death calls on a soldier's home.    She pushed further.   "I'm not so much afraid that you will die. I'm more afraid that you'll come back different."   "Different?"   "You know, like what happened to you before -- in Stockton." She'd dared cross the boundary of "before."   In 1989 I volunteered to help in the aftermath of the madman who killed five kids and wounded 32 at Cleveland Elementary School in Stockton, California. Becky saw her husband come back "different." She knew volunteering had its pitfalls.    Volunteers get hurt too. Bullets aren't just hardened projectiles that shatter bodies. They ricochet into the shadowed places of the soul reminding us that every aspect of life is theirs for the taking.   But I stubbornly held a different opinion. "I'll be fine," I said, "That was 20 years ago."   How could I tell her that I wanted to go to Iraq to fathom the sorrow that had become my job to understand, not just regret. More than that, I wanted to tell families that I had seen how their loved ones handled the act of dying. I wanted to be able to answer the questions families asked: Was my son brave? Did my daughter have misgivings about the war? Did they feel honor? Or did they just feel cold?   Finally, I said, "I need to go because the Air Force is asking for a hospital chaplain, and I can't sit here when I know I can help."    I stopped at that, unable to state it more profoundly, but it must have been enough because after another week of detailed discussion, Becky placed her hands on my shoulders and flatly said, "You need to go. You need to feel you've done your share. I understand."    At that point, I composed the email response to the Chief of Chaplains office volunteering to serve as the chaplain at the Air Force Field Hospital in Balad, Iraq.    Then I asked Becky if she would press the 'send' button. Her index finger hovered over the keyboard in some hesitation until she finally gave the 'send' button a definitive push. With all she had and with all she knew, she understood.    A year later, according to the LA Times, Christy Goetz had a similar conversation with her husband, Dale, who wanted to deploy to Afghanistan as an Army chaplain.   "I told him, 'You're not going over there and getting killed,'" Christy Goetz recalled. "I mean, he's my honey. I love him. I don't want anything to happen to him."   Nevertheless, she honored his request to go.    On August 30, 2010, he and five other soldiers were killed in a roadside bomb, making him the first chaplain killed in action since Vietnam.   On this Veteran's Day, I have a favor to ask. As you offer a grateful handshake to a veteran, turn to the spouse and say, "Thanks for your sacrifice." After all, most of them have certainly done more than they ever "volunteered" to do. ______________________________________________________________ Join Norris' mailing list at www.thechaplain.net  or leave voicemail at (843) 608-9715 or email comment@thechaplain.net or @chaplain. Snail mail occasionally checked at 10566 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn CA 95602               Copyright © 2019 Norris Burkes, All rights reserved. You signed up to be on Norris' list! Our mailing address is: Norris Burkes 10566 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
audio file for Vet Day column


Column:

Please consider adding this link to the audio file for my vet day column. https://soundcloud.com/norris-burkes/thank-a-spouse-on-veterans-day

If you'd rather have the mp3 file, please request by email

 

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New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Column for Vet weekend 2019


Column:

THE REASONS WE GO

There are a lot of reasons men and women will volunteer for military deployments, but on the last day of 2007 my wife, Becky, flatly demanded to know my reasons for going to Iraq.

I wasn't sure I could tell her. Why did any soldier want to go to war? Perhaps their recruiter promised money, or they were drawn to the sex appeal of the uniform. Perhaps a wartime video game told them that a reset button would bring an extra life. I didn't really know, but I wanted to.

I tried to shrug her off.

"Norris," her stiff blue-eyed gaze shredded my trumped-up confidence. She's petite, but she wasn't going to be trivialized. "I really need to know why you must do this now," she said.

"What makes you think you'll be the only volunteer here?" she blurted. "What about me? Aren't you asking me to volunteer for 120 days of solo parenting?"

"What are you afraid of?" I asked her.

"First, I'm afraid you'll die," she said.

"Don't worry. There hasn't been a chaplain killed in the line of duty since Vietnam, so don't count on getting my life insurance."

She showed no appreciation for my gallows humor. These weren't things she found funny. She'd been afraid of the death possibility ever since I joined the Air Force, but this was the first time she'd been so blunt about it. As a chaplain's wife, she knew better than most how routinely death calls on a soldier's home.

She pushed further.

"I'm not so much afraid that you will die. I'm more afraid that you'll come back different."

"Different?"

"You know, like what happened to you before -- in Stockton." She'd dared cross the boundary of "before."

In 1989 I volunteered to help in the aftermath of the madman who killed five kids and wounded 32 at Cleveland Elementary School in Stockton, California. Becky saw her husband come back "different." She knew volunteering had its pitfalls.

Volunteers get hurt too. Bullets aren't just hardened projectiles that shatter bodies. They ricochet into the shadowed places of the soul reminding us that every aspect of life is theirs for the taking.

But I stubbornly held a different opinion. "I'll be fine," I said, "That was 20 years ago."

How could I tell her that I wanted to go to Iraq to fathom the sorrow that had become my job to understand, not just regret. More than that, I wanted to tell families that I had seen how their loved ones handled the act of dying. I wanted to be able to answer the questions families asked: Was my son brave? Did my daughter have misgivings about the war? Did they feel honor? Or did they just feel cold?

Finally, I said, "I need to go because the Air Force is asking for a hospital chaplain, and I can't sit here when I know I can help."

I stopped at that, unable to state it more profoundly, but it must have been enough because after another week of detailed discussion, Becky placed her hands on my shoulders and flatly said, "You need to go. You need to feel you've done your share. I understand."

At that point, I composed the email response to the Chief of Chaplains office volunteering to serve as the chaplain at the Air Force Field Hospital in Balad, Iraq.

Then I asked Becky if she would press the 'send' button. Her index finger hovered over the keyboard in some hesitation until she finally gave the 'send' button a definitive push. With all she had and with all she knew, she understood.

A year later, according to the LA Times, Christy Goetz had a similar conversation with her husband, Dale, who wanted to deploy to Afghanistan as an Army chaplain.

"I told him, 'You're not going over there and getting killed,'" Christy Goetz recalled. "I mean, he's my honey. I love him. I don't want anything to happen to him."

Nevertheless, she honored his request to go.

On August 30, 2010, he and five other soldiers were killed in a roadside bomb, making him the first chaplain killed in action since Vietnam.

On this Veteran's Day, I have a favor to ask. As you offer a grateful handshake to a veteran, turn to the spouse and say, "Thanks for your sacrifice."
After all, most of them have certainly done more than they ever "volunteered" to do.
______________________________________________________________
Join Norris' mailing list at www.thechaplain.net or leave voicemail at (843) 608-9715 or email comment@thechaplain.net or @chaplain. Snail mail occasionally checked at 10566 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn CA 95602

 

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Powerless in California

View this email in your browser POWERLESS TO A POINT Not far above Sacramento, at 1,500 feet, on the border that divides the towns of Grass Valley and Auburn, I'm sitting in the dark. This a different kind of darkness than that implied by some readers who think I'm often in the dark. This is a planned "public safety power shutoff" (PSPS) – among the first of many – instigated by our local power company to mitigate California fire danger in windstorms. I'm still not sure why someone thought it'd be a good idea to recommend a gas-powered generator to someone as hapless as me. Nor am I really sure how filling my house with extension cords will help prevent fires, but I've bought into it – even driving 100 miles to buy the generator. If you don't live here, you should know that it rarely rains in the summer months. So with our humidity in the teens and wind gusting more than 45 mph in places, cutting power may not be as far-fetched as it sounds.  Fortunately, we feel safer in a community that implements "fire-wise" practices in spite of living with a few inconveniences like my jammed electric recliner and no TV to watch. Yet despite those annoyances, my wife, Becky, and I are doing OK. We have the portable generator, a woodstove, gas water heater, just enough battery to write this column and Internet access to file it with editors. Some of my neighbors have it much worse. Many homes are all-electric while residents face nighttime temperatures in the 30s and 40s. They can't cook or enjoy the comfort of a hot shower. Even worse, some folks have wells that depend on electric pumps. And on properties with livestock, ranchers scurry ahead of the power outage to fill water troughs. Sadder still, some don't have normal sewer service because they live on inclines where the sewer depends on electric pumps. All of this "inconvenience" can turn tragic when it's saddled on the elderly or disabled needing medical devices like oxygen and electric wheelchairs, beds or CPAP machines. But compared to the thousands who are evacuating as fire licks their neighborhoods, we are dealing with minor setbacks. Our community is still thriving, finding hope even in the darkness.  Becky offered our shower and stove to neighbors. We shared our generator with neighbors, Todd and Laius, for their backyard wedding. Fifty people enjoyed the communal glow of lights and good food, and I performed the ceremony.   Meanwhile, our hospice offices light up thanks to a generator and busy staff. Our nurses and team work hard driving to patient homes to deliver a caring touch that brings light into the darkest of days. At church, we scooch our chairs up tight in our lobby where we enjoy the light coming freely through the big windows. A generator runs our keyboard, and pastor Mike Bivens delivers encouraging words.  We pay close attention to him since we are fortunate that he's present at all. Immediately after church, he swings into full gear as Director of the Disaster Relief Ministry for the California Baptist Convention. We expect things to return to normal when the wind dies down and the fall rain shows up.  In the meantime, we pray the Serenity Prayer, working to help others and change the things we can.   And like farmers though the centuries we follow the biblical advice from James 5:7: "Be patient, then, brothers…. See how the farmer waits for the land to yield its valuable crop and how patient he is for the autumn and spring rains."  _______________________________________ 100 percent of the Donations given to Disaster Relief Ministry for the California Baptist Convention will go to fire victims. Visit https://tinyurl.com/fires123, scroll down to bottom of page to see the video and donate. Or write checks to: "Disaster Relief Ministry," California Southern Baptist Convention, 678 East Shaw Ave., Fresno, CA 93710.   Copyright © 2019 Norris Burkes, All rights reserved. You signed up to be on Norris' list! Our mailing address is: Norris Burkes 10566 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.