By Norris Burkes Sept 8 2024
Last year I wrote a book called, “Tell It to the Chaplain.” If you’ve seen it, then you’re likely wondering why this headline makes the opposite request.
My title refers to certain phrases people use that cause me to jokingly reply, “Don’t ever say that to a chaplain.”
When they cock their head in search of an explanation, I tell them that I’m a retired healthcare chaplain and I may inject a totally different meaning into common sayings.
For instance, I once asked my photojournalism professor if he could stay after class to explain my new camera.
“I really can’t,” he said, “I’m on my way out.”
“Please don’t say that to a chaplain,” I replied. “‘On the way out’ means you’re going to meet God.”
“No – no. I have a faculty meeting,” he said. “And God’s not often there.”
On another day, I ran breathlessly to an airline gate, only to be told by the agent, “They’ve already departed.”
Ouch. Don’t say that to a chaplain.
“Departed” describes someone who has taken flight to their celestial destination. At some point, chaplains call these folks the “dearly departed.”
On a different occasion, my neighbors described how they moved out of the city into our forested lake community in the California foothills.
“It just feels like we’re in a better place now,” the husband blurted.
I winced at “a better place” since the phrase most often describes the afterlife.
In another example, I was walking with my friend, Roger, through a sports stadium when he abruptly stopped at a concession stand to buy a Pepsi.
“Keep walking,” he said, “Meet me on the other side.”
Of course, I knew he was simply asking me to meet him at our seats on the other side of the stadium.
But as a chaplain, he should have known that I’d make a heavenly inference that we’d not meet again until we got to the “Other Side.”
Finally, I once stood on the banks of the Jordan River as our Israeli tour guide pointed toward the land “just beyond the river.”
I nudged my wife and said, “I wish he wouldn’t say that.”
I started humming the refrain to Fanny Crosby’s hymn, “Near the Cross.”
In the cross, in the cross,
Be my glory ever;
Till my raptured soul shall find
Rest beyond the river.”
Becky groaned, recognizing this as one of my favorite fragments.
I jest with these phrases because I love puns, but I also appreciate them as a comforting way to remember the three people I’ve lost in the past four years.
My brother, the one I called “Brotherman,” died of COVID in Dec. 2020. He was so full of conspiracy theories that he wasn’t contented in this world, so I really do feel a sense of comfort knowing he’s very much “in a better place.”
And, as you know, I lost my mother last month. I thank all of you who sent me numerous messages and cards.
But most reassuring is how I still hear the notes of her operatic voice singing those Crosby hymns. “Near the Cross” was among her favorites, and I take consolation believing she’s found her “rest beyond the river.”
However, my most difficult loss came four years ago this month, when I lost my life-long best friend, Roger Williams. On the last day I saw him, we sat on his couch, shoulder to shoulder, the same way we’d stood for 45 years.
As we said our temporary goodbyes, I held his cooling hand and laid my head on his shoulder. Then, in between my sobs, I told him that I’d see him “on the other side.”
“That’s OK, Norris,” he said. “It’ll be all right.” Soon he was asleep. Four days later, Roger died at 63 years of age.
So, sometimes all I have left to say is “See you, Mom. See you, Roger. See ya, Brotherman. I’ll meet you all “in a better place,” “on the other side” just “beyond the river.”
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For an autographed copy of “Tell It To The Chaplain,” order on my website or send a $20 check to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602. Email comments to [email protected] or by text or voicemail to (843) 608-9715.
