Pastor to Pastor

View this email in your browser Ten Thousand Years to Understand The old veteran was sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over his considerable frame, studying the floor tiles.  "Hello," I called as I walked into his darkened room at the Sacramento VA Hospital in 2014.  "I'm Norris, the hospital chaplain."  The man's liver-spotted face flushed with a smile as he greeted me in a tone of familiarity. "Hello, Norris!" I searched his expressive blue eyes and the swirling tumbleweed atop his balding head for clues of a past encounter.  He invited me to sit on the bedside chair like an old friend who'd often come to visit. "I'm so glad you came, Chaplain." "Pardon me, it feels like we may have met in the past," I said. "No, I don't think so. But I'm a pastor too." I smiled, finally realizing that our familiarity came from speaking with the same pastoral pitch and ministerial mannerisms. I knew him because I was looking at myself 25 years into the future.  "Are you retired now?" I asked with obvious reference to his failing fitness.  "Are we ever really retired?" His mention of "we" was an extension of a club handshake.  "I guess not," I said. "We definitely signed up for the duration."  "That's right. Ours is a lifelong service."  During the next half hour, he unfolded 50 years, beginning with his marriage to his college sweetheart. Together, they'd started a church as well as a family. Soon, she birthed a baby girl, followed by a son.  However, not long after their son's birth, he started turning blue. The couple called for an ambulance, but it came too late. "It was congenital," he told me.  The tears began leaking from his reddened eyes, taking their evacuation route over bulging cheeks.  A problem in the baby's heart shattered the heart of his parents. "It was all so long ago," he said. His tone became apologetic, as if mystified by the source of his tears.  "You cry because it happened out of order," I said. "You're grieving the loss of potential, for what could have been."  He nodded and I continued.  "There's an old Chinese proverb about the order of things. True happiness is: Grandfather dies. Father dies. Son dies. Grandson dies."  Yet even as I spoke, he was waving a dismissive hand. It seemed likely he'd heard this before and even more likely he'd said it to himself.  Then, as if announcing another chapter of his autobiography, he said, "There's more.  "The cancer. My firstborn," he stuttered. "She died when she was just 39."  "You lost two children?" Mine was half question and half indictment of our celestial employer for expecting a man to remain in ministry after such tragedy.  I guess he caught my meaning because he said, "I'll be in heaven ten thousand years before I'll ever understand why."  I sat in silence with that observation. The old preacher knew the answers were so complex that ten thousand years of deliberation wouldn't bring any real understanding.  I suppose I could have reminded him that God "… causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous" (Matthew 5:45), but he likely knew that.  He didn't need more verses; he needed to know that God still heard his pain. I reached for his hand, asked if we could tell this to God.  He nodded.  We prayed. We cried.  Just as he was wiping his last tear, his wife came into the room. He concluded his story by adding that he was now serving as Pastor Emeritus and advising the younger pastors.  He was right, serving God is an endless calling. But doing so with such a gaping wound to the soul brings to mind nothing short of the divine. If there's a heavenly version of the Medal of Honor, this old vet may surely have one by now. --------------------------------------------------- Norris' books of past columns at www.thechaplain.net. Contact him at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.   Copyright © 2020 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:
Column for last week of May 2020


Column:

Ten Thousand Years to Understand

The old veteran was sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over his considerable frame, studying the floor tiles.

"Hello," I called as I walked into his darkened room at the Sacramento VA Hospital in 2014.

"I'm Norris, the hospital chaplain."

The man's liver-spotted face flushed with a smile as he greeted me in a tone of familiarity.

"Hello, Norris!"

I searched his expressive blue eyes and the swirling tumbleweed atop his balding head for clues of a past encounter.

He invited me to sit on the bedside chair like an old friend who'd often come to visit. "I'm so glad you came, Chaplain."

"Pardon me, it feels like we may have met in the past," I said.

"No, I don't think so. But I'm a pastor too."

I smiled, finally realizing that our familiarity came from speaking with the same pastoral pitch and ministerial mannerisms. I knew him because I was looking at myself 25 years into the future.

"Are you retired now?" I asked with obvious reference to his failing fitness.

"Are we ever really retired?" His mention of "we" was an extension of a club handshake.

"I guess not," I said. "We definitely signed up for the duration."

"That's right. Ours is a lifelong service."

During the next half hour, he unfolded 50 years, beginning with his marriage to his college sweetheart. Together, they'd started a church as well as a family. Soon, she birthed a baby girl, followed by a son.

However, not long after their son's birth, he started turning blue. The couple called for an ambulance, but it came too late. "It was congenital," he told me.

The tears began leaking from his reddened eyes, taking their evacuation route over bulging cheeks.

A problem in the baby's heart shattered the heart of his parents. "It was all so long ago," he said. His tone became apologetic, as if mystified by the source of his tears.

"You cry because it happened out of order," I said. "You're grieving the loss of potential, for what could have been."

He nodded and I continued.

"There's an old Chinese proverb about the order of things. True happiness is: Grandfather dies. Father dies. Son dies. Grandson dies."

Yet even as I spoke, he was waving a dismissive hand. It seemed likely he'd heard this before and even more likely he'd said it to himself.

Then, as if announcing another chapter of his autobiography, he said, "There's more.

"The cancer. My firstborn," he stuttered. "She died when she was just 39."

"You lost two children?" Mine was half question and half indictment of our celestial employer for expecting a man to remain in ministry after such tragedy.

I guess he caught my meaning because he said, "I'll be in heaven ten thousand years before I'll ever understand why."

I sat in silence with that observation. The old preacher knew the answers were so complex that ten thousand years of deliberation wouldn't bring any real understanding.

I suppose I could have reminded him that God "… causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous" (Matthew 5:45), but he likely knew that.

He didn't need more verses; he needed to know that God still heard his pain. I reached for his hand, asked if we could tell this to God.

He nodded.

We prayed. We cried.

Just as he was wiping his last tear, his wife came into the room. He concluded his story by adding that he was now serving as Pastor Emeritus and advising the younger pastors.

He was right, serving God is an endless calling. But doing so with such a gaping wound to the soul brings to mind nothing short of the divine. If there's a heavenly version of the Medal of Honor, this old vet may surely have one by now.

---------------------------------------------------
Norris' books of past columns at www.thechaplain.net. Contact him at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd.
Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

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      Burkesn

https://clck.ru/Ne8rh

Norris

Those I told

View this email in your browser Memorial Day -- The Ones Who Got Us Home   "How's your day going, Chaplain?" asked a colleague.    I would've considered it a wasted question, but my inquisitor was Nancy Bloom, the licensed clinical social worker embedded with our Air National Guard unit in the 2010s. An Auburn, Calif., resident, she was a 40-something woman of slight build and light brown hair.   "Fine, I guess," shorthand for leave-me-alone.   I searched her blue eyes for signs she'd taken my hint, but since her job was to monitor airmen for stress, she wasn't going to leave me alone.    "I heard you made another notification yesterday."   "Yeah," I said with trailing silence.   She allowed my reticence some space before slipping herself into my office chair.   Resigned to unscheduled therapy, I began unpacking my day in military monotone.   "The Casualty Assistance Office at Fort Lewis, Wash., sent me and Webster to do another NOK notification."   Bloom knew Rob Webster was the Chaplain Assistant, but she clarified NOK. "Next of Kin?" she asked, coating the acronym with empathy.    "We went to the home, but there was no answer," I said.   I wanted to end the story there, but Bloom seemed unlikely to leave, so I continued.   "Just as we were returning to our car, a pickup pulled into the driveway and a 40-ish woman stepped out to meet us. She saw the uniforms and quickly surmised this was about her deployed son.    "We barely made it into the house before she fell apart."    Bloom noted signs that my military bearing was heading for the rocks.    "How many does that make for you now?"   "Almost 30."   "Are they always like that?"   I shook my head, words were stuck.   As Bloom waited for details, I felt myself standing on a dark porch in military dress uniform. I was waiting for a door to open and family members to scream at the sight of us.   I must have been shaking as I told her how I'd once stopped a family in their driveway as they tried to leave for the airport to pick up their son. He wasn't coming home.   I searched for the breath to tell Bloom how I'd recently driven six hours to tell a father there would be no miraculous recovery for his son. The soldier finally died of the brain injury he'd received in an IED explosion the prior year.   "Norris. Norris," she called as if looking for me in a storm.   Tears were coming steadily. "Most of all Nancy, I can't forget the children, the birthday party we interrupted." The image of the 9-year-old twins exchanging vacant stares, and the 4-year-old who just didn't understand.   "I think you need a break," she said.   "But I have to ..."    "For now, our commander must find another chaplain to do this."   The counselor knew that her chaplain was broken. She had confidence that he could be fixed, but for now, he was broken.   "You've done your part. I can't let you go again." Her words carried authority, but more importantly, they offered a forgiving cover.     Bloom was true to her word. Her advice to my commander brought me a year-long break before I retired in 2015.   I found Nancy Bloom this week in her Auburn private practice. As I told her I would write this story, my tears returned like they do every Memorial Day.    During this year's remembrance, I hope you will give sacred thanks for the men and women who've made the supreme sacrifice. Please say their names aloud and sing Amazing Grace. Voice your prayers and gratitude for the survivors—wives, parents, children and friends.   But this year—perhaps more so because of COVID-19—join with me in adding one more word of thanks.   I say "thank you" to the caregivers, the doctors, nurses, chaplains and mental-health workers like Nancy Bloom. Thank you for your healing touch, your caring words, your listening ears and your open heart.    Thank you for bearing the warfighter's pain and making it a part of your own pain. Thank you for your determined presence that guided the rest of us in finding our way home.     ____________________________________________________ This column is an excerpt from my book, Hero's Highway. To order a copy, visit website www.thechaplain.net. Contact Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or send $15 to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602. Voicemail (843) 608-9715.                      Copyright © 2020 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:
Memorial Day column 2020


Column:

Honoring the Ones Who Got Us Home

"How's your day going, Chaplain?" asked a colleague.

I would've considered it a wasted question, but my inquisitor was Nancy Bloom, the licensed clinical social worker embedded with our Air National Guard unit in the 2010s. An Auburn, Calif., resident, she was a 40-something woman of slight build and light brown hair.

"Fine, I guess," shorthand for leave-me-alone.

I searched her blue eyes for signs she'd taken my hint, but since her job was to monitor airmen for stress, she wasn't going to leave me alone.

"I heard you made another notification yesterday."

"Yeah," I said with trailing silence.

She allowed my reticence some space before slipping herself into my office chair.

Resigned to unscheduled therapy, I began unpacking my day in military monotone.

"The Casualty Assistance Office at Fort Lewis, Wash., sent me and Webster to do another NOK notification."

Bloom knew Rob Webster was the Chaplain Assistant, but she clarified NOK. "Next of Kin?" she asked, coating the acronym with empathy.

"We went to the home, but there was no answer," I said.

I wanted to end the story there, but Bloom seemed unlikely to leave, so I continued.

"Just as we were returning to our car, a pickup pulled into the driveway and a 40-ish woman stepped out to meet us. She saw the uniforms and quickly surmised this was about her deployed son.

"We barely made it into the house before she fell apart."

Bloom noted signs that my military bearing was heading for the rocks.

"How many does that make for you now?"

"Almost 30."

"Are they always like that?"

I shook my head, words were stuck.

As Bloom waited for details, I felt myself standing on a dark porch in military dress uniform. I was waiting for a door to open and family members to scream at the sight of us.

I must have been shaking as I told her how I'd once stopped a family in their driveway as they tried to leave for the airport to pick up their son. He wasn't coming home.

I searched for the breath to tell Bloom how I'd recently driven six hours to tell a father there would be no miraculous recovery for his son. The soldier finally died of the brain injury he'd received in an IED explosion the prior year.

"Norris. Norris," she called as if looking for me in a storm.

Tears were coming steadily. "Most of all Nancy, I can't forget the children, the birthday party we interrupted." The image of the 9-year-old twins exchanging vacant stares, and the 4-year-old who just didn't understand.

"I think you need a break," she said.

"But I have to ..."

"For now, our commander must find another chaplain to do this."

The counselor knew that her chaplain was broken. She had confidence that he could be fixed, but for now, he was broken.

"You've done your part. I can't let you go again." Her words carried authority, but more importantly, they offered a forgiving cover.

Bloom was true to her word. Her advice to my commander brought me a year-long break before I retired in 2015.

I found Nancy Bloom this week in her Auburn private practice. As I told her I would write this story, my tears returned like they do every Memorial Day.

During this year's remembrance, I hope you will give sacred thanks for the men and women who've made the supreme sacrifice. Please say their names aloud and sing Amazing Grace. Voice your prayers and gratitude for the survivors—wives, parents, children and friends.

But this year—perhaps more so because of COVID-19—join with me in adding one more word of thanks.

I say "thank you" to the caregivers, the doctors, nurses, chaplains and mental-health workers like Nancy Bloom. Thank you for your healing touch, your caring words, your listening ears and your open heart.

Thank you for bearing the warfighter's pain and making it a part of your own pain. Thank you for your determined presence that guided the rest of us in finding our way home.

____________________________________________________
This column is an excerpt from my book, Hero's Highway. To order a copy, visit website www.thechaplain.net. Contact Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or send $15 to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602. Voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

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latest column invites you to join meeting

View this email in your browser Readers: If you'd like to know more about Chispa Project, join us for virtual meeting on May 18 at 4 p.m. EST. Sign up at www.chispaproject.org Do You Remember Where You Were Two Months Ago? Can you remember where you were as our world began to tilt? I was at Republica De Francia, a Honduran elementary school deep in the gang-ridden neighborhood of Honduras' capitol, Tegucigalpa. I was there with two dozen of my readers to help Chispa Project establish their largest library yet, one of over 60 libraries. All around us children were behaving typically – teeming, screaming and careening down echoing hallways. Several stopped to hug us, sharing broad grins and cheeky smiles that stretched for miles and miles. Amidst the recess bustle, I was surrounded by five schoolgirls of single-digit ages, all grinning with unrehearsed wonder. They weren't subtle. They wanted to see the new books we were shelving.  I handed a book to Maria, likely the oldest of the group. She opened it with some reluctance, but soon began to read aloud the "Fiesta Secreta de Pizza," the Spanish version of Adam Rubin's children's book about a Racoon planning a secret pizza party. All we needed was tea and cookies to really get this new book club going. If you know the excitement U.S. children express over a new video game, you can conceive the enthusiasm that began to build in these Honduran students seeing their first children's picture book.  It was incomprehensible that someone like Rubin wrote pizza books to especially engage them. And even more incredulous that strangers from another country would think them important enough to personally hand them this book. I felt a bit overwhelmed by this kid gaggle, but fortunately I had backup nearby. In the school parking lot, ten volunteers worked an assembly line offloading 2,000 new library books from the top of our bus. In a side yard another five painted and assembled bookshelves for the library.  Inside classrooms, volunteers projected and outlined colorful murals to celebrate the school's newly adopted emphasis on reading. Then they carefully filled in the outline with bright primary colors that brought book characters to life.  On the fourth and final day, Chispa volunteers hosted the library inauguration, a sort of all-day birthday party. The busyness returned as students rotated among classrooms for hands-on-fun that included puppets, science experiments and storytelling. At the end of the day, the children gathered in the courtyard and dazzled us with a cultural dance in swirling dress.  A few days later, most of us boarded planes to a quickly changing reality with flights half full and passengers donning masks and compulsively washing their hands. Now, two months later as COVID-19 spreads, I wonder if Maria is even able to eat, much less enjoy her books. She, like 2 out of 3 Hondurans, experience a hand-to-mouth existence. Quarantine there means that her family will likely see their food chain greatly impaired. The crisis makes books appear irrelevant. After all, if you can't eat, why would you care about books? But Chispa knows that reading offers skills that can change systemic poverty in the long run. Reading helps children develop critical thinking, analytical skills and the imagination to rewrite their own futures. And we volunteers have just provided 2,000 new worlds of possibilities. Project director Sara Burkes, and I invite you to learn more about those possibilities in a virtual meeting on May 18 at 4 p.m. EST. Sign up at www.chispaproject.org where you can also learn more about Chispa Project and volunteering.  --------------------------------------------------- Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.   Register for meeting Copyright © 2020 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.