In 2009, I was senior chaplain responsible for Sunday worship services at the Air Force Field Hospital in Balad, Iraq.
One Sunday, a few hours before our 10 a.m. service, I watched my sleepwalking chaplain assistant, Sgt. Peoples, fuss with chapel arrangements as if preparing for a pope.
He adorned the altar with properly colored cloths. He arranged the folding chairs, loaded with Bibles. Pouring the communion cups was his last job.
“How many cups should I prepare, Sir?”
If you can imagine how frustrated a preacher would have to be to swear a blue streak, then you might understand the old expression, “It’s enough to make a preacher cuss.”
I grew up in a Baptist church, so it’s safe to say I never heard a preacher cuss. But that changed when I began my Air Force chaplain’s career at Mather Air Force Base.
The Rancho Cordova base is now a civilian airport, but I spent three years there as a first lieutenant under the mentoring of five active-duty chaplains.
The retired engineer who occupied our ICU bed knew he was dying. He’d known for a long time.
He told his doctor not to take any heroic measures to prolong his life. He only wished to share his last words with his family.
I called his family from the waiting room and assembled them around his bed.
Most days at my hospice office, I start by calling patients to arrange home visits.
Today I set an afternoon appointment with a woman in her mid-60s who’s been given less than six months to live.
She greets me at the front door with a question.
“Are you a Christian chaplain?” she asks, leaning into the word “Christian.”
I think it was Jesus who encouraged followers to become “fishers of men.” Honestly, that task seems easier than fishing for fish.
Fishing requires a level of patience I don’t have. You’ll see this if you ever watch me pace the stage during one of my talks.
I was recently reminded of my distaste for fishing when I took my grandsons and their parents on a fishing boat in Seward, Alaska. We were fishing for the big halibut we’d seen people bring home the day before, 90-pound prehistoric monsters.
As a hospice chaplain, I’ve learned a surefire way to bring down any conversation. I just mention what I do.
“Oh, that must be a really sad job,” is the familiar response.
“It can be sad,” I admit. “But most often it’s the opposite.”
Folks sometimes respond with a confused look, perhaps like you’re doing now.