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.”

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.

If you’re fighting cancer or some other chronic disease, I owe you an apology for breaking the promise I made in 2009.
That was the year I served as chaplain in the Air Force field hospital in Balad, Iraq. Every two weeks there, I took the morning to donate blood platelets.

“What are platelets?” you ask.

Here’s what the Red Cross says: “Platelets are the tiny cells in your blood that form clots to stop bleeding.”