Column for syndication -- April 1-3 2022

Nothing But the Blood

 

If you're fighting cancer right now or some other chronic disease, I owe you an apology for breaking the promise I made you in 2009.

 

That was the year I served as the chaplain in the Air Force Field Hospital in Balad, Iraq. Every two weeks there, I took the morning to donate blood platelets.

 

"What are platelets?" you ask.

 

According to the Red Cross website, "Platelets are the tiny cells in your blood that form clots to stop bleeding."

 

If you can imagine how valuable platelets are to a combat hospital, you'll understand my biweekly commitment to donate them. For nearly three hours, I would sit in the donor chair, adjacent to the ER, and watch the bloodied boots of our anguished heroes roll toward radiology for x-rays and MRIs.

 

The sight inspired me to promise, "Lord, if I ever get out of here…"

 

Well, maybe not quite that dramatic. It was more like, "When I get home, I promise I'll continue giving platelets."

 

But in my homecoming, I failed to keep my promise and I'm very sorry.

 

I overlooked how essential platelets are to millions of Americans hoping to survive cancer, chronic diseases and traumatic injuries.

 

In fact, platelets are so important that every 15 seconds someone needs them. And platelets are so fragile that they must be used within a week's time. That means new donors are constantly needed.

 

Sadly, it took me another ten years before I returned to my local blood bank to renew my battlefield contract. That was last year.

 

These days, my kept promise begins with online scheduling of a 2.5-hour appointment twice a month with my local blood bank.

 

On the morning of my appointment, I fill out a quick online questionnaire. A nurse takes my vitals and gives me a fingerstick to measure my hemoglobin, the most painful moment in the process for many.

 

Soon, I'm relaxing in a recliner, where my nurse comforts me with heating pads and pillows. Honestly, I think she'd give me a cuddly stuffed bear if I asked for one.

 

I point to the tiny scar on my left arm caused from my Iraq donations, and she inserts a needle, almost painlessly, in the same spot.

 

She draws a relatively small amount of blood and sends it into a machine called a blood cell separator. The blood is rapidly spun, which forces the platelets to separate from the other blood components. These cells then flow into a sterile, single-use plastic bag.

 

This process removes only platelets. Everything else is recycled back to me--the plasma, red cells and white cells. This method is repeated many times until my single donation of platelets provides several transfusable platelet units.

 

When the procedure is over, I rest in the break area, sipping a favorite beverage and eating popcorn while chatting with the nicest people you'd want to meet--the other donors.

 

Why am I sharing this story in a spirituality column?

 

Because Easter is coming and in my Baptist church, we'll probably sing, "Power in the Blood." The hymn recalls how Jesus spilled his blood and sacrificed his life on our behalf. For me, there's a connection between giving blood and demonstrating sacrifice, love and concern for God's people.

 

If you can't see yourself sacrificing that much time, please consider 90 minutes to donate plasma. If you've survived COVID, your plasma may be used to help COVID patients recover with something called convalescent plasma therapy.

 

And if you're so busy you barely have time to read this column, consider the 30-minute procedure to give whole blood.  

 

Finally, the most rewarding moment is when I receive a text a few days later telling me that my donation has just been used to save a life.

 

But personally, I'm just materialistic enough to enjoy the other rewards given by most blood centers, such as gift cards, and T-shirts. I spent my Apple gift cards on an Apple watch. And that watch tells me that it's probably time you should donate blood too.

 

 

Visit www.thechaplain.net or https://www.facebook.com/theChaplainNorris. Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, Calif. 95602 or via voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

 

 

 

Corrected copy: Column for syndication -- March 24 2022

No Ties Need Apply

 

I'm hoping whoever reads this is looking for a job -- specifically a hospice chaplain position.

 

I'm currently holding the title, but I'm eager for my employer to hire my replacement so I can retire -- again.

 

The right candidate must be an approachable and caring person, unlike the man I interviewed some years ago. He arrived wearing a suit and became offended when I told him our hospice chaplains leave their clergy trappings at home.

 

"Why?" he asked.

 

"That level of dress can be a bit overstated when you sit with dying people. This job can't be about maintaining your pastoral appearance. It has to be about who the patient is."

 

"I've never had an employer disapprove of my neckties," he answered.

 

I understood his protest, as we'd come from similar backgrounds. I too had once pastored a conservative congregation where the business suit was the uniform of the day.

 

My padre dress became a problem during my first days as a chaplain intern at UC Davis Medical Center in Sacramento in 1992. The training quickly intensified as I found myself sucked into the trauma and drama of the Emergency Department. 

 

One day, an ER nurse approached me in the hallway.

 

"I think the man in room No. 3 could really use a chaplain." 

 

Did I detect some sarcasm in the request? "Surely not," I thought as I scurried off to see the patient. Hopefully the wisdom imparted from a well-dressed chaplain would bring a healing effect. 

 

As I approached the room, I stopped the exiting orderly and asked, "What is that repulsive odor?"

 

"Maggots, lots of them."

 

My expression told him I suspected a prank, so he offered more information.

 

"Our patient is a homeless man who arrived with an infected leg laceration. He spent the last several nights sleeping on the ground, so maggots entered the infected wound."

 

I cringed.

 

"Maggots probably saved his leg," he said cheerfully.

 

"How's that?"

 

"Since maggots only eat dead skin, they likely kept the infection from moving up his leg."

 

I shot the orderly a repulsed look as I entered the patient's room.

 

The odor was intense and unforgettable. I looked the man over, head to toe. This shriveled lump of a human was malnourished and covered with overgrown matted red hair. He was cooked brown from the neck up. 

 

I stared at the poor man's gnarled toenails and fingernails, noticing particularly the scratches that whipped around his body. 

 

The patient returned my gaze, looking me up and down. It was hard for him not to see my crumpled expression. But more than that, he saw the trappings of privilege, from my tasseled loafers to my pinstripe suit and dark blue tie. 

 

My silver-plated wristwatch, Bible and oversized college ring proclaimed our overstated differences.

 

"I'm Chaplain Burkes," I said.  No first names when you're trying to keep that pastoral distance.

 

"The hell, you say!" He continued with expletive-laced directions that suggested I turn around and walk toward my fiery eternal destination.

 

I'm ashamed to admit, I was glad to go anywhere rather than remain in that room.

 

Anywhere, that is, except into the path of the smirking nurse who'd sent me there.

 

She offered her counsel to the newbie chaplain intern. 

 

"You might want to lose the suit," she said."

 

"Why," I asked. 

 

"I'm guessing that our patient probably considered your suit as repulsive as you found his maggot-infested leg."

 

Eventually, her mentorship taught me to shed the trappings of Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and don the more approachable short sleeves and Dockers. Sadly, my neckties took a little longer to die.

 

In the meantime, we are still looking for a full-time chaplain at Hospice of the Foothills in Grass Valley, Calif.  The requirements are posted on Indeed.com. Just remember, ties need not apply.

 

 

-----------------------------------

 

 

Visit www.thechaplain.net. Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or via voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

Column for syndication -- March 24 2022

God's Holy Water

 

Ecclesiastes 3:4 says there's "A time to weep, and a time to laugh." I tested that adage this week in Charleston, S.C. where I spoke on both subjects -- humor and grief.

 

On Sunday afternoon, I spoke at Providence Church on "Laughing Your Way Through Love, Life and Loss."

 

I began by reminding the audience, as I'll encourage you, that "A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones" (Proverbs 17:22).

 

My new grandson is teaching me the universal value of laughter in daily life. The little guy has perfected the art and, like most preschoolers, he pegs the giggle meter 80-90 times a day.

 

Depending on how researchers define the act of "laughter," various studies track adult hilarity at less than two dozen chuckles per day.

 

Medical folks tell me that laughing gives our internal organs a gentle workout. It aerates our blood, oxygenates our brain, and improves our circulation. All of this helps to lower blood pressure.

 

That's why, as a professional chaplain, I try to inject laughter into patient visits because it's truly the best medicine.

 

Hopefully, because of that, I believe I left this theologically progressive congregation in great health. See the full talk at https://tinyurl.com/NorrisLaugh.

 

My second talk was across town in the Seacoast Church chapel, just one of 14 locations for this multi-site megachurch in suburban Charleston. 

 

Sadly, my topic, "The Grammar of Grief," left little room for laughter.

 

I covered those clichés that constitute spiritual malpractice including, "He's in a better place," "Everything Happens for a purpose," and the inevitable, "I know just how you feel."

 

The most difficult for me, is the implication that people of faith shouldn't cry.

 

So I shared a story about a young woman's journey through terminal cancer. The 34-year-old was her mother's only child. She told me that she was trying to be strong and not cry.

 

"Trying not to cry expends an inordinate amount of emotional energy," I told her. "Perhaps your effort is better spent talking with your mother.

 

"Besides, you know your mother is going to cry after you're gone. Maybe she'd like to cry with you now. Perhaps she's waiting for your cue to cry."

 

"Mom's not cried since this whole thing began," she admitted.

 

"Maybe you've not seen her cry," I speculated. "My guess is losing her only child has to be devastating, so maybe she'd like the opportunity to express that."

 

I told the patient that grief is something her mother has in common with God.

 

Noting her quizzical look, I suggested, "Surely God must have cried when his only Son died.

 

"Doesn't the Bible teach that Jesus' crucifixion caused the earth to go dark for three hours? I think your mom's world must be looking pretty dark too," I told her.

 

"Tears can be God's Holy Water," I prompted.

 

Suddenly moisture filled her eyes, and tears fell like water leaking from a paper sack.

 

A few minutes deeper into my talk at the chapel, my own words boomeranged on me when I shared my recent heartbreaking loss of both my brother Milton and my best friend of 45 years, Roger Williams.

 

My voice cracked and the words stuttered between my sacred pauses.

 

I told my listeners that I knew both my brother and friend were with God, but I wanted them back with me. I wished that we could have made that journey together. I missed them and had no words to say that -- only public tears.

 

My tears did not embarrass me. They didn't hurt. I was not ashamed. My faith felt stronger, not weaker.

 

So, for all those who grieve today, I pray this blessing: "May God hold you close to his heart and allow you to hear his reassuring voice. May God's holy water wash you anew with his love and care. Amen."

 

-----------------------------------

 

If you would like to Norris to speak at your church or organization, contact him at comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

Column for syndication -- March 17 2022

God's Holy Water

 

Ecclesiastes 3:4 says there's "A time to weep, and a time to laugh." I tested that adage this week in Charleston, S.C. where I spoke on both subjects -- humor and grief.

 

On Sunday afternoon, I spoke at Providence Church on "Laughing Your Way Through Love, Life and Loss."

 

I began by reminding the audience, as I'll encourage you, that "A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones" (Proverbs 17:22).

 

My new grandson is teaching me the universal value of laughter in daily life. The little guy has perfected the art and, like most preschoolers, he pegs the giggle meter 80-90 times a day.

 

Depending on how researchers define the act of "laughter," various studies track adult hilarity at less than two dozen chuckles per day.

 

Medical folks tell me that laughing gives our internal organs a gentle workout. It aerates our blood, oxygenates our brain, and improves our circulation. All of this helps to lower blood pressure.

 

That's why, as a professional chaplain, I try to inject laughter into patient visits because it's truly the best medicine.

 

Hopefully, because of that, I believe I left this theologically progressive congregation in great health. See the full talk at https://tinyurl.com/NorrisLaugh.

 

My second talk was across town in the Seacoast Church chapel, just one of 14 locations for this multi-site megachurch in suburban Charleston. 

 

Sadly, my topic, "The Grammar of Grief," left little room for laughter.

 

I covered those clichés that constitute spiritual malpractice including, "He's in a better place," "Everything Happens for a purpose," and the inevitable, "I know just how you feel."

 

The most difficult for me, is the implication that people of faith shouldn't cry.

 

So I shared a story about a young woman's journey through terminal cancer. The 34-year-old was her mother's only child. She told me that she was trying to be strong and not cry.

 

"Trying not to cry expends an inordinate amount of emotional energy," I told her. "Perhaps your effort is better spent talking with your mother.

 

"Besides, you know your mother is going to cry after you're gone. Maybe she'd like to cry with you now. Perhaps she's waiting for your cue to cry."

 

"Mom's not cried since this whole thing began," she admitted.

 

"Maybe you've not seen her cry," I speculated. "My guess is losing her only child has to be devastating, so maybe she'd like the opportunity to express that."

 

I told the patient that grief is something her mother has in common with God.

 

Noting her quizzical look, I suggested, "Surely God must have cried when his only Son died.

 

"Doesn't the Bible teach that Jesus' crucifixion caused the earth to go dark for three hours? I think your mom's world must be looking pretty dark too," I told her.

 

"Tears can be God's Holy Water," I prompted.

 

Suddenly moisture filled her eyes, and tears fell like water leaking from a paper sack.

 

A few minutes deeper into my talk at the chapel, my own words boomeranged on me when I shared my recent heartbreaking loss of both my brother Milton and my best friend of 45 years, Roger Williams.

 

My voice cracked and the words stuttered between my sacred pauses.

 

I told my listeners that I knew both my brother and friend were with God, but I wanted them back with me. I wished that we could have made that journey together. I missed them and had no words to say that -- only public tears.

 

My tears did not embarrass me. They didn't hurt. I was not ashamed. My faith felt stronger, not weaker.

 

So, for all those who grieve today, I pray this blessing: "May God hold you close to his heart and allow you to hear his reassuring voice. May God's holy water wash you anew with his love and care. Amen."

 

-----------------------------------

 

If you would like to Norris to speak at your church or organization, contact him at comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

Column for syndication -- March 17 2022

God's Holy Water

 

Ecclesiastes 3:4 says there's "A time to weep, and a time to laugh." I tested that adage this week in Charleston, S.C. where I spoke on both subjects -- humor and grief.

 

On Sunday afternoon, I spoke at Providence Church on "Laughing Your Way Through Love, Life and Loss."

 

I began by reminding the audience, as I'll encourage you, that "A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones" (Proverbs 17:22).

 

My new grandson is teaching me the universal value of laughter in daily life. The little guy has perfected the art and, like most preschoolers, he pegs the giggle meter 80-90 times a day.

 

Depending on how researchers define the act of "laughter," various studies track adult hilarity at less than two dozen chuckles per day.

 

Medical folks tell me that laughing gives our internal organs a gentle workout. It aerates our blood, oxygenates our brain, and improves our circulation. All of this helps to lower blood pressure.

 

That's why, as a professional chaplain, I try to inject laughter into patient visits because it's truly the best medicine.

 

Hopefully, because of that, I believe I left this theologically progressive congregation in great health. See the full talk at https://tinyurl.com/NorrisLaugh.

 

My second talk was across town in the Seacoast Church chapel, just one of 14 locations for this multi-site megachurch in suburban Charleston. 

 

Sadly, my topic, "The Grammar of Grief," left little room for laughter.

 

I covered those clichés that constitute spiritual malpractice including, "He's in a better place," "Everything Happens for a purpose," and the inevitable, "I know just how you feel."

 

The most difficult for me, is the implication that people of faith shouldn't cry.

 

So I shared a story about a young woman's journey through terminal cancer. The 34-year-old was her mother's only child. She told me that she was trying to be strong and not cry.

 

"Trying not to cry expends an inordinate amount of emotional energy," I told her. "Perhaps your effort is better spent talking with your mother.

 

"Besides, you know your mother is going to cry after you're gone. Maybe she'd like to cry with you now. Perhaps she's waiting for your cue to cry."

 

"Mom's not cried since this whole thing began," she admitted.

 

"Maybe you've not seen her cry," I speculated. "My guess is losing her only child has to be devastating, so maybe she'd like the opportunity to express that."

 

I told the patient that grief is something her mother has in common with God.

 

Noting her quizzical look, I suggested, "Surely God must have cried when his only Son died.

 

"Doesn't the Bible teach that Jesus' crucifixion caused the earth to go dark for three hours? I think your mom's world must be looking pretty dark too," I told her.

 

"Tears can be God's Holy Water," I prompted.

 

Suddenly moisture filled her eyes, and tears fell like water leaking from a paper sack.

 

A few minutes deeper into my talk at the chapel, my own words boomeranged on me when I shared my recent heartbreaking loss of both my brother Milton and my best friend of 45 years, Roger Williams.

 

My voice cracked and the words stuttered between my sacred pauses.

 

I told my listeners that I knew both my brother and friend were with God, but I wanted them back with me. I wished that we could have made that journey together. I missed them and had no words to say that -- only public tears.

 

My tears did not embarrass me. They didn't hurt. I was not ashamed. My faith felt stronger, not weaker.

 

So, for all those who grieve today, I pray this blessing: "May God hold you close to his heart and allow you to hear his reassuring voice. May God's holy water wash you anew with his love and care. Amen."

 

-----------------------------------

 

If you would like to Norris to speak at your church or organization, contact him at comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

Column for syndication -- March 10 2022

Living the Dream

 

During my 28 years as an Air Force chaplain, I repeated my share of military clichés.

 

For instance, I might be on a hot and sticky deployment when a fellow airman would ask how I was doing. The expected reply was, "Just living the dream!"

 

Of course, most clichés came from those chiseled-chin generals standing at a backlit podium.  Through flashing pearly whites, one would funnel his deep-throated words into an echoing microphone:

 

"Don't just count your days. Make your days count!"

 

While the saying may be cliché in a speech, I can tell you that in my current job as hospice chaplain, it quickly loses the cliché quality. 

 

Recently I witnessed this sentiment expressed by a woman whose doctors had placed her on comfort care. This often entails morphine to squelch pain and induce sleep – a sleep lasting hours or days until the last breath.

 

Before driving to the woman's home, I received an update from our hospice nurse, who spoke to me in hushed tones, warning me our patient's time was getting shorter.

 

Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the patient's driveway and knocked on the front door.

 

I expected to find the woman sleeping, comatose or just wracked with too much pain to talk. So imagine my surprise when I entered the house to find her laughing and loudly recounting stories to her large family surrounding a bed set up in the living room.

 

Was this the woman I was looking for? Did the family know she was dying?

 

"Yes, you have the right home," a family member assured me. 

 

"And yes, we all know she's dying." He added.

 

It's rare that I find a dying patient this lucid, even rarer still to find one laughing.

 

"Am I interrupting?" I asked, perplexed by the joviality.

 

"Depends. Who are you?" asked the fifty-something patient.

 

"I'm the chaplain."

 

"Uh, we're OK." she said, as if dismissing a magazine salesman.

 

"You seem more than OK," I pressed. "What does someone have to do to get an invitation to this party?"

 

The woman took a moment to size me up before flashing a smile and inviting me to sit down. Over the next several minutes she recounted her story about the terminal respiratory disease that had ruined her lungs.

 

I asked her about her pain level. She shrugged. "It's bad, but you live with it — until you don't. The nurse is bringing something later."

 

That "something later," would come as morphine, but only when pain relief outweighed the benefits of consciousness. "In the meantime," she said, "we're just having a party."

 

"You seem fearless about all this," I said.

 

"I was really scared a few weeks ago," she confessed.

 

"Something changed?" I asked.

 

"I decided it didn't make sense to spend my last days crying about what I don't have. Why not just live the days I've got left?"

 

Wow. It seemed unlikely she'd heard the military cliche, but she was living the principle. She'd weighed whether it was better to have more days in her life or find more life in her days. She was making her days count, not counting her days.

 

Later in the same week, the woman breathed her last, surrounded by a loving family and celebrating her life — which some might call, "living the dream."

 

-----------------------------------

 

Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

 

 

 

Column for syndication -- March 3 2022

Do You Watch for God In Your Rearview Mirror?

 

We all do it. We pass a police car parked alongside the road and we let off our accelerator.

 

And maybe, if you're like me and grew up with too much "Highway Patrol," you jokingly mutter, "Uh-oh, copper."

 

That was pretty much the scenario last week as I drove back to my hospice office after visiting a patient in her home. I was in a rush and didn't notice the parked police cruiser until I passed it.

 

"Uh-oh," I muttered, checking my rearview mirror to see if "I'd been made."

 

No, I hadn't.

 

Dare I hope the cruiser was unoccupied? Possibly a ruse to slow people down?
I looked back again, holding an extra-long stare.

 

Suddenly I did see a flashing light in my review mirror. However, it didn't belong to law enforcement. It was the flashing stop light I'd just blown through.

 

OK, this time I may have muttered more than "uh-oh."

 

I slowed and pulled to the side to await the inevitable ticket from some officer somewhere who couldn't possibly have missed my violation. As I waited, I began to imagine the conversation likely to ensue:

 

"Officer, I'm sorry I was too busy making sure you weren't after me to notice the stop light. You do see the irony in that, don't you, ma'am?"

 

I held my breath and assumed a position of prayer. "Oh, God, pu-leeese. No ticket today, please."

 

A few thoughts came to mind with my prayer.

 

First, recalling the two makeshift crosses at the same intersection, I realized that maybe a citation would serve as a valuable deterrent for inattentive driving.

 

But mostly I thought of how my distraction was caused from the fear of being monitored. I wasn't dedicated to obeying the laws. I was only worried about being caught.

 

It's a human tendency to make life decisions not out of our dedication to the good, but out of fear we're being watched.

 

While we're looking in our rearview mirror, life happens right in front of us. Perhaps what we miss may not be as life-threatening as running a stop light, but potentially it can be.

 

Worried that a boss is watching our work, we miss the smile of our children. Concerned our spouse is policing our credit card purchases, we work on covering our past tracks rather than opening forward lines of communication.


 

It may be worse yet when we treat God like that, like an officer policing our lives.

 

In his time-tested book, "Your God is Too Small," J.B. Phillips describes people who see God as the "Resident Policeman." He describes this policeman as the "voice of our conscience."

 

When our conscience produces guilt, we feel caught by the policeman.

 

Phillips admits that while God uses our conscience to inspire "some inkling of the moral order," our conscience is not God. God is not a patrol officer. God is not about the business of producing guilt.

 

People do a great job of producing guilt on their own, as I discovered staring at the empty police car.

 

In my parked car, my heart raced under the moral whipping I had given myself. I studied my rearview mirror carefully, expecting to see the cruiser in active pursuit, but it remained stationary.

 

Like the cornfield scarecrows the decoy cruiser had worked its scare on me.

 

-----------------------------------

 

Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.