Jan 3-5 2023

 

Come Fly With Me or Buy With Me

 

Not long ago, I spoke to a Spanish club, a group of women hoping to hone their Spanish skills and asked the attendees to "Come fly with me."

 

Not wanting my invite to be misinterpreted, my wife Becky, chimed in, "And me too."

 

A few older woman heard a reference to United Airline's 1968 campaign, "Come Fly with me." But the younger ones began humming the Jonas Brothers 2009 hit "Fly with Me."

 

"To clarify," I said, "I'd like you join us on one of the two volunteer trips to Honduras to help Chispa Project.

 

Of course, I was pushing the Spanish immersion trip on April 6-13. "But no worries, you needn't speak Spanish or have any particular skill; you just need to be willing to help out as needed!"

 

One woman seemed interested, but questioned the sparse accommodations, hoping to book her own hotel.

 

Well, you know me. I had an answer for her.

 

"Both trips have nice accommodations, but if you want the 5-star trip, then join us in March 5-16. It'll be an "immersive experience of volun-tourism that will allow you to explore one of the hidden gems of Honduras.

 

"Arguably the most beautiful colonial town in the country, Copan boasts traditional Mayan chocolate, the best Honduran coffee, and some of the most incredible and well-preserved Mayan Ruins."

 

Yup, I was reading from the travel brochure. 

 

If you've only recently joined my readership, you'll need to know that my daughter, Sara, started Chispa Project, pronounced cheez-pah, meaning "spark" in Spanish. Hondurans use the word to describe people with spark or drive.

 

Chispa has a simple mission: Sponsor children's libraries and equip them with quality books in Spanish by working side by side with Honduran community leaders and educators.

 

In the 80 schools where Chispa works, they build alliances with communities to design, fund and manage their own libraries. Community members also volunteer in the library project and raise a symbolic portion of the funding that ensures sustainability and ownership.

 

"What will we do during the volunteer week?" asked another.

 

"We begin the day after arrival by decorating library spaces that will make children proud of their school. We paint the walls with colorful murals, assemble bookshelves, and stock and catalog an entire library.

 

"Imagine us working together, rolling two coats of white paint on crumbling walls. The paint provides a bright pallet for those murals intended to inspire future readers.

 

The children will surround us, chattering the few English words they know. Their smiles go for miles as they read the picture books we bring."

 

Some in my group gave an empathetic sigh.

 

Finally, one woman asked the most common question about our trips "Is it dangerous?"

 

"That's a risk you will have to assess on your own. We safely welcomed volunteers from ages 3 to 83. I can also tell you that that my daughter, Sara, her husband and her two children spent several years in Honduras.

 

Unsure how many takers I'd persuaded, I added, "While the days are sometimes hot and long, I reward my volunteers with ice-cream cones."

 

I suggested additional questions might be answered on our website at ChispaProject.org/volunteertrip. "Read the details and fill out the forms," I said. "Watch the five-minute video and e-mail Sara or me with your questions."

 

And, finally, you know I made one more pitch –

 

"If you can't fly with me, then "Buy with Me!"

 

We still need help to buy the books for these trips. You can donate with a check or on our website at www.chispaproject.org/chaplain.

 

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Donate at chispaproject.org/thechaplain or send check payable to "Chispa Project" 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602. Read more columns at www.thechaplain.net

 

 

 

 

 

Column Dec 27-29 column

Resolved to be Authentic

 

As I work though the 23^rd year of this column, I will confess that column writing isn't always an easy gig. It sometimes requires walking a fine line between expressing what I really think or simply spouting what entertains my reader.

 

As every columnist can testify, strong opinions can either sell papers or lose subscriptions.

 

If I play it too safe, I bore you. If I venture too far into religious or political topics, or share personal vulnerabilities and temptations, I run the risk of offending you.

 

That's why I've made this 2025 New Year's resolution.

 

I resolve that I will work harder this year to write with more authenticity. I won't focus on the popular or how I might improve the ups and downs of my readership, but on writing authentically.

 

To that end, today's column will preview upcoming topics of 2025 and how I see where God fits into politics, religion, family and personal struggles.

 

In politics, I will support voices of reason and grace. I don't subscribe to the argumentative style of liberal commentators like Rachel Maddow or conservative ones like Ann Coulter. Instead of focusing on the noise level, I look for the truth and tone.

 

As a chaplain, I promise I won't spout politics UNLESS, politicians start spouting religion.

 

Our social welfare system needs drastic reform. But from my end, I will promote faith groups that assume their responsibility to help the poor.

 

When it comes to gun control, I have no use for handguns, nor will I ever own a gun. However, if I felt the need to "protect" my home, I'd use the shotgun my pastor/dad used. He always said that a shotgun blast would either scare the intruder or stop him dead — all without killing a "friendly."

 

Of course, I obviously have opinions about religion. For instance, if there's a hell, Hitler is surely in it and Gandhi is certainly not. Heaven isn't an exclusive country club. I won't use my faith as a way to eternally divide people.

 

I love the Christian Bible, and I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God who came to reveal the entire truth about God. However, the Bible is not a final authority for history or science, and it's certainly not an addendum to the Trinity. Meaning, I use the Bible in worship services, but I don't "worship" the Bible.

 

I see abortion as a heartrending response to tragic problems. I will portray it in my columns as a decision between a woman and her doctor. BUT, while there are reasons for abortion, it ain't birth control. I support adoption, and those who know my story, know I live that belief.

 

Finally, in my personal life, I can be selfish sometimes. I've lost my temper with my children, and I've known temptation and depression. I've told some off-color jokes and have even known inebriation. I'm not proud of everything I do, but my shortcomings help me write this column — a column about meeting God in everyday life.

 

But, at the end of the day when I put the final touches on this column, I leave the most authentic word to my friend Popeye who said: "I am what I yam what I yam … And I'll never hurt nobodys and I'll never tell a lie / Top to me bottom and me bottom to me top / That's the way it is 'til the day that I drop. What am I? / I yam what I yam."

 

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Sign up to receive this weekly column in your email box at https://thechaplain.net/newsletter/ or send me your email address to comment@thechaplain.net. 

 

All of my books can be ordered on Amazon. Autographed copies can be obtained on my website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $15 each + $10 shipping to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

 

Column Dec 20-22 column

Definitely NOT the Best Christmas Ever

This is the time of year when writers like to recount their "Best Christmas ever."

Their stories often include a video of a slobbering puppy leaping from a ribbon-covered box or a marriage proposal, or my favorite, a deployed soldier surprising her family with an early homecoming.

But if you've read my column long enough, you'll know that this columnist seeks to fill the holes of the unexpected. So, today, I recollect my very worst Christmas ever!

I was only 4 years old, but savvy enough to ask my parents why our Charlie Brown Christmas tree was so bare. I didn't understand why my father, a poor ministerial student, had nothing to place under the tree.

However, I became cautiously optimistic on Christmas Eve when my dad called us one-by-one into his study cubby.

My sister came away with a new doll. My brother followed holding a kinetic car, the kind you roll backwards to wind up the energy.

Score! Seeing that kind of haul, my kinetic energy was pushing full throttle.

I approached my dad's desk and climbed into his loving lap.

"I have something very important to tell you," he said.

My little eyes reflected with the anticipatory joy of Tiny Tim.

"There is no such thing as Santa Claus," he said. "We celebrate the birth of Jesus at Christmas, not Santa."

My eyes blinked with tears. Could it get any worse for a preschooler than that?

Yes, actually, it could.

When I asked about my present, my dad told me that I'd be sharing the kinetic car with my brother.

"Does it get it any sadder?" you ask.

In fact, it did..

I joined my brother on the kitchen floor where we took turns sending the car careening back and forth like a game of catch.

Twenty minutes into the game, my 5-year-old brother began speculating on how the car mechanism worked.

"Let me take it apart," my brother begged with screwdriver in hand. I was curious, too, but I would only agree if he promised to restore it to working condition.

He promised.

Ten minutes later, with wheels, chassis and motor spread on the kitchen table, the car was humpty-dumptied.

Saddest, worst, most disappointing Christmas ever, right?

So, why would I write about a Christmas memory worthy of Debbie-downer?

As foul as it was, it still points toward some spiritual takeaways of Christmas.

First, Christmas needn't be all about materialism, about what we buy or what we consume. It might also be about sacrifice.

My sacrifice fed my brother's mechanical mind. He explored the workings of the tiny engine, gaining early insights into motion, potential energy and kinetic energy. He may have failed the car restoration business, but he became an electronics repairman and later started his own electronics business.

Second, my worst Christmas inspired me to share what we are given. Christian scripture reminds us, "To whom much is given, much shall be required."

I didn't get much, but in sharing it, I perhaps inspired greater generosity. For years to come, my brother modified other gifts into things much more interesting.

One year he rigged a toy tank to burst from a record player box and shoot rubber bands. Another year, he removed the capacitor from an old radio to make an electric shock device capable of repelling the school bullies.

I've shared this sad story with my wife many times over the years. So, last week I told her I'd have my best Christmas ever if she'd give me a miniature Schnauzer puppy for Christmas.

At first she said no, but after reading this column, she assured me that our neighbor would likely "share" his new puppy.

So much for the worst Christmas ever.

Sign up to receive this weekly column in your email box at https://thechaplain.net/newsletter/ or send me your email address to comment@thechaplain.net.

 

All of my books can be ordered on Amazon. Autographed copies can be obtained on my website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $15 each + $10 shipping to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.  

 

 

 

Column Dec 13-15 column

Preaching to the Choir

 

If anyone has ever tried to convince you to get religion, change religion, or even lose your religion, then you'll probably relate to this column. 

 

In the early 1980s I was attending Golden Gate Seminary, just outside San Francisco, when I went to work as an advertising intern for the Marin County Independent Journal.

 

It was there that I spent every weekday afternoon constructing newspaper ads with a colleague I remember as Jeannette. 

 

Within a few days, I was pleased to learn that Jeannette was a Christian like myself.

 

Actually – not so much. She was an overly-zealous member of the Church of Christ, who was soon peppering me with daily theological questions. 

 

"Do you believe in the Bible?" she'd ask.

 

"Yes," I said, without mentioning I was currently making a C- in my seminary New Testament class.

 

"If you die tonight, do you know where you will spend eternity?" 

 

"Oh, don't worry about me. I tried to tell her that she was preaching to the choir. I was born, bred and baptized into the Baptist Church."

 

She remained unimpressed, so I tried cajoling her with teambuilding. I suggested that since we are both Christians, we should double-team our four-pack-a-day supervisor, Jerry. 

 

"I'm not sure Jerry is going to hell," I'd joke, "but he sure smells like he's been there." 

 

She remained unamused by my flippancy and unconvinced by my steadfast confessions of faith. She thought that baptism in her church was the only way I could possibly become a Christian.

 

Apparently, I needed an extra helping of Jesus.  "In fact," she said, "you'd better hurry because Jesus is coming back soon." 

 

Of course, Jeannette wasn't looking for answers. Her queries were embarkation points to invade into my faith space. 

 

So, one afternoon, I decided I had enough of Jeannette's Jesus.

 

I pulled her aside to tell her that if my faith didn't pass her saintly litmus test, then I guess I'd be joining Jerry in the smoking section. 

 

But soon, I realized that my witticisms hid a shameful guilt. 

 

The truth was that I recognized her style as the one I'd used as a ministerial student while scouring the minority neighborhoods surrounding Baylor University for new converts.

 

Jeannette's approach offended me. I felt I was too smart to have my own techniques redirected on me. That meant that, more than likely, my previous "converts" were also too smart for that. 

 

If my story rings a familiar note with you, perhaps it's an indication that we should take a spiritual pause as we enter this time of political transition in this country.

 

Perhaps we might consider how easy it is to employ our holier-than-thou techniques when trying to convert people to our views on everything from religion, guns, abortion, immigration, marriage or war. 

 

Consider the folly of how we often approach people like we are guests on The Dating Game. We hold our political, personal, or religious questionnaires in hand while we gently, or in most cases, not so gently, probe folks for the right answers hoping to get a match.

 

Or worse, we're just playing the game to expose their "wrong answers." 

 

Jesus believed in keeping it simple. If you love God, he said, you have to "Love your neighbor as yourself."

 

This means accepting your neighbor without all of our qualifiers such as religion, politics, race, favorite rock bands and boxers or briefs.

 

I never passed Jeannette's litmus test of faith, but given the current political climate, people of faith might consider discarding the litmus test and practice a bit more neighborly love.

 

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Sign up to receive this weekly column in your email box at https://thechaplain.net/newsletter/ or send me your email address to comment@thechaplain.net.

 

All of my books can be ordered on Amazon. Autographed copies can be obtained on my website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $15 each + $10 shipping to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.  

 

 

 

Dec 6-8 column

Chaplain's Wife Misinterprets Dying Breath

 

This week, I'm very happy to announce the 65^th birthday of my good friend Dale Swan. Yes, he's still alive, despite the wishes of his wife Jill.

 

No, wait. That sounds bad. Jill and Dale are a very fit and happy couple, so allow me to restart this story.

 

Dale Swan, a Sutter hospice chaplain in Roseville Calif., has always been clear with his wife, Jill, about how he wants to die. 

 

"If I get sick and can't feed myself or make my own decisions, please don't let them put in a breathing or feeding tube. Let me go peacefully." 

 

Jill, 62, is a CPA who is used to calculating the options, responded in the way many families do: "But I don't want you to starve to death." 

 

Dale reassured his wife of 40 years that his hospice colleagues would be there for her and wouldn't let him suffer. 

 

Dale is an avid cyclist who showed no signs of impending problems until one summer evening in 2018. He was watching TV from his recliner, eating a veggie burger and sipping a beer, when he was hit with troubling stomach pains. 

 

He took some antacid and told his wife he was going to lie down. When Jill checked on him an hour later, she found his pain intensifying. She suggested a doctor, but Dale declined, instead making a restroom visit that brought only mild improvement. 

 

An hour later, Jill heard Dale moaning with extreme pain. She insisted on taking him to the ER, but Dale countered by asking her to call 911.  When paramedics arrived, they began assessing pain even as they were speculating it was a heart attack.

 

Within a few minutes, EMTs placed him on a gurney and loaded him in their ambulance. Beside him, they hung an IV drip of Fentanyl, a strong opiate for pain control. 

 

Once inside the ER, the doctor ordered blood tests, a CT scan and a sonogram. Dale was suffering from pancreatitis, but staff could find no cause. They ruled out stomach blockage, gallbladder problems and even alcohol abuse.

 

Dale's pain level was rising to alarming levels, with no apparent diagnosis.  Nurses admitted Dale to a room, ordered that he have no food for four days, and administered Dilaudid.

 

However, once inside the room, the pain medication slowed his respiration to six breaths per minute. Dale was rapidly losing consciousness. 

 

Hospital staff grew concerned they'd overdosed him and instructed Jill to keep her husband awake or they'd have to give him Narcan, a drug that reverses opioid effects.  "If that doesn't work," they grimly warned, "we'll have to insert a breathing tube down his throat." 

 

Jill remembered Dale's instructions and shocked the staff by saying, "Oh no, he doesn't want that! He's always said to let him die peacefully." 

 

Jill felt prepared. She and Dale had discussed many of the crucial questions involving the end of life and placed those answers into an advance directive, (often called a Living Will).  The Advance Healthcare Directive is a document that we should all have.

 

The directive instructs doctors what we want done if we become incapacitated. Without the directive, doctors are obligated to do everything possible to save our life — even if "everything" means a painful delay of our inevitable death. 

 

Fortunately, the medical staff knew this wasn't a moment to give up on a healthy and strong patient.

 

They helped Jill understand that Dale's document didn't apply to situations where a full recovery could be logically anticipated. 

 

While Dale has fully recovered and returned to work, the happy couple is taking no more chances. Dale's given Jill more detailed instructions. And Jill, ever the logical number cruncher, has reviewed their life insurance policies — just in case. 

 

More information on state-specific advance directives is available at www.caringinfo.org.

 

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Consider helping us reach our goal for Chispa Project by donating online at www.chispaproject.org/chaplain or send a check made to "Chispa Project" to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602. 

 

This column is excerpted from my book "Tell it to the Chaplain." All of my books can be ordered on Amazon. Autographed copies can be ordered on my website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $15 each +$10 shipping to the address above.