I often make the claim that if I hadn’t become a chaplain, I’d have been a safety officer. That’s because when I’m on any kind of volunteer work project, I’m the guy who steadies the ladder, makes certain the lunch produce is washed correctly and then checks the perimeter for bad guys. The irony is that my interest in this subject comes from the tragedies I’ve witnessed in my chaplain career. In death’s aftermath, I’ve offered comfort to those whose loved ones were accidentally struck, shot, suffocated, burned, poisoned, fallen or electrocuted.

There is no scripture verse in the entire Bible that has given marriages more trouble than Ephesians 5:22. The words come from a seemingly clueless Apostle Paul who says, “Wives submit yourselves to your husbands.”

Have you ever found yourself under fire for saying or writing something you believed to be clearly innocuous? As a public speaker and writer, I can say yes to this a thousand times.
Among my early experiences with public tripping-over-my-own-tongue, I recall my first pastorate in 1985 as a 26-year-old newly minted seminary graduate. I’d just preached a fiery sermon when a woman requested a private word with me in the church office.
Her face was reddened and emotional, so I was sure my sermon had likely brought her to repentant tears. Once inside the study, she began without hesitation.

I have a story I’ve never written. Not because I lost it or forgot about it, but because it’s so graphic I thought it needed a preliminary warning.
In 1990, I left my work as a congregational pastor to begin a one-year internship transitioning into a career as a hospital chaplain.
During my internship at UC Davis Medical Center in Sacramento, I worked four rotations in various parts of the hospital. The one I will never forget was the 13 weeks I spent working in the burn unit.

With more than 35 years in full-time ministry, I’ve performed scores of weddings. In the initial planning stages, the groom will often raise the awkward question about my fees. 
For me, this moment is about as tricky as asking a waitress to decide her own tip. I sometimes try to defuse the monetary strain with a joke. Like, “Pay me whatever you think she’s worth, sir.” Boo-hiss. A real Grandpa joke, I know. 

On a Sunday afternoon, my wife, Becky, and I visit the Crimson Tattoo Co. in Auburn. We’re not looking to get a painful heart-shape tattoo, but rather to help alleviate the spiritual pain of suicide. Shop owners Jon and Brittney Hendricks invite us inside where a dozen volunteers are emulating a suicide-prevention tactic recently started by a woman in the UK. The idea seems beautifully simplistic—write and attach anti-suicide notes to any local structure known for suicides.