During my years as a chaplain for Sutter Medical Center, I usually flew solo for patient visits.

While I was occasionally interrupted by a well-meaning staff member offering an unsolicited prayer, or even an overambitious clergy pressing his or her theology, I was happy to yield my sacred patient space to Toby.

Like me, Toby preferred to work off leash. That’s because he was a therapy dog, a Queensland heeler, a pun not lost on our healing team. He liked people of all flavors, having never met a human he wouldn’t lick.

Part of my duties was to conduct a support group at Sutter Senior Care, a daycare support facility for elderly people.

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.”