Labor Day Book column 2023

Don't Judge My Books by Their Cover

 

If I ever come to your house, I'll likely take a sideways glance at your bookshelves.

I don't mean to be judgmental, just curious about what kind of books you read.

 

For instance, do you like the formulaic writings of Sue Grafton or are you up for the challenge of Fredrik Backman. Do you like romance or adventure? I go more for intrigue. Romance books send my eyes into barrel rolls. 

 

Today, I offer you a look at my shelves in this annual Labor Day column of the books I've read. As you'll see, I don't read a lot of religious books. So please, no judgment.

 

However, I do want to comment on one book from the religion section. Last June I mentioned reading Peter Enns's book, "The Sin of Certainty: Why God Desires Our Trust More than Our 'Correct' Beliefs."

 

Enns demonstrates that the Bible contains 150 Psalms that are basically of three types: 1. Everything is fine. 2. Nothing is fine, but I still love you, God.

 

Enns focuses on the third type, which he paraphrases as, "Things are terribly wrong, I am at the end of my rope, and to make things worse, Oh Lord, you're nowhere to be found" (Psalm 88).

 

In a very relatable way, Enns makes it OK to doubt God and still be a faith survivor. The book's pressing point says, "Real faith requires trusting God rather than having correct views about God."

 

I used the book to launch a sermon in my new church this summer proclaiming that our church would remain "A Safe Place to Explore Faith."

 

A long way from piety books, one I made myself read was "Nine Nasty Words: English in the Gutter: Then, Now, and Forever." The author, John McWhorter, is an associate professor of linguistics at Columbia University. His specialty is creole languages, sociolects and Black English.

 

McWhorter's background should help you understand why this writer/chaplain wanted to read the book. As you might suspect, I'm sometimes intimidated by cuss words. I'm not offended, mind you. With 28 years in the military, I'm not prudish. 

 

McWhorter helped me unpack the power they sometimes have over me by tracing each word to their original use and meaning. He suggests that the words may just be "nine nasty ways of being human."

 

But my new favorite author spends a lot of time on the NY Times Bestseller list.

 

My wife, Becky, said it's been years since she watched me consume a book the way I did David Grann's most recent title, "The Wager: A Tale of Shipwreck, Mutiny and Murder."

 

It's the story of a British vessel that left England in 1740 on a secret mission during an imperial war with Spain.

 

The Amazon description speaks without exaggeration, saying, "It's a page-turning story of shipwreck, survival, and savagery, culminating in a court martial that reveals a shocking truth." Time Magazine was spot on, calling it "Riveting...Reads like a thriller."

 

I also read Grann's "Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI." The book and upcoming movie portray the brutal murders of an Osage family to gain control of their oil-rich Oklahoma land.

 

Finally, I hope you'll read "The Lost City of the Monkey God: A True Story," by Douglas Presto. The book depicts the search for a lost Honduran city containing a pyramid with a giant monkey-god statue.

 

It's "required reading" if you want to join me on our next volunteer trip to help Chispa Project establish more libraries in Honduran elementary schools. https://www.chispaproject.org/volunteertrip

 

Now, if you must read romance novels, please check out Davaylnn Spencer's books. She has edited this column for 15 years and is obviously a great judge of award-wining writing.

 

But if you're interested in a light, sometimes tearful story, read one of my books. They are compilations of the columns I've written since 2001. Find them on my website at www.thechaplain.net or drop me an email and I'll send you the details.

 

When you write, please share your latest reads. I promise I won't judge you for your choices.

 

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If you would like to receive a weekly email version of this column, contact me at comment@thechaplain.net or voicemail 843-608-9715 or sign up on my website at https://thechaplain.net/newsletter/ My books can be ordered on my website at www.thechaplain.net, or by sending $20 to 10566 Combie Road, Suite 6643, Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

 

 

 

Spiritually column Aug 25/26 2023

 

Resiliency More Than Survival

 

On April 4, 1991, I was halfway finished with a yearlong, chaplain-training program at UC-Davis Medical Center when a social worker approached me with news.

 

"Our team is on standby tonight," she whispered. She meant our Critical Incident Stress Debriefing Team, which was specially trained to debrief people who witness horrific incidents.

 

"Why?" I asked.

 

"You better catch the news," she said, pointing toward a waiting room of people watching television. The special report conveyed the early hours of what is still the largest hostage crisis on American soil.

 

After botching the robbery of a Sacramento electronics store, four men were using hostages as human shields, laying them in front of full-length windows in view of news cameras. They promised to begin executing hostages if they weren't given safe passage to Thailand.

 

Eight hours into the crisis, police attempted to end it with a sniper, concussive grenades and tear gas. The barrage killed three robbers and wounded a fourth, but not before the suspects killed three hostages and wounded 11 more.

 

The seriously wounded were taken to our trauma unit. After they received good medical care, our debriefing team tried to get them to talk about their trauma. Doing this within 24 hours of the incident was supposed to help victims more quickly return to normal living.

 

With that in mind, I approached a young man who lay on a hallway gurney awaiting X-rays. I introduced myself to him and to his petite wife beside him.

 

As it turned out, he was a Baptist seminary student from my alma mater. We'd had the same theology professors, so I wasn't surprised when his survivor's guilt took a theological twist.

 

He told me that he had felt divine protection while mayhem exploded around him. He was thankful God saved him, but "Why hadn't God saved everyone?" he asked.

 

"I don't know," I said, trying to delay his theological analysis. "I can only consider what will happen now." I was trying to redirect the conversation off the circular path of "why" to the more constructive question, "Where to from here?"

 

I wanted him to focus on his resiliency as a future minister. To do that, he had to look past this day and see a day when he'd complete his training and pursue his calling.

 

"Where to from here?" is the question we all must ask ourselves when tragedy strikes. What will I become from here? Will I become so mired in this tragic moment that my whole life is defined by it?

 

Will people always know me as the guy whose home was lost in the flood? Or the one whose child died? Or the man who was shot in the store? Or will I become the person who overcame?

 

The future pastor would have to answer those questions on another day, but at that moment, I could only hint at what was coming in his chosen career.

 

I wrapped up our talk with the scripted debrief question: "What was the worst part of your ordeal?"

 

"The worst part was when the robber stuck a gun in my face and asked if I wanted to die," he said.

 

"That's a hard thing to hear from your husband," I said to his wife.

 

She didn't answer. She simply looked at the ceiling and fainted into my arms.

 

Fortunately, like her husband, she was resilient. She recovered quickly and remained with her husband throughout the evening. I wasn't so lucky.

 

I had ignored hospital training to never catch the dead weight of a fainting person. I wrenched by back and was out of work the rest of the week.

 

 

If you would like to receive a weekly email version of this column, contact me by email at comment@thechaplain.net or voicemail 843-608-9715 or sign up on my website at https://thechaplain.net/newsletter/

 

Column excerpted from my book, "Thriving Beyond Surviving." Copies can be ordered on my website at www.thechaplain.net, or by sending $18 to 10566 Combie Road, Suite 6643, Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

Spiritually column Aug 18/19 2023

Ego Runs Off the Rails

 

If you've ever been taken against your will, you may identify with what I experienced years ago in Stockton, California. I don't mean to startle you –  OK, maybe just a little bit –  but fortunately, I lived to tell the tale.

 

It started on a Sunday morning in 1990 when I drove through thick fog to take my sister and niece to catch the 8:05 Amtrak home to Los Angeles.

 

The Tule fog in central California can be especially bad. When we finally found the train platform, it stretched into the abyss like something from a Hitchcock movie set.

 

The crew was herding passengers onboard to make up for the weather-related delay, so I hauled my sister's luggage past the busy conductor into a rear door.

 

Later I would swear on a stack of Bibles that I never heard the conductor warning that "only ticketed passengers are allowed on board." After all, I was a pastor, not a stowaway. In other words, I'm too important to hear or heed directions.

 

As I lifted the luggage into the overhead bin, the train began moving. At first, I wasn't worried. I simply thought the crew was likely repositioning a bit. Turns out, not true.

 

In a matter of moments, we were underway, southbound, and gaining speed. Flustered, I raced through the train looking for Mr. Conductor. Not finding him, I searched for those panic brakes I saw Lucy Ricardo use in a similar train predicament.

 

Not finding them, I turned to the bartender, but he wasn't serving that early in the morning. Instead, he walkie-talkied the conductor after I explained my situation to him.

 

The good news was we made our way out of the fog. The bad news was we were deep into deserted farmland – a long way from the pulpit, where my parishioners expected to find me within the next few hours.

 

I was more than worried. Lately I'd seen a deacon or two dozing during my sermon, so it seemed unlikely they would pay my return fare. They'd probably collect the offering and call it a day, happy to be home for kickoff.

 

When the conductor arrived 15 minutes later, I frantically explained my importance.

 

Where was the reverse switch on this thing? I've seen trains go backwards; surely this one might do the same.

 

He shot me a look that suggested I was being more than Norris-issistic. He seemed willing to haul my butt all the way to LA, where I'd have to hock my college ring for return fare.

 

 

The conductor calmed me by suggesting he could offload me in an upcoming cornfield where I could rendezvous with the oncoming train back to Stockton.

 

Good plan if the train actually stopped.

 

Fortunately, it did stop. Unfortunately, not in time to avoid a dead car battery from the headlights I'd left on.

 

Sometime later, my experience spawned a sermon about Jonah. Jonah is that guy who was so filled with self-importance that he boarded a cruise ship, only to become fish bait.

 

Like Jonah, I was a bit too self-absorbed to notice, not only where I was going, but also what kind of person I was being. Romans 12:3 says it all: "Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment…."

 

Self-importance is a one-way train ride. You may feel like you are someone great and outstanding in your field. But, at the end of the day, self-importance will only leave you as it did me, "humiliated, out standing in my field."

 

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Contact me by email at comment@thechaplain.net or by snail mail 10566 Combie Road, Suite 6643, Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail 843-608-9715. Visit my website at www.thechaplain.net, where you can read past columns or purchase my books.

 

 

 

Spiritually column Aug 11 2023

2 Life Stages Share 1 Goal

 

The author of Ecclesiastes says there is "a time to every purpose under the heavens; a time to be born, and a time to die."

 

During my career as a health-care chaplain, I've seen both of these times.

 

In the 2000s, I comforted the parents of premature babies born in our Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, NICU. In recent years, I've seen the other end of life's journey with hospice patients, most of whom are elderly and struggling for a few more weeks of time.

 

When I compare my former role in NICU with my years working in hospice, I'm struck by a bit of whiplash as I consider the opposite poles of each.

 

In the NICU, I met patients like little Johnny. He lived in a world of wires, IV bottles, and back-lit beds. Doctors, nurses and respiratory therapists constantly squeezed through tangled tubes to deliver highly specialized health care to him and others, the tiniest people you'd ever see.

 

Most hospice patients remain in their homes, under homemade quilts crafted by volunteers. Our staff attended them in simple ways with smiles, encouraging words and shared tears. Not much tech, unless you count the laptop carried for charting.

 

In hospice, I visited Miss Joni who, like little Johnny, marked each breath as a victory. There was a drastic age difference between the two, but they shared many similarities.

 

Both enjoyed the gift of life. In the NICU, one could peek at the gift long before you were supposed to peek. In hospice, you had to look carefully to find the gift that was nearly faded beyond recognition.

 

Both patients were in a race. For Johnny, getting a head start didn't mean he would finish the race early — it meant his race was longer and full of obstacles. For Miss Joni, it meant she would see the finish line sooner than she wanted.

 

Both patients struggled to live just one more day. Little Johnny's parents hoped that another day suggested the possibility of a healthy life. For Miss Joni, one more day held out the tease of another.

 

Prayers went up for both patients. Prayers for Johnny were offered with fervency and purpose. Miss Joni prayed with less certainty, not knowing if she should ask for another day or for a more peaceful departure.

 

Nurses attended both patients, but Johnny shared his nurse with only one other baby, while Miss Joni shared a nurse and a few aides with 30 other patients.

 

Machines were a part of both lives. Machines sustained the hopes of parents while Miss Joni signed papers that declared she refused to let machines rob her of dignity.

 

Cost was a concern for both patients. Medical ethicists debated spending so much of the health care dollar to save Johnny. Miss Joni turned to hospice when the bills became unbearable.

 

Both cried. Johnny couldn't tell us why he cried and Miss Joni couldn't stop telling us why she cried.

 

Both had family who thought medical staff should have done more. Both were attended by staff members who thought family should have visited more.

 

Both required their diapers changed — one by nurses with loving coos and the other by underpaid aides with grimacing faces.

 

Both were rich — Johnny with potential and Miss Joni with history.

 

Both faced the possibility of death every day. If it came for Johnny, it would inspire the grief that naturally follows the loss of such potential.

 

When it came for Miss Joni, it would likely come with a mixture of grief and relief.

 

Life would cease for both patients eventually — one at the beginning and one at the end.

 

All of which serves to remind us that, also from Ecclesiastes, "the race is neither to the swift nor the battle to the strong … but time and chance happens to them all."

 

 

 

Contact me by email at comment@thechaplain.net or by snail mail 10566 Combie Road, Suite 6643, Auburn, Calif., 95602 or voicemail 843-608-9715. Visit my website at www.thechaplain.net where you can read past columns or purchase my books.

 

 

 

Spiritually column Aug 5/6 2023

Speaking Healing or Hurt is a Choice

 

The Bible describes rebellious people as being "stiff-necked."

 

I don't know how rebellious I am, but my chiropractors have occasionally put me in the stiff-necked category.

 

My first experience with stiff-neck pain was during my college sophomore year, shortly after I'd spent three hours debating theology with a new friend.

 

The problem wasn't my theological position; the problem was my physical position – stretched out on my side, with my head propped in my palm.

The pain came on subtly, but finally incapacitated me during a visit with my West Texas kin. When I asked my equestrian cousins to recommend a chiropractor, they grimaced.

 

Well, our chiropractor is amazing, but he's unlicensed.

 

What?

 

Yup," they said. "He lost his eyesight a few years back, so Texas revoked his license."

 

I gave a reluctant nod. It's amazing how pain can make you not care about a little thing like a license. Thirty minutes later, I lay face down and shirtless on the doctor's adjustment table in his living room.

The man placed his fingertips on each quadrant of my back, pondering my pain with a touch much like a wandering kitten. His procedure was an hour of pushing, pulling, stretching and thumping on the areas that needed healing.

 

Afterward, I limped back toward my car, knowing that something was better because I was upright and ambulatory again.

 

"You will be much better by tomorrow," he promised. Twenty-four hours later, I was sitting in class as if my injury never happened.

 

Nowadays, I still have sporadic problems, but thanks to the blind chiropractor, I've been able to trust my issues to other chiropractors – with one exception.

 

Ten years ago, I was training for a marathon when I went to see to a local chiropractor for preventive management.

 

I was greeted by his attractive staff and spent my hour-long wait staring at his fish aquarium. After he took x-rays, he announced his prognosis with the tone of someone talking to a terminal patient.

 

He told me I was falling apart, but if I'd consent to immediate treatment, he could reverse my early demise. The entire process would take the better part of a year.

 

The payment arrangement would be monthly installments with a small financing fee.

Along with a fairly stiff glance, I gave him my promise to "think about it."

The difference between my two chiropractic experiences suggests a case study in the different ways we often express concern for those we love.

 

My first doctor did something my charismatic friends describe as "speaking healing into my life." He put his faith to work with his hands. He told me I would get better and I did. On the other hand, the second doctor spoke pessimism, gloom and hopelessness into my life.

 

Unfortunately, some of us find it easy to speak to people in that know-it-all, man-speak tone that will discourage friends and family trying to accomplish their dreams.

 

It's much harder to speak success into the lives of people. It's much harder to speak healing into a life by saying, 'You can do this. You can succeed and flourish."

I consider myself fortunate to have friends who told me I could, so I did. Not long after the discouraging rant from that second doctor, I ran several half marathons and two full (26-mile) marathons.

 

Fortunately, I also found a new doctor. He's much like the first one.

 

He's a man of faith who, in turn, spoke that faith into his patients.

 

And that, my friend, will always be the best healing prescription for this stubborn and sometimes stiff-necked chaplain.

 

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Contact me by email at comment@thechaplain.net or by snail mail 10566 Combie Road, Suite 6643, Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail 843-608-9715. Visit my website at www.thechaplain.net, where you can read past columns or purchase my books.