On June 9, 2026, Norman V. Braatz breathed his last. In his final sermon as a senior pastor, in 2002, he said, “I will always be a little amazed that God took a kid off the farm, with almost no financial resources, enabled him to attend one of the finest Lutheran colleges and seminaries in the land, and permitted him to serve in pastoral ministry literally from sea to shining sea. It’s been a great journey. I would do it all over again.” A memorial service will be held in late summer at Trinity Lutheran in Bonners Ferry.
Norm was born in 1937, in tiny Marion, Wisconsin, to 16-year-old Alice Bazile. Alice was the daughter of a French immigrant father and first-generation Irish-American mother. (Norm’s biological father, he learned decades later, was a Mr. Mlaker, of Serbian descent.) Despite Great Depression conditions, Norm’s first years—on the Bazile homestead, bustling with extended family—were good ones.
In 1941, Alice married Walter Braatz, a tenant farmer whose mean spirit troubled Norm and his four half-siblings. Norm credited Alice’s younger sister, Dorothy, with raising him. But he was most at home at St. John’s Lutheran Church and felt called to become a pastor. He delivered his first sermons to the cows he milked.
Norm attended one-room schoolhouses, then Marion High School. Congregational support from St. John’s and scholarships allowed him to attend Wartburg College, in Iowa, graduating in 1959. During summers, he worked for the U.S. Forest Service in Idaho.
May 29, 1963, was a big day. In the morning, Norm graduated from Wartburg Seminary. In the evening, he married Kathryn Karsten. On September 1, Norm was ordained at his first congregation, Zion Lutheran Church in Brooklyn. The Wisconsin farm boy was preaching in New York City.
Pastor Braatz’s next congregation was Dobbs Ferry Lutheran, in the New York suburbs, beginning in 1965. He also served as director of Lutheran camp Koinonia and learned a few guitar chords. Norm and Kathryn soon had three children—Kara, Timothy, Tanya—and cared for several foster children.
A leap of faith: In summer 1973, the Braatz family squeezed into a Volkswagen hatchback, drove across the country, and disembarked in the middle of nowhere. Lake Havasu City, Arizona—cacti, rocks, and scorching sand—was an isolated community of Midwest transplants, population 8,000. The Palm Sunday procession at Mount Olive Lutheran sometimes included a burro.
In Havasu, the Braatz’s adopted a son, Mark. Norm served as an elected school board member, took up jogging and swimming (slowly), waterskied and golfed (poorly), and once officiated a pontoon-boat wedding under the famous London Bridge.
Among the “homeroom mothers” at Havasupai Elementary, he was the only “homeroom father.”
In 1979, Norm—grandson of immigrants—led several church congregations in sponsoring a family of Vietnamese refugees. The Hua family quickly found jobs and gained citizenship. At a 45th anniversary celebration, Thanh Hua said that without the congregations, “maybe we would not be here.”
In 1985, the Braatz’s moved to southern California. Norm served Emanuel Lutheran in La Habra, then, in 1996, moved St. Paul’s Lutheran in Palos Verdes (with an ocean view). Norm was gratified that at all five congregations in his career, someone he influenced later became a pastor. To continue supporting future pastors, he established the Norman Braatz Scholarship Fund at Wartburg Seminary. Memorial gifts, in his name, can be mailed to Wartburg Seminary, 333 Wartburg Place, Dubuque, IA, 52003, or online at www.wartburgseminary.edu.
When the Braatz’s retired to Bonners Ferry, Norm wrote poems and discovered the serenity of a mountain huckleberry patch. He was a charter member of the local Rotary Club, helped form a bridge club and writing group, and sang in the community choir. He preached occasionally at Trinity Lutheran, St. Mary’s Episcopal, and other nearby churches, and represented Wartburg Seminary in the Inland Northwest.
When asked if his obituary could include fictional stories of remarkable accomplishment, Norm chuckled, then said he regretted never having taken the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage in Spain. So, for the record, Norman V. Braatz walked the 200-mile Camino Primitivo. In just three days. On his hands.
In reality, Norm was incapable of deceit, boastfulness, or disparagement. He was unassuming, soft-spoken, and good-natured though unlikely to laugh. “How we lived and for whom we lived,” he preached, is of utmost importance “in this lost and sinful world.” During his years in retirement communities, after Kathryn died, he was quick to befriend his neighbors.
Above all, he wanted to be a witness for Christ’s love, and his rock-solid faith had a quiet yet powerful effect on others—as many have recently shared. A relative recalled how “we went for a long walk and talked about prayer and God’s grace, forgiveness, and love for all of us. He changed my life.” A fellow pastor acknowledged “the privilege in sharing in his gentle, humble, endlessly gracious presence and faithful witness and gratitude.” Another called him “my hero.”
When told he had terminal pancreatic cancer, Norm responded with faithful acceptance. He had been blessed, he said, with a long and interesting life. He wasn’t fearful; he wanted to be present for his death. But as his body declined, he whispered, “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever been through.” It was also a real-life remarkable accomplishment, as he carried himself with dignity and grace to the end. The hospice social worker offered a simple eulogy: “Fly high, sweet man.”
All obituary information has been taken from the funeral home, newspaper or other online resource.
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