Spiritual column for Sept 12

Chaplain Brings the Lucky Charm

I'm not a superstitious person, but during the years I served as an Air Force chaplain, I was occasionally passed off as the spiritual equivalent to a lucky charm.

One of those occasions happened at Patrick Air Force Base while I served as the launch crew chaplain at nearby Cape Canaveral (1999-2002). In that role, I gave the official prayers for most launches, which included shuttles and satellites.

In military tradition, my prayers were more ceremonial than a legitimate attempt to court God's favor. They were generic in nature, seeking good weather, safety and success.

It's normal for technical difficulties to delay launches, but in the late months of 1999, we had favorable results in launching on our first attempt. Crews began to tie these successes with the arrival of their new chaplain. Their thinking became so ridiculous that one superstitious commander actually checked with my boss to confirm that I'd be the chaplain delivering "their prayer."

These were the same folks who, in good fun, wore something for good luck on every launch day. They brought everything from lucky socks to coins or even a piece of a failed rocket. Now I'd suddenly become their "lucky charm chaplain."

But my luck wasn't going to hold.

One evening, after I'd been there for about six months, I composed a fervent prayer for a 2 a.m. launch. At the last minute, the mission was scrubbed because of weather but rescheduled for the same time on the next morning.

"God speed," I said, with a dismissive assumption that my job was done.

They looked at me as if I'd hung them with their lucky necktie. "You're coming back tomorrow night, aren't you Chaplain?"

"Uh, sure."

The next morning, I reported for duty, bleary-eyed, hoping to pass off the same crumpled prayer from the previous evening.

Same result. No launch.

As I offered condolences to the disappointed crew, Brigadier General Donald Pettit, the Wing Commander, barked at me. "Chaplain, your prayer didn't work! You need to write a new prayer."

It's possible that what I said next might explain why I had to finish my military career in the reserves.

"You're kidding, sir."

He assured me in general-like terms that he wasn't kidding.

I still thought he was ribbing me, but I was too new to our spacy business to be sure. So, a few days later, I brought a new prayer. Unfortunately for all concerned, I was forced to repeat the rewrites for the next three weeks.

When our rocket finally soared on our sixth attempt, I reached across the consoles to exchange handshakes with the ground crew. One engineer in his lucky sweater, slapped my back and said, "You finally did it, Chaplain."

"Did what?" I wondered, as I drove home on that early morning.

I wasn't the lucky horseshoe in this arrangement. I simply offered a prayer — not as a magical incantation, but as a reminder that God comes where he is invited.

It's the same idea I share in premarital counseling.

"I'm not the lucky god charm," I tell the couple. "I don't bring God's presence into your marriage. You must do that."

The next morning, I was walking across the base courtyard, when Gen. Pettit motioned me over to him.

I offered him a salute weakened by fatigue.

"Your prayer didn't work!" he said.

"But, sir, I saw it launch."

"We launched it, but it never reached the intended orbit," he said.

"That'll be all," he added, before returning my salute with a smirk that told me he really was ribbing me.

Nevertheless, that was the day their lucky chaplain lost his lucky charm.

 

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Column excerpted from my book, "Thriving Beyond Surviving."

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 $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

Retire column Oct 3 weekend

Editors,

 

After 24 years of writing this column for syndication, I am retiring the column on Oct 3, my birthday. I will make this decision public to my readers in my last three columns.

 

All is good with me so I look forward to going out on a good note. I am touched by the many recognitions this column has earned and most especially how it has helped Chispa Project.

 

If you plan on looking for a replacement writer, let me know and I might be able to help. You are always welcome to reprint anything from the website too.  www.thechaplain.net

 

Perhaps I may write an occasional piece and send it for your consideration.

 

Blessings to all of you who have personally encouraged me along the way.

 

Norris

 

Sept 5 weekend 2025 spirituality column

What if You Knew How You Were Going to die?

 

If you knew what you were going to die from, would that change the way you live?

 

That's the question I faced in my next assignment in 1999 at Patrick Air Force Base, That's the year my Air Force doctor, a graying 50-something flight surgeon brought me in for my pre-deployment physical.

 

I had mixed emotions about the physical. After all, if he pronounced me healthy, I'd leave my family to go to Saudi Arabia for four months. If he declared me unhealthy, I might face a medical evaluation board and soon find myself unemployed.

 

During my 15-minute office visit, he hammered on my boney knees, peered into my uncertain brown eyes and shined his flashlight into the airfoils I call ears. He'd put a tongue depressor in my upper orifice and a gloved finger in its southern cousin.

 

Just as I was refastening my shiny belt buckle, his assistant knocked on the door.

 

"Enter," the doctor barked.

 

A balding young airman appeared, handed the doctor a manila folder and was quickly dismissed with a perfunctory, "Thank you."

 

"Ahh. Your test results," he said.

 

The doc put on the eyeglasses dangling from his neck and flipped through pages of blood tests, pee tests and vision tests. All the while he was nodding, spouting numbers and mumbling approving words like "good" or "OK."

 

He closed the file with a smile, so I ventured a guess.

 

"Am I good to go to Saudi?"

 

"Yes, but there's been a recent increase in your blood pressure, so I'm prescribing some medications."

 

My face flushed with obvious concern, so he took a more optimistic tack.

"Look at it this way," he said. "At least you know how you're going to die."

 

"Excuse me?" I begged.

 

"Most likely a doctor will one day write 'hypertension' on your death certificate," he declared.

 

I rubbed my eyes, in hopes of dismissing the grim reaper I saw draped in a white lab coat.

However, not to be dissuaded by my shaking head, Doc assured me that any thoughts I was having of an early demise were "greatly exaggerated."

With some enthusiasm, he added that my problem would be defined as "service-related. That means that one day your wife, Becky, will get a nice death benefit – all because of your hypertension."

 

"Bless your heart!" I said. (Southerners know what this means.)

 

He was predicting a silver lining in my death, but I didn't want to hear it. After all, I was planning to live a long life in a beachside home with my officer's retirement.

My thinking was much like the greedy farmer Jesus mentioned in the parable found in Luke 12:16– 21.

 

The farmer was so successful that he built new barns to store his abundant crops. With his retirement set, the farmer told himself, "Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry."

 

The story concludes with God prematurely calling the farmer to the pearly gates, leaving all his crops to spoil in the cavernous barns.

 

Then Jesus added his punch line: "That's what happens when you fill your barn with Self and not with God."

 

These days, nearly every time I strap on a blood pressure cuff, I think about the survival odds quoted by that doctor. That cuff reminds me that although my earthly life is finite, God's love is infinite, and God always gives better odds.

 

However, knowing how I might die has changed the way I live. I exercise regularly, eat better and take my medications. But most importantly, Becky no longer has to see me as a potential dollar sign from a VA pension.

 

 

 

CORRECTION:

 

Last week, I misspelled the Amazon website where you can donate supplies to Chispa Project. Our Amazon Wishlist for the back-to-school season is https://go.chispaproject.org/supplies (Do not use "WWW.) Email me with questions or comment at comment@thechaplain.net. 

 

Sept 12 weekend 2025 spirituality column

What if You Knew How You Were Going to die?

 

If you knew what you were going to die from, would that change the way you live?

 

That's the question I faced in my next assignment in 1999 at Patrick Air Force Base, That's the year my Air Force doctor, a graying 50-something flight surgeon brought me in for my pre-deployment physical.

 

I had mixed emotions about the physical. After all, if he pronounced me healthy, I'd leave my family to go to Saudi Arabia for four months. If he declared me unhealthy, I might face a medical evaluation board and soon find myself unemployed.

 

During my 15-minute office visit, he hammered on my boney knees, peered into my uncertain brown eyes and shined his flashlight into the airfoils I call ears. He'd put a tongue depressor in my upper orifice and a gloved finger in its southern cousin.

 

Just as I was refastening my shiny belt buckle, his assistant knocked on the door.

 

"Enter," the doctor barked.

 

A balding young airman appeared, handed the doctor a manila folder and was quickly dismissed with a perfunctory, "Thank you."

 

"Ahh. Your test results," he said.

 

The doc put on the eyeglasses dangling from his neck and flipped through pages of blood tests, pee tests and vision tests. All the while he was nodding, spouting numbers and mumbling approving words like "good" or "OK."

 

He closed the file with a smile, so I ventured a guess.

 

"Am I good to go to Saudi?"

 

"Yes, but there's been a recent increase in your blood pressure, so I'm prescribing some medications."

 

My face flushed with obvious concern, so he took a more optimistic tack.

"Look at it this way," he said. "At least you know how you're going to die."

 

"Excuse me?" I begged.

 

"Most likely a doctor will one day write 'hypertension' on your death certificate," he declared.

 

I rubbed my eyes, in hopes of dismissing the grim reaper I saw draped in a white lab coat.

However, not to be dissuaded by my shaking head, Doc assured me that any thoughts I was having of an early demise were "greatly exaggerated."

With some enthusiasm, he added that my problem would be defined as "service-related. That means that one day your wife, Becky, will get a nice death benefit – all because of your hypertension."

 

"Bless your heart!" I said. (Southerners know what this means.)

 

He was predicting a silver lining in my death, but I didn't want to hear it. After all, I was planning to live a long life in a beachside home with my officer's retirement.

My thinking was much like the greedy farmer Jesus mentioned in the parable found in Luke 12:16– 21.

 

The farmer was so successful that he built new barns to store his abundant crops. With his retirement set, the farmer told himself, "Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry."

 

The story concludes with God prematurely calling the farmer to the pearly gates, leaving all his crops to spoil in the cavernous barns.

 

Then Jesus added his punch line: "That's what happens when you fill your barn with Self and not with God."

 

These days, nearly every time I strap on a blood pressure cuff, I think about the survival odds quoted by that doctor. That cuff reminds me that although my earthly life is finite, God's love is infinite, and God always gives better odds.

 

However, knowing how I might die has changed the way I live. I exercise regularly, eat better and take my medications. But most importantly, Becky no longer has to see me as a potential dollar sign from a VA pension.

 

 

 

CORRECTION:

 

Last week, I misspelled the Amazon website where you can donate supplies to Chispa Project. Our Amazon Wishlist for the back-to-school season is https://go.chispaproject.org/supplies (Do not use "WWW.) Email me with questions or comment at comment@thechaplain.net.