Byr Norris Burkes Aug 18 2024
I was 28 years old when the U.S. Air Force sent me to Air University at Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Ala., to complete Chaplain Basic Training.
For three weeks, I sat elbow-to-elbow with other young chaplain wannabes.
On my left side sat the first of many chaplain priests I’d befriend.
Yet, almost from the beginning, Father Frank found me deeply disturbing on two levels.
First, he couldn’t believe I didn’t drink.
For the second problem, he suggested that “A good drink could fix your akathisia.”
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
“Akathisia describes a complete inability to sit still.”
Fortunately, within a few days, I was able to win Frank over without alcohol.
We shared a lot of laughs, giggling during lectures, passing notes and kicking each other under the table to keep quiet. I began to feel that Catholic priests would likely go to heaven, and he learned that even Baptist teetotalers could be fun.
However, my classmate to my right wasn’t as sociable. Bobby kept to himself, looking straight ahead, volunteering little more than his name and religious denomination.
Finally, a few days from the course completion during a lecture on grief, Bobby dropped a bomb.
“I know you probably think I’ve seemed detached these past several days.”
An acapella chorus of “No-duh” rippled through our student body.
“My mother died the day after we arrived.”
Suddenly, it became quite enough to hear a chaplain cuss, but I just said, “Ah, shoot.”
Our class stopped to say a prayer for Bobby. The course director offered him emergency leave, but Bobby refused, holding tight his military bearing.
After class, a few of us invited Bobby to a nearby bar. He declined, so we went without him.
Inside the bar, we commiserated on Bobby’s behalf, noting how tragic it was to lose a family member while so far away from home.
After a few drinks, Frank slammed his hand on the table.
“Bobby didn’t trust us,” he said. “We sat shoulder-to-shoulder with him all month and he was locked up too tight to share with his clergy brothers.”
“Perhaps we could have helped him,” said one chaplain.
“How could we?” asked Frank. “He didn’t trust us to help him.”
“We could have carried his class assignments,” suggested one lieutenant.
“I would have given him my phone card to call his family,” I said.
To each idea, Frank pushed back, “If only he had trusted us.”
The bar debate eventually found some resolve to reach out to Bobby again the next day.
“Try again.” Frank said.
A few years later, I saw Frank at a chaplain’s conference, just outside a Denver hotel.
“How you doing, Baptist?” he asked.
The word “fine” came to mind, but thinking of Bobby, I didn’t lie. I trusted Frank more than that.
“Not good.” I said as my tears splatted the conference-room carpet.
Many readers know the story I told Frank next.
A few months prior, I’d rushed to give solace at a mass shooting scene at Cleveland Elementary school in Stockton, Calif. I was the chaplain who told six parents that their child had been killed.
I fell into the arms Frank extended. He held me and wouldn’t let go.
That night, he invited me to join him and two other priests at a local bar –the same opportunity he’d offered Bobby.
As we talked in that dark, private space, I sipped at my Pepsi, feeling a restoration budding in my soul.
During the next few hours, my priestly friends also told their stories of grief. They taught me that grief can’t stay in the dark. It must come out or it will never heal.
Why did I choose this week to tell you this story? Because my 90-year-old mother died a few weeks ago and I won’t keep that a secret.
She was the most wonderful mother who taught me faith, laughter and love. I want you to know that I feel grief and so should you.
By the way, I finally did take Frank’s advice by accepting his offer of a Colorado Bulldog. (It’s a White Russian cocktail, with added Pepsi.)
It was so delicious that I ordered two more that evening.
About midnight, when we stood to leave, the ceiling seemed a bit active.
“Don’t worry. We got you, Baptist.” Frank promised. And they did. They all walked me back to my room, arm in arm, like the brothers they’d become.
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