January 16, 2026
This morning, as I began to prep for Sunday’s message, my mind time-warped to the year 1988. The new year was just days away, but on the cold December morning, the USS Theodore Roosevelt cast off all lines and set sail. With a handful of others, I was but a noob; a brand-new sailor without one day of sea-time under my belt.
The call came across the IMC: The boatswains mate blew his pipe: “All hands, man your rails!” Hundreds lined the ship’s edge at parade rest. None dared look left or right; the time-honored tradition was serious business.
Again, the boatswain blew his pipe, uttering alas the command he’d been given. Single up all lines” the OOD said. Within minutes the next command was called: “Cast off stern!” The ships fantail lines were released. Minutes passed, then the next: “Cast off midships;” and then alas, “Cast off bow lines.” From within the fo’c’sle, we pulled in the two, 1000 lb. mooring lines, coiling each in a figure-eight. “Holy crap, this is getting real!”
The tugs gently alongside and under their power, the clock began to tick. The TR was underway as we’d departed the safety of Pier 12 and into headed into the Chesapeake Bay. Passing Cape Henry Lighthouse and over the bridge tunnel, the tugs veered off and we were reliant only by nuclear power.
The sensation felt odd, I cannot lie, moving across the water as we did; a feeling like none other I’d experienced even on any of Minnesota’s lakes. My body was moving yet my legs were still. My head felt queasy, but I knew enough not to lose my breakfast or endlessly hear it all hear.
It was all so new and coming so fast; but faster yet would be the 184 endless days and nights till we returned just as we left. The friends I made were timeless, and timeless yet were the memories and stories together we made.
Day and day we stood watch on the bridge: steering, keeping watch, resting, learning, and leaning on those who’d done this before. The days were hectic and the nights were long. Six days a week we worked 12 hour days, rarely having a night off because we had to stand watch. But on that rare occasion when we didn’t have watch, the stories from the chaplains eased my heart.
Aboard the TR were three godly men: a priest, a pastor, and a rabbi, the last being Chaplain Schranz. Chaplain Mitchell Schranz hailed from the Bronx and had that thick, syrupy classic New York accent we all know well. “Good evening shipmates. Let me tell ya a story” he’d begin. After which, LT Schranz would dazzle our imaginations, always with a moral ethic at the end. After all these years, I can still hear his voice. Oh how I miss his stories.
Honestly, I cannot recall any one single story he told, perhaps because I was so tired when evening taps came, or perhaps because there were just so many. But that’s not what mattered; what mattered was his heart and love for the crew. Rabbi Schranz was a godly man, a member of the crew helping us all live the greatest adventure of a lifetime, all along not forgetting our God.
This morning, memories of Rabbi Mitchell Schranz flooded my mind, perhaps because of all the elders aboard the ship, he alone helped me make it through those 184 days without losing my mind. In the mold of his rabbis and their rabbis before them, he told stories reminding us of God and our place with Him. And to the Lord today I give thanks for Chaplain Schranz and the countless storytellers that remind us of God’s love.