Training for Eternity

One of Those Days

2009-07-06T14:25:00.000-04:00

There are days I really don't want to be a chaplain.

I'm not really sure how I got there. But there I was standing in the operating room of the hospital on our FOB watching doctors and nurses of varying sorts work on a US Soldier, trying desperately to keep him alive.

Several hours earlier a group of our guys had begun a patrol or a convoy or something and at some point had encountered some very bad men with very bad intentions. I wish I could report what happened to them but I don't. All I know is that there I was, several hours later watching doctors and nurses of varying sorts trying to keep a young US Soldier alive. By the time I arrived in the operating room things were moving along pretty rapidly and even the untrained eye of a chaplain could see that the warrior on the table was having a rough go of it. I won't go into the details of his injuries but I will say they were nothing shy of significant. All manner of machines around him were beeping and chirping giving the staff numbers that meant nothing to me. It is difficult to convey what I felt as I stood there. "Useless" comes to mind, as does confused, angry, and sad. But it was more than an emotional response. It was a sense that I had to do something despite a feeling of having no real purpose. So I did what I do and worked my way toward the chaos and watched for an opportunity. It came and I took it.

Taking out a small container of oil I keep with me, I approached a beautiful American boy only a couple of years older than my eldest son. His head was wrapped in blood soaked gauze and I didn't want to touch it. Not because I felt any manner of repulsion of disgust, but because I didn't want to hurt him. The only place I could touch him was his nearly hairless chest. So I put some oil on him and placed my hand on that young breast and prayed for him, his family, his unit, the doctors, and the nurses. Then I said, "amen".

Amen, is a strange word at times like that. I've always understood it to indicate a resolve that God would act according to his good will upon the preceding prayer. But I felt like it meant, "I've done all I can. Now I'll go back to feeling helpless". His blood spattered body just laid there. Nothing happened. The staff whispered, "thanks" and went back to work.

I stood back again and watched as his pulse climbed and his blood pressure dropped and it didn't take long to notice that the hospital staff was getting frantic and appeared to be taking it personally. I needed out. So I quietly slipped into the hall and went for a drink of water. That's when I heard, "Chaplain, they're looking for you!" That's never good.

Upon return to the OR I immediately noticed that the beeping and chirping had stopped and the staff moved less deliberately and perfectly quiet. I walked over to that Warrior again and thanked God for his life. I don't know what things were like between he and God but I hope they were right. When I finished I stepped back again to watch the staff and provide ministry where needed. What I say was amazing.

Without a word each one began to work like cogs in a wheel but not without feeling. Tears fell quietly as they slowly and methodically removed all bandages and tubes and began to wash his broken body like a mother washes her baby. It was gentle and loving and I could see that while there was nothing enjoyable about it, all were honored to have a part in sending him home. Finally they wrapped him in white linens. Just as they were about to lift him and place him in a body bag the senior officer in the room, a Colonel, called the room to attention and quietly said, "Present Arms". There in the operating room, we all stood facing the hero and saluted. He was then wheeled to the morgue where he waited for the first leg of his trip home. I quickly asked the Colonel if he would mind if I prayed with his staff. He said he thought that was a great idea, so again I prayed. Honestly, I'm not a very emotional person, but I was so impressed with those men and women and their efforts to help that young man, I nearly lost my composure. I thanked God for them, and for him. I still do.

That was not the end, though. Beside the one casualty there had been two other injuries in the same incident. Somehow the task fell to me to inform the two soldiers that their buddy had been killed. They don't teach you how to do that in Chaplain school. One soldier had his ear drums blown out so he could hardly hear. I had to forgo the appropriately soft voice for such an occasion and stare right into his eyes and tell him the news. His reaction was immediate. The love of one warrior for another is a thing to behold and seen most clearly at moments like that. I gently put my arms around each of them and gave them a kiss on the head. I don't normally do that, but I hurt for them and wanted them to know I loved them. Then I left them as there was one more task to be completed.

It is a custom that we practice with great diligence. Nothing can stop us. We call it a hero flight in which we send our fallen home with honor and say one last goodbye. I stood outside the morgue with my Commander and Command Sergeant Major, the two senior people in the Brigade and we followed as four friends of the fallen escorted his flag draped body from the morgue to an awaiting helicopter. The route from the hospital to the helicopter pad was lined with Soldiers, each saluting as the body passed. As we approached the aircraft, the command team stepped aside and the body continued. I followed. Finally, the four friends loaded the body, rendered one final salute and walked away. I stepped forward and again prayed over the body before saluting and joining the rest of the unit. We stood quietly until the helicopters flew out of sight then slowly the formation broke up and everyone walked away.

Some days, I'd rather be anywhere but here. It gets too hard dealing with the stuff a war can throw at you. You feel like nothing is worth having to be here, to be separated from family, missing holidays and long weekends or the comforts of home. There are days I really don't want to be a chaplain.

Today was not one of those days.

D-Day Remembered

2009-06-06T12:23:00.001-04:00

American Cemeteries on Foreign Soil

Aisne-Marne, France- 2,289 interred, 1,060 missing remembered
Ardennes, Belgium – 5,329 interred, 462 missing remembered
Brittany, France – 4,410 interred, 498 missing remembered
Brookwood, England – 468 interred, 563 missing remembered
Cambridge, England – 3,812 interred, 5,127 missing remembered
Epinal, France – 5,255 interred, 424 missing remembered
Flanders Field, Belgium – 368 interred, 43 missing remembered
Florence, Italy – 4,402 interred, 1,409 missing remembered
Henri-Chapelle, Belgium – 7,992 interred, 450 missing remembered
Lorraine, France – 10,489 interred, 444 missing remembered
Luxembourg, Luxembourg – 5,076 interred, 371 missing remembered
Manila, Philippines - 17,202 interred, 36,285 missing remembered
Meuse-Argonne, France –14,246 interred, 954 missing remembered
Mexico City, Mexico – 813 interred, unidentified remembered
Netherlands, Netherlands – 8,301 interred, 1,722 missing remembered
Normandy, France – 9,387 interred, 1,557 missing remembered
North Africa, Tunisia – 2,841 interred, 3,724 missing remembered
Oise-Aisne, France – 6,012 interred, 241 missing remembered
Rhone, France – 861 interred, 294 missing remembered
Sicily-Rome, Italy – 7,861 interred, 3,095 missing remembered
Somme, France – 1,844 interred, 333 missing remembered
St. Mihiel, France – 4,153 interred, 284 missing remembered
Suresnes, France – 1,565 interred, 974 missing remembered

So others could know freedom

Doing the Math

2009-05-13T12:23:00.001-04:00

Today began like every other day in this vacation spot known as Afghanistan. My alarm went off, like normal. I hit snooze, like normal. It screamed at me again, like normal. I turned it off, like normal. And like normal, I rolled over to take a few well earned moments as I slowly made the transition from hating my alarm clock to laying there a little too long and on into actually being awake. It was just about this point in my day, roughly 2 minutes old at the time, that "normal" took a detour.
As I lay there, almost waking up, with the morning light breaking into my window, something exploded. If "freaking" was a measurement of explosive force, then this was a "freaking" huge explosion. I've been told from my childhood that you can't think two things at once. That's not true and if Mr. Crawford, my 8th grade science teacher were here, I'd tell him so. Because no sooner had whatever it was blown up, I had two simultaneous thoughts. The first was, "I should probably go outside and see what that was." The second was, "I think I'll wait a few moments and see what happens." I didn't even have time to ponder the pros and cons of either of those thoughts. The die was cast and the decision made for me. As I prepared to think about it the siren sounded.
The siren on our FOB is designed to wake the dead. It is, without a doubt, the most annoying sound in the known universe and indicates that everyone on the FOB should find a hardened facility or bunker in which to take cover and wait for the "ALL CLEAR" as something else will probably blow up soon. This is where all of creation smiled on me. As it happens, my quarters are IN just such a building so I decided the best course of action would be to attempt to regain the moments of sleep lost since the "freaking" explosion. That's when the "Big Giant Voice" cut into my pending slumber. It spoke very loud and very clear and in code indicated that in very short order there would be a large number of casualties arriving at the Combat Surgical Hospital on our FOB. Siren or no siren, that's my cue and I knew where I needed to be.
The explosion I had heard moments before was what is commonly known as a VBIED (we pronounce it vee-bid) or Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device. It is essentially a guided missile on wheels. A car or truck laden with copious amounts of some kind of explosive material and driven by nothing short of a mad-man drove up to the Vehicle Control Point (VCP) and detonated happily taking the driver with it. The set up of the control point is to ensure people like those don't get through while others do. In fact, there are two such points to pass through to make it even harder. The first is manned by the KPF or Khowst Provincial Force. They are the local security guys and they do a very good job. So Mr. Maniac drove as far as he could and was quickly introduced to his maker. The down side is that the point at which he decided to do that was not deserted.
There are many local Afghani workers that come to our FOB to work each day providing all manner of services and in return they are paid a living wage and provide for their families. To ensure nut jobs like our driver friend don't slip in unnoticed each worker is checked each day as they walk through the gate. At peak hours that can mean a bunch of people standing in line waiting to get checked. Enter Brother Bomber. Naturally, he wanted to cause as many problems as he could and it just didn't matter who was around and when he did what he came to do, he did it in the area the locals were standing.
Back to the Big Giant Voice. As soon as I heard it, I knew I needed to be at the CSH. So I got dressed and headed over there to provide religious support for whomever might need it. Once there I saw a nightmarish carnival of mayhem. Most of the victims were ambulatory and being treated outside, some were inside on gurneys and operating tables, all of them were Afghani. That changed things a bit. Not because I don't have compassion for the hurting but because I had to change the way I approach ministry so as not to appear to be proselytizing. So I followed a particularly harried doctor into a side room to see if I could help.
Inside I saw a nurse and the doctor standing over a man lying unconscious on a stretcher. The man was on his back with one foot resting between his knees. It had been blown off of his leg about midway between the ankle and the knee. The doctor took out a tourniquet and was going to apply it while trying to do a thousand other things. So I helped put it on. The odd thing was that despite having no foot there was almost no bleeding and didn't appear to be a need for a tourniquet. Also, the leg was not just cool, it was almost cold. If I didn't see the man was alive I'd assume he was dead because of the temperature of his severed leg. Still, I'm not a doctor so I just did what I needed to do while trying to stay out of the way. Wouldn't you know it, the Voice cut in again.
This time the Voice told us that bad people were trying to breach the perimeter of our FOB. When that happens we are supposed to don our body armor, get accountability of your people, and seek shelter. Well it just so happens that the CSH is not located anywhere near where I store my body armor so I decided I should make haste and retrieve it. Eventually, I made it to the TOC where I could monitor, in safety, all that was going on outside. As I sat and watched, reports began to roll in as to the details of the attack and its aftermath. In the end, 7 civilians were killed, 19 were wounded, and an additional 2 KPF soldiers were also wounded. So let's do the math. Out of 28 people killed or wounded, 26 of them were unarmed civilians waiting in line to provide for their families.
Three lessons come out of this that I truly hope my readers will take away and share with others. First, the KPF checkpoint did exactly what they had designed it to do. They stopped a suicidal jerkwad from reaching into the heart of our FOB and harming American men and women. Because they planned and executed that plan properly, I don't have to do a memorial service later this week. It was a victory for the Government of Afghanistan and it's security forces and a defeat for the impish Taliban. Second, the people attacked by the quality folks that make up the Taliban were UNARMED CIVILIANS. They posed no threat to anyone. They had families and dreams and feet. But not any more. Because cowardice can drive. Third, the medical personnel of the US Armed Forces are amazing. They did everything they could to assist hurting people regardless of race, religion, or nationality.
Today I was a witness and not much of a player. And what I witnessed could curdle milk. Still, I know I'm in the right place doing what I was called to do. It can be very satisfying.
Still, I can't wait to go home.

Catching a Buz

2009-04-23T06:08:00.003-04:00

I think Robert Di Nero explained it rather well as Al Capone in 'The Untouchables' when he said in his thickest, 1920ish, prohibition-like, Mafioso accent,

Enthusiasms! What are mine? What draws my admiration? What is that which gives me joy? Baseball! A man...A man stands alone at the plate. This is the time for what? For individual achievement. There he stands alone. But in the field, what? Part of a team.

Baseball. Our national pastime. What could be better than sitting in (or if your 10 years old, under) the bleachers, eating a hot dog, and watching the big game? The smell of freshly cut grass, the crack of the bat, the crowd on its feet cheering their team on to total victory or humiliating defeat. A baseball sized ball is hurled toward a man with a stick who hits it in such a way as to avoid the players on the field who threaten to touch him with that self same ball in a manner that is none to kind. Then another guy adds insult to injury and screams, "Out" at the stick man while holding out his thumb as if to say, "My thumb is better than you!". That's how baseball always felt to me as a kid. Frankly, I was never very good at it. My parents would sit in the California sun all day to watch me not pay attention to the game on the rare occasions I actually made into the outfield. I was always in right field. I think it was because my coach instinctively knew that it was where I was most likely to not be paying attention when the ball almost always didn't come to me. But I'm not bitter! I have fabulous memories of standing in the sun baked field with no shade really, really having a great time enjoying our national pastime, which in my case was watching bugs navigating the freshly cut grass with that freshly cut grass smell. But it could have been worse. "How", ask all the non-jocks in my audience. I'll tell you how!

Afghanistan is an incredible nation. War, famine, pestilence and a million insect borne diseases make this nation one of a kind. Afghanistan has been through it all and yet in spite of having no official border and no particular currency and no particular taste, it has managed to maintain a stronghold in the world of sports. That's right. Afghanistan has a national sport. And like our baseball, it portends doom to millions of young Afghani boys with little or no jockitude. The sport of which I speak is that which answers the burning question of the day, "How could it get any worse?" Buzkashi...that's how. Buzkashi (pronounced booz-kawshee) is THE national pastime in Afghanistan. Its rules are simple. Each "player" gets on a horse which is coerced into running wildly at speeds approaching terminal velocity. As they whip around the field or court or ring they must catch the "buz" with the goal of...catching the buz. "Points" are awarded for something associated with the buz, like maybe putting it somewhere or hiding it or keeping it from other players / victims. Did I mention "Buz" is the Afghani word for "Goat"? True story. The ball in a game of buzkashi is a goat carcass. Please understand, this is not a live goat. In fact, often the only part of the goat present is it's skin. That's because it is often filled with sand to make it "challenging". As if trying to pick up a goat carcass from on top of a running horse is not a challenge.

So, next time you decide to go out into the yard and play catch with your leather covered baseball, be thankful for the foresight of our country's founders and their love of play. You could be tossing a whole cow!

A Box Of Non Stop Half Time Time Out!

2009-03-10T11:11:00.004-04:00

Transitions are never easy; especially when they are related to deployments. Because war is an ongoing event you can't just call a time out so the guys that have been here can pack up and go home while the guys that will replace them get unpacked and set up shop. Still, that is exactly what must happen but without actually calling a time out. Imagine a basketball game where each side had not 5 players but about 43. And imagine that they were required to switch players, all of them, at half time. And imagine that only one team took half time while the other team continued to play. Wouldn't be much of a break for the half time team, would it? That's transition in war. We call it a RIP. It's one of a billion and twelve acronyms in the Army and it stands for Relief In Place. It is often confusing and frustrating because the other team doesn't take a half time. So the game gets handed off to the next group while ensuring everything keeps getting done. And in the middle of the madness you have to look for anything you can to hang your sanity on so that you don't get trampled by the guys running onto the court, or they guys running off, or the guys on the other team who refuse to take a half time. And when you find that sanity hanger it is almost like you are on the court by yourself. Pure bliss!

There is an old saying that I recently created. "Hell hath no fury like how cool my Mom and Dad are!" I'm not real big on dragging my family out into the open for scrutiny but this time I just can't help it. After all, my sanity is at stake. it happened like this...

In the course of my duties as a brigade chaplain I often "make my rounds". That is, I walk from office to office, place to place, person to person and build relationships with whoever I find. "How are you today?" I might ask. "How's the family?" I query. "Is that thing real!?" I muse! Just getting to know people and letting them know their chaplain loves them is the quickest way to get into their hearts and minds in the hopes that someday "I might win some." One of the people I try to visit, not because of what he can offer me but because he is one of my "Joes", is the postal clerk. He has a thankless job handing out letters and packages often confined to a small office with little more than boxes and envelopes to keep him company. So today I ventured into his cardboard and paper world to shake his hand, look him in the eye, and tell him that despite what others might think, I think he's doing a great job of handing out letters and packages. As I did so, I got a pleasant little surprise; a hanger for my sanity if you will. SGT Mail Clerk shook my hand, looked me in the eye and said, "Sir, I have a package for you." In a deployed environment this is like saying, "Sir, I have a pile of cash for you!" It was a simple box but it was packed with happiness.

I received my box with joy and within 5 seconds knew this was no ordinary box. Certainly it was mere paper and tape and inside were a whole bunch of little Styrofoam peanuts. But there was a treasure buried therein. It was, and still is (partially) a 32 ounce box of See's Famous Old Time Candies. For the Russell Stover fans out there or others who may not have heard of See's just imagine gold and diamonds were delicious and edible. That's See's...only crunchier. There were, and partially are, a variety of chocolates and chews in that little cubicle of confectionary candification. Bordeaux! Molasses Chips! Yummy chewy caramel thingys! MMMMMMMM! Chocolate!

So here I sit, firmly enthroned in my own little corner of the war enjoying some of the greatest chocolates in the world thanks to the greatest Mom and Dad in the world.

It's half time so I think I'll pour another cup of coffee and inundate my system with joy.

Providential Coincidence

2009-02-19T11:18:00.002-05:00

Coincidence? Providence? Something else?

For the last week I and a number of traveling companions have been working our way around the globe to the place we will call home until Uncle Sam tells us we can go back to Alaska. Our trip has been tiring, boring, frustrating, and any number of other "ing's". But the time and effort it took was worth it when we reached our final destination earlier today. The "coolness" is not to be had in the completion of an arduous trek or in the ultimate destination. Rather, it is in the arrival itself.

Since my early days as a chaplain in an infantry battalion I have always viewed the job of a military chaplain as somewhat analogous to that of the Old Testament prophet because when I stand among my soldiers and peers I represent something none of them do and I bring a presence to the table that no one else does. Not because I'm anything special nor have any particular skills that are unique to me. However, I truly believe God wants me here, doing what I do. The result is that I tend to operate with a confidence that can border on arrogance knowing that even when I'm entirely confused about something, God has His hands deep in my confusion and will make something great out of something not so great.

I don't necessarily act like some kind of prophet wannabe. However, I take my responsibility to be the prophetic voice of God among my soldiers very seriously. And here is where the extreme coolness of today's arrival on our FOB comes into play. It happened like this…

As we were preparing to get onto the airplane for the last leg of our little global jaunt we lined up seemingly at random and walked single file out to a waiting bus where we packed in, seemingly at random. We waited a bit and then were escorted onto the plane and wedged into some very tight quarters which made breathing a bit difficult. All this seemingly at random. Then, our baggage was loaded in behind us on large pallets, the back of our C-130 closed up and we were airborne at last. Sometime later we landed without incident and waited for the clearance to deplane. The pallets containing our bags were taken off, the ramp was lowered all the way and the loadmaster signaled for us to get off his plane. Here's where it gets great. Because of the random location I just happened to sit in, I was the first guy off the first aircraft carrying our entire brigade into battle. It hit me like a ton a bricks that I was doing what the priests did when the children of Israel marched around Jericho. I, the lowly often overlooked chaplain, was wearing the first boot to hit the ground and like my predecessors I began to pray. I prayed for the success of our mission. I prayed for the safety of my soldiers. I prayed for their hearts, their minds, their spirits, and their bodies. I prayed that they would be a better shot and have faster reaction times than any that would desire a good fight. I prayed that we would be able to win the hearts and minds of the local people. I prayed that we would all get home next year. I prayed that God would bless them.

Call it coincidence. Call it providence. I just think God's control of things is amazingly cool.

Becoming Traditional Cheese

2009-02-16T02:35:00.002-05:00

Traditions. The Army is full of them, from raising the flag in the morning to lowering it at night, from saluting senior officers to drinking grog at banquets. Every occasion brings with it a tradition handed down from one generation of warriors to the next. Each holds a special place in the grand scheme of Army life. Still, one stands out above the rest in its universality among soldiers. We call it "Hurry-Up-And-Wait"

There is nothing like it. Regardless of the context there is always...ALWAYS...a sense among everyone present at a given event that whatever it is you are doing must be done with all haste so as to avoid the inevitable domino effect for everything that follows. The rush to complete a given step of a given task drives Officers to sweat, NCO's to scream, and Joe's to scramble aimlessly in an effort to appear to be doing what they think they are supposed to be doing even when they don't necessarily know what that is. And the longer things take, the greater the sense of urgency to complete that thing until the universe reaches a fevered pitch, a crescendo, a tidal wave of activity that comes crashing down around everyone in the vicinity resulting in abject silence and inactivity for as long as it takes to reach the next moment in history that requires frenzied movement forward. Minutes turn to hours...hours turn to days...days become your next birthday! Card games and conversations magically appear where only the void of unused time once hung in the air like so much salt in the cured ham of life. Suddenly, all parties find themselves doing ANYTHING to make the time pass, which it eventually does. The sprint begins anew. Such is my predicament today.

Several days ago I hopped on an airplane in frozen Alaska with the express goal of joining my brothers in arms in the struggle against evil in the blazing sands of the Middle East. It was a race to get packed and loaded and manifested and hurry hurry hurry so that we could finally arrive at our first stop where we would wait for transportation to our second stop where we hope to someday reach our brothers in arms struggling against evil in the blazing sands of the Middle East. However, that was several days ago. Soon after reaching our first stop time took a detour. We thought we had a date with destiny and that she was going to order the lobster. It turns out we appear to have been stood up. Here we sit, all hurrying done and departed. Now we wait and like a good cheese...we age. Indefinitely. I'm nearly a sharp cheddar bordering on the perfect Roquefort.

We have now entered the "I'll-do-ANYTHING-to-pass-the-time" stage. Today, for instance, despite having hair no longer than the width of an average human hair I decided that, in order to kill some time, I'd get a haircut. One of the defining characteristics of this part of the world is the ability of the local populace to speak just enough English to make you think they understand you when in fact they do not. So when I said, "Short here, long here" all the while pointing to "here" and "here" I assumed the "Barber" understood what I was saying and pointing to. As it turns out, she seems to have understood my strange groanings and gesticulations to mean, "I can't see enough of my scalp and I'd truly appreciate your assistance with this terrible affliction!" So she vigorously assisted me. First, the #4 adapter on the clippers from Hell followed by the #3, the #2 and just to keep things fun, right on into the #0. As I watched my hair being removed one seminfinimicrocentemeter at a time I quietly whimpered, which my "Barber" understood to mean, "A little more off the top and sides and back and edges please." Then at last she was done. This was a rouse. For even as she was putting down the clippers from Hell with one hand she was picking up Mr. Norelco with the other and before I could hold up the universal, "This hand in your face means cease and desist at this moment" sign, she and he were enjoying a guided tour of my melon. At long last, they were done with me and I escaped the logical next step...wax!

It worked. The haircut that became a shave of sorts succeeded in absorbing 45 minutes of my endless day. So here I wait, enjoying one of the Army's finest traditions...and turning into a delicious Limburger.

The Story of Today

2009-02-14T04:22:00.001-05:00

The story of today started several weeks back as we drew closer and closer to actually deploying. I have a hunch that this story, or one like it, is one that most in the Armed Services today could tell. In fact, I'd wager it is one that veterans of past wars could tell as well. It is a story of regret. Regret is a powerful word. in my case it is defined in the context of another year away from my home, my wife, my kids, even my dogs. I put this down, not to make people feel sorry for me or elicit a particular response. Rather, I hope, as I always have, to give my readers some measure of the kinds of things that soldiers experience everyday. Not just the fighting...the external, but the internal struggles as well.

I spent the last coupel of days at home trying to enjoy that one last minute with each of my children and my wife. To build even the smallest, simplest memory for them and for me. And I'm pretty sure I failed miserably. The end result was that when the time came to put them in bed and pray with each of them in turn, we all knew I wouldn't be there when they woke in the morning, and that all we'd have left is whatever memories I was able to offer them in the preceeding days. It was essentially the end of a day spent with my stomach in my throat...regretting.

I regret the things I said and didn't say. I regret some of the things done and especially those not done. I regret not treating my daughter and my wife like ladies. I regreat not treating my boys like the young men they are becoming. I regret too much TV and not enough wrestling; too much work and not enough ice skating; too much coffee for me and not enough hot chocolate for them; too much arguing and asserting and not enough reconciliation and prayer. Too much regretting. Too much wishing.

None who know me would doubt my love for my children and my deep affection for my wife. But as I stand again on the threshold of a year away, I wish I'd have told them more often.

But, dear reader, today's story is not just about internal struggles and wishes. It's also about my toe. A very external concept. Today I discovered that my pinkie toe, which is newly broken and constantly painful (the details of which can be read bout in my previous posting), had while I slept turned a lovely shade of purple. I just thought you'd want to know. But I might be mistaken.

You Can't Go Home

2009-02-11T21:19:00.002-05:00

The day is finally here and I'm kind of excited about it. I'm within a few short hours of heading out of the house and into the cold Alaska night where I will link up with the rest of my group of future travel weary travellers. We will gather, check to ensure everyone who is supposed to be there is there, pick up things like weapons (not me of course, I'm a chaplain and we are peaceful folk), march to the local gymnasium where we will wait for approximately 37 days to board a bus for a 3 mile ride to the airfield. At that point we will gather some more. Once that's done we will watch our plane sit for an additional 15 days until such time as the crew feels it is safe for us to board. At long last we will get on the plane and begin our trip downrange (which should only take about 6 days). That's how it will go, or so it will seem. In reality, by this time tomorrow, I'll be halfway to halfway around the world. These kinds of things take time, but they generally go smoothly. Generally.

Today, as I was waiting for the waiting to begin, my wife and I had a few hours to tie up some loose ends while the kids were at school, such as having the car serviced, enjoying a lunchtime date, and breaking a portion of my foot. Yep, you read right. Since I had some free space in the house earlier, I decided a good thing to do would be to jump the couch instead of casually walking around it. So I jumped. But today my couch jumping judgement was not a little off and my trail foot didn't quite make it. Really just the pinkie part of my trail foot. The result was me rolling on the floor saying in a not so quiet and composed voice and tone, "I'm certain I broke my toe!" There really was no way to be sure short of seeing a doctor with the exception of going so far as to take my sock off. So I did. What I saw confirmed my beliefs. It's not that my toe was swollen, although it was just a bit. And it's not that it was discolored, although that also was true. What really clinched it was that my toe, which normally is very good friends with the next toe over seemed to want nothing to do with it's neighbor to the point of nearly moving out of the state. It's angle, in relation to its ex-friend was something in the area of 75 degrees off vertical. If it were my big toe, it would have been pointing at my other foot. You get the idea, it was nasty. So we jumped in the car and headed to the ER. A couple hours, several x-rays, and some excruciating taping of one toe to another and I was headed home to enjoy the last few hours before heading out. For a brief description of that that will be like, see paragraph 1.

So the day is finally here. And, yeah, I'm excited about it. But only because you can't come home until you leave.!

Ceremonial Prayer

2009-02-03T02:05:00.008-05:00

While the nature of the war we are fighting has changed over the course of this conflict, the Army's desire to properly see it' young warriors off has not. It's called simply a Deployment Ceremony and it is at one and the same time celebratory and sobering. Today my brigade conducted such a ceremony and it was attended by several thousand soldiers and civilians in the Sullivan Arena in Anchorage. There was music, marching, and speeches. And for many the highlight was having the Governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin as our key note speaker. She spoke with the passion of a leader, the eloquence of a scholar, and the heart of a mother. Afterward, my family and I pressed through the mass of humanity balled around her and had our picture with her. She was so gracious to my wife and kids, asking my daughter where she goes to school and thanking my wife for her service to our country. It was an honor to meet her, shake her hand, and listen to her speak. For me, however, the highlight was elsewhere. As an officer my world revolves around my soldiers, especially as we prepare to head downrange. As a chaplain my heart is in knowing that my soldiers run to the sound of battle with the protection of God blanketing them. So for me the highlight of today's ceremony was when I was able to pray for all my soldiers in one place at one time. The difficulty in offering such a prayer is that it can very easily turn into a mere wordsmithed formality while not speaking into the hearts of my soldiers or into the heart God. So I struggle with these kinds of occasions. In the end it was my honor to invoke the presence of God at the ceremony and in the lives of my paratroopers. There may be those who are headed downrange and no one has prayed for them. I pray the same prayer for them as well...

Almighty God, in whose hand alone reside war and peace, life and death;
As you guide our nation to lead the world to peace, I can do no better than to plead your blessing and protection on these great men and women that they may trust in your defense and not fear the power of any adversary. Lead our leaders, I pray, as they will be asked to make decisions that most men would rather not make.
You have brought us in safety to this new day. You have trained our hands for war and our fingers for battle. Now preserve us with your might. Direct us to the fulfilling of your plan as we carry out the plans of those you have placed over us. Only you fully know of the trials and triumphs we will face in the coming days and as we depart our friends, families, and the comforts of home, guide and govern each of us by your Holy Spirit for it is only by your grace that we will be sustained, protected and preserved. Bless and comfort our families as they watch and wait. Grant them the peace in the middle of uncertainty that only you can offer.
It is in your name we pray.

Amen

The Climb

2009-01-26T15:35:00.001-05:00

It seems like only yesterday that I was basking in the glow of a warm fire in my living room in Kansas City watching it snow outside and debating with friends the true nature of Y2K. That was a very different world. Today I sit basking in the glow of the promises and potential of a new year watching a new administration in Washington and discussing with family the true nature of the War on Terror.

This discussion will very soon become very real to me again. In short order I, and the soldiers I've been called to minister to and lead, will head back into the fray.

This moment in the process is not unlike the initial climb on a roller coaster. We are in the car but have not yet begun the ride. Clack. Clack. Clack. It's an odd mixture of excitment and fear. Most of us are on this ride for the second or third time. Some have never been. That will change soon. Clack. Clack. Clack. Here comes the big drop marking the beginning of a year long ride of ups and downs...dips and twists...thrills and chills.

Get ready. Clack. Clack. Clack.

Retell Value

2008-07-30T03:24:00.004-04:00

It's been too long since my last entry so I figured it was time to give my 3 loyal (and not a little bored) readers something new to peruse. I often tell my children, "Life is about the stories!" So I try to experience as much as I can in order to have stories to tell them and anyone else who will listen. That philosophy has served me well. With that in my back pocket I have enjoyed jumping out of airplanes, traveling the world, seeing incredible sights, going unbelievable places, experiencing much of what the world has to offer in all it's God-given or man-made glory. However, living life in such a way as to maximize its retell value can backfire. One could quickly find themselves, for the sake of the story, doing something or going somewhere that might just prove, in 20/20 hindsight, to not have been such a great idea. Enter today, stage left.

Our two youngest kids are spending the night at some friends house. Our oldest was at work most of the evening. That left one child and the need for dinner. So we loaded up the car and headed out. We enjoyed the rare occasion of having only one child with us. Conversation was lively, food was palatable, and this being the summer in Alaska, the sun was still up and shining brightly as we headed home around 8pm.

The drive home was not a long one and we had to pass through a large wooded area between Ft. Richardson and Elmandorf AFB. As is our custom, we drove slowly and kept an eye on the wood line to see if we could spot any wild life. We’ve enjoyed this drive in the past as we have spotted all manner of animals such as moose, fox, ptarmigan, etc. Halfway through the woods we rounded a corner and spotted a very large black bear slowly crossing the road. He didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry so we pulled over to watch him in all his lumbering goodness. But as is the norm, he entered the woods as if he belonged there. And we watched in awe as he perfectly blended in to the point of being invisible. Try as we might, we couldn’t see him only a few meters into the thick forest undergrowth. And as we began to pull away from viewing this spectacle of nature, my good friend “lack of judgment” intervened. “After all,” she whispered in my itching ear, “life is about the stories” and this seemed like a good time for a story.

Only a few meters from where sister bear entered the woods was a gated service road. As we pulled up to it my intentions must have become more than obvious because the background noise that I now know was my wife’s wisdom became louder and louder. Still, the story must be had, so my son and I quickly jumped out of the car and cautiously made our way up the service road. It is important in these situations to walk as quietly as possible so as to increase the chances of surprising said bear and thus ensuring that your offspring are eaten. We continued down the path looking into the area we believed the bear to be until, after about 100 meters or so, we thought we heard something and looked toward the sound. That’s when we spied it…approximately 25 meters away from us on the side of the road we had been NOT looking at. I’m going to go ahead and believe it didn’t see us. At least it didn’t appear to care. It lumbered along and we followed at “a safe distance” which, according to Field and Stream Magazine, is defined as about 36 miles. USUALLY.

This story drew to a close when our little Ursus Americanus began to move toward a housing area on post. We flagged down a passing Military Policeman and he took it from there. Usually such animals are shot with big rubber bullets to make them not want to come around people. And it seems to work most of the time.

So, today I have a story. And happily it doesn’t include my son and I becoming a tasty bear treat.

Backyard Bing

2008-01-21T04:12:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, as parents, you just have to wait until the kids are in bed to really enjoy yourselves. Once they are tucked in and asleep parents can, being the adults in the family, enjoy some time together, doing things without the little ones around.

Tonight was such a night. The weather warmed just a touch, we had a short spell of drizzle followed by what can only be described as falling snowballs offering us all the makings of some good old fashioned late night parental fun.

And fortunately, we have photographic evidence.

My wife says he looks like Bing Crosby!

Proof Positive

2008-01-13T22:34:00.000-05:00

We left Savannah Georgia on the 12th of December. Exactly 3 weeks later we arrived at Ft. Richardson, Alaska. Upon arrival we checked into the Army lodging and prepared for the required 6 year wait for a home on post. Buying a home here is not an option for us as our home in Georgia has not yet sold so we knew it would be an interesting wait until the housing office could find us a place. Imagine our surprise when I went in the next morning and they handed us the keys to a place for us to look at and see if we wanted to live there. Well, knowing that we are a family of 6, there is usually not much of a choice in these matters. So Tina and I headed over with the understanding that the next three years would be spent in a beautiful home built approximately 15 years before WWII. Typically, a home will only fit our family if the floor tiles are mix and match, creating something of a horrific plaid, and the bathroom is one big rust stain. This is the reality of military housing. However, knowing that we really had no other options, we swallowed hard and drove to what would in all likelihood become our home. The wheels of change move slowly but move they do. What we found is nothing short of miraculous...5 bedrooms a 2 car heated garage and space for all.

Once the tears of joy dried, the reality that we'd be living out of our suitcases for the next 200 months while we waited for our household goods to arrive set in. It's a nice home so we figured we would would have no problem living in a mostly empty house. Then the wheel moved again. Two days later we were informed that our stuff had arrived and was ready for delivery. The next day we had a million boxes strewn about. Still, we had our stuff and it seemed life would soon be normal again.

If I didn't mention it, we're in Alaska. It's cold here! Like Absolute Zero cold! Fortunately I don't have to walk far to work. Even so, if I do walk and leave the trusty Caravan for Tina, I can count on not feeling anything exposed and almost everything not exposed by the time I reach my destination 300 yards away. We shipped my little car the day we left Savannah and anticipated that it would arrive in Alaska on or about April 13th. But that wheel keeps moving. Only a couple of days later, my car arrived. So we drove the 5 miles to the pick up point and got it followed by a nice spin out on the ice resulting from a quick yank on the emergency brake while taking a deserted corner. I do not recommend this. It was, nevertheless, fun. And I have my car.

So our first week here has been nothing short of a logistical miracle. The Army does not move very quickly. But in our case it did. Many times I've told others that God is bigger than the Army. That He can do things the powers that be say can't be done. Like open a beautiful new home the day after arriving at a new post. Or like getting your household goods within a week. Or getting your car delivered 17+ years ahead of schedule. Now I have proof.

Yukon, Ho!

2008-01-02T02:23:00.000-05:00

We finally landed at Haines Alaska yesterday just before noon and after getting something eat decided to spend the night and get an early start the next morning. As the day wore on I was struck by the absolute beauty of the place. It is simply gorgeous. I walked to the local auto parts store to pick up some tire chains to ensure we made it to Haines Junction today. As I walked back to the hotel I remember thinking, "Man, what a beautiful sunset. Awesome! Unbelievable! Hey wait, it's only 2:30pm!" So it was that we settled in for a long winters nap when no one could sleep. Keeping 4 kids and 2 dogs mentally intact in a small hotel room overlooking complete blackness is no small task. But we did it. And after getting everyone to bed later that evening we got some rest in preparation for an early start today.

This morning, we linked up with another couple headed for Anchorage and began the slow caravan to wherever we could get by evening. The roads were icy so I put on my chains and proceeded to head for the summit. All went well until we broke the 25 MPH mark. At that time the hounds of hell began to scream and they sounded remarkably like something trying to rip my front fender off from underneath. Living in the south for so long I'd forgotten that besides assisting with traction, tire chains produce approximately 3 billion decibels. And once I got past screaming to communicate with my wife riding shotgun, I began to enjoy the scenery.

Remember the time you were driving through the Yukon and you happened upon about 25 Bald Eagles roosting in trees and flying and feeding beside a nearby frozen river? Me too! That was this morning and it was surreal. And it was just the beginning of a day filled with new sights that I have only heretofore dreamt of. We saw Eagles, sled dog teams, scenic vistas that would make Ansel Adams stop in his tracks. We even saw some wild Canadians in their natural habitat. A very exciting day. We passed trough towns like Haines Junction, Beaver Creek, and Tok. All these places make you wonder why anyone would put a town there! At one point the gauge in our car said that it was 28 degrees below zero outside. That's not a real measurement until you actually experience it. We stopped and got out out for a second when it was a balmy -15 degrees and I actually felt my pancreas begin to harden. Within a few seconds, I couldn't feel my brain! So we jumped back in the car, cranked the heater, and within 3 hours began to thaw.

Finally we pulled into Tok, AK just in time to get dinner at the Grumpy Griz Cafe where they serve a pretty mean chicken fried steak. After dinner we got a hotel room, unloade the trailer and got busy getting ready for bed. As I think back on the sights and events of today, one lesson comes clear, rolling across the Yukon. At 28 degrees below zero, nothing in a U-Haul trailer is safe. Shampoo, hand lotion and even air freshener freeze solid. So, tomorrow we head on into Anchorage. With any luck, we'll arrive with semi-gelatinous toothpaste.

Dreamin'

2007-12-30T20:55:00.000-05:00

Some might disagree but guy dreams are different that girl dreams. I might be mistaken but girl dreams seem to rotate around sugar and spice and everthing nice whereas guy dreams seem to involve risking life and limb. At least mine do. For instance, I've always dreamed of going to Alaska; The Last Frontier, land of northern lights and hungry bears and all manner of man hunting wildlife. And as indicated in previous posts, I'm actually going to get to live my dream. Today was a small step toward that dream.

Travelling on the Alaska Marine Highway is unbelievable. The vistas, while mostly a million shades of overcast grey, are beautiful. We are seeing things we never thought we'd see before. Today we saw a couple of Bald Eagles. Later as we passed a small inlet we saw a pod of whales shooting plumes of water into the air about a half mile away. It looked like a chiminey smoking for a second or two. I have dreamed this day but never really thought I would be able to live it. I am. And it's magnificent.

Every second on this boat, while a common practice for some, is navigating new waters for me. It is exciting and kind of scary, but we are living in anticipation of what might be just around the next island or down the next passage. We pass small islands covered in trees and snow. Their beaches littered with massive boulders and drift wood. In my dreams I'm on those beaches exploring the woods and inlets. And obviously I'm cold. But the thought of seeing something new stirs my blood even if others have already seen it. That's my dream for my next assignment. I want to bring the blood of my soldiers to a fevered boil as I introduce them to the unexplored territory of their faith. I want to take them somewhere they may never have been and show them that it may seem cold and harsh at first, but it won't be dull. The life of faith never is!

It's a dream worth dreaming.

Visiting Ralph

2007-12-29T14:25:00.001-05:00

Our trip from Savannah thus far has been exciting, to say the least. We spent time with my family in a couple of locations and spent Christmas with Tina's family for the first time since we were married 19 years ago. The kids and dogs had a good time, as did we. The day after Christmas we headed out and drove for two days to Bellingham, WA where we boarded the M/V Malaspina, a ferry from Bellingham to Haines, Alaska.

As I write, I am on the observation deck of the aforementioned vessel enjoying a rather rolly ride across the Queen Charlotte Sound. The day is overcast and grey and not a little drizzly. But in spite of the weather it is remarkably pretty. Islands are on our left (starboard I think) and open ocean is on our right. Waves crash high against the Canadian coastline. My family wants so badly to see wildlife that every rock in the distance is certainly a whale. And the driftwood passing by has got to be an otter or a seal or some other such sea going creature. Soon we'll be through this crossing and back in amongst the islands of the "Inner Passage".

And only one of my children has paid homage to Ralph, the god of porcelain. So far!

Up To Speed

2007-12-10T14:01:00.000-05:00

For the past 6 months or so I have not been writing much (if at all) and I thought it would be a good idea to bring what readers I have left up to speed as to where I have been and what I have been doing. Iwould love to report that I have been actively engaged with some super secret agency working to thwart the schemes of our nations enemies or that I have been engaged in a prototype program for putting a chaplain on the moon. However, my absence has been far less exciting. I have for the past six months (begin drumroll here) been attending the US Army's Chaplain Captain Career Course (cymbal crash) affectionately known as C4. That means that I have been holed up with about 35 other chaplains studying chaplain stuff; preaching, mentoring, supervising, etc, etc. The idea bhind the course is to prepare senior captain chaplains to take on the added responsibilities inherent in serving as a brigade chaplain. The brigade chaplain, as opposed to the battalion chaplain, serves as the technical supervisor for 2 to 6 battalion chaplains. It's a challenge I look forward to taking on in the near future.

Early in the C4 process my classmates and I received word of our follow-on assignements. Some are going to Ft. Drum in New York; so to Ft. Bragg North Carolina, the center of the Airborne universe; Others to serve as recruiters for new chaplains. Me? My family? We are headed to (begin 2nd drumroll here) Anchorage Alaska (cymbal crash). I'm going to Ft. Richardson to serve in the 725 BSB which is part of the 4th Brigade Combat Team of the 25th Infantry Division. And frankly, I know next to nothing else. We are moving into the great unknown. Our plans are to head west as soon as the packers and movers are done loading up our stuff, drive to visit family in the mid-west then more family in southern California and then still more family in northern California for Christmas before heading north. All that with 2 adults, 4 kids, 2 dogs, and a U-Haul trailer. (cymbal crash)

This Just In

2007-10-11T17:29:00.001-04:00

Few things in life surprise me. This is one of those few. I've known about it for quite some time now but that foreknowledge hasn't diminished the surprise. For whatever reason, the good folks at Doonsbury.com's "The Sandbox" have decided to include one of my blog posts in their compilation of some of the best war reporting out there. I received an advanced copy last week and am simply shocked that my writing has been weighed in the balance and found to be worthy of inclusion in this tome (you'll find me on Page 91).

I am honored and excited to be a part of this project. I hope you'll pick up a copy as soon as they arrive at whatever bookseller is in your area. And in case you're wondering, all the proceeds from the sale of this book will go to benefit the Fisher House.

Ch-Ch-Changes

2007-08-02T22:09:00.000-04:00

I have not been writing much lately for a number of reasons and I have sorely missed it. One of those reasons is that my entire life has been given the old one-two by the US Army. It was expected but still no fun. I have recently PCSd. It's a Permanant Change of Station and it happens every so often in this life I've been called to. Basically, it means I've moved. I don't mind moving (as I'm naturally something of a nomad) but I hate leaving the soldiers and ministry I have come to love over the past 3 years. My writing since mid 2004 has been my way of relating the events of my life, down range and back home. I love painting mental pictures with words. I love telling people what a great job our soldiers are doing. I love putting my readers in my place so they can get a small glimpse of what life in the military is like. So here's another glimpse. It's transient. The hard part is that this life does not affect just me. It impacts my entire family.

My move, this time, was a short 3 hour drive from Savannah, Georgia to Columbia, South Carolina to attend the Chaplain Captain Career Course (kind of a "how to be a brigade chaplain" class that all chaplains take at one time or another). The problem is that this move is not for 3 years but six months. That means that if my family moves with me, we have to pull the kids from their school only to change to another school half way through the year. It means that for 6 months, my wife must make new friends knowing that she will have to leave them again at years end. It means that the next time we move it will be at Christmas time. It means alot. Our answer is that my wife and kids will stay in Savannah and I'll drive home on the weekends. Frankly for me this is not a big problem. I'm a nomad and I don't mind being alone for a bit. But my wife and kids are a different story.

The point of this posting is not that I have to move again, nor that my family is without me 5 days a week, nor that we have to move at Christmas this year. The point is that like many of the military wives I've met, my wife is amazing. For 6 months she will be a single parent. For 6 months, she will pay the bills. For 6 months, she will get the kids to school, games, field trips, and church with no adult assistance. And for 6 months she will not complain about it. So for 6 months, she will keep her head high and a smile on her face so as to make life easy on me. Finally, for 6 months I'll be thanking God that it's not me because I'd make it about 6 hours before there was bloodshead in my home!

I've said it before and I'll say it again, military families are amazing, especially mine.

Wanted: Resolve

2007-07-20T00:51:00.000-04:00

Remember? I do!

A New Perspective

2007-04-05T02:50:00.000-04:00

My word for today is...Perspective.

Until this evening I have been thinking about very little else than getting home (I've been traveling here and there for about 40 days), beginning the advanced course this summer, creature comforts of home, and generally things that revolve around my little universe. As I write I am on yet another C-17 flying from the heart of Iraq to Germany. But this flight is different. My unit does not "own" this flight. Instead, I and a small bevy of my soldiers are merely hitchhikers trying to get back to the US. We are seat fillers. And as I sit and look around I don't think I should be on this plane. I don't belong. Frankly, I don't deserve to be among those who I find myself among. Why? Perspective. On this flight, before we even lifted into the air, my attention has been violently ripped from my mental mirror and I have been made to look beyond myself. That violence was done to my ego by a couple dozen heroes. Two of them in particular. Brent and Sean. See, this is a Medevac flight.

Perspective

Brent is strapped to a stretcher near the rear of the plane. Last on, First off. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many wires attached to one person. Brent has oxygen tubes in his nose and two IV bags hanging at either end of his stretcher. His head has recently been shaved and he has a very large bandage in nearly the center of his forehead. There is a tube running into the hole in the front of his head through which the doctors periodically draw fluid. The greenish tattoo bearing the Greek letters, IXOYE on his right bicep is starkly contrasted to his very pale skin. He looks like a soldier. I had to meet him. After clearing it with the doctors, I introduce myself, and with his labored approval I bent over him, putting my mouth close to his ear, and having anointed him with the only thing I could find, hand sanitizer, I prayed for him. After saying, ‘amen’ I looked him in the eye and said, ‘Thank you. We’re proud of you.” Brent said nothing but his face and his body spoke volumes.

Perspective

Sean lies very still. He appears to be sleeping. The cheery, flowered sheet covering the mattress on his stretcher belies his circumstances. Sean also has oxygen filtering through water bottles and into his nose. A small machine over his bed offers his doctors all manner of information from pulse to blood pressure to breathing rate. Sean isn’t moving. I quickly anoint his forehead with my anointing oil/hand sanitizer and pray for his recovery, comfort and family. I say, ‘amen’ and open my eyes. Sean is staring at me through his right eye. His left eye is swollen shut. In fact, the entire left side of his face and neck look like he’s been shot with a shot gun at close range. The outline of the chin strap of his ballistic helmet is clearly visible. It is a small strip of untouched skin surrounded by his damaged face. After introducing myself he told me his name and we chatted for a few moments. Finally I asked, “What happened?” already knowing the answer. His reply was short, “IED”. All I could muster without entirely loosing my composure was, “Thank you. We’re proud of you. Bless You.”

Perspective

I’m going home for a while. In a day or two I’ll walk into my house. I’ll comb my hair. I’ll hug my wife and kids and thank God for my country, for my freedom, for my family, and for men like Brent and Sean who decided the price to be paid was worth the cause to be won.

Perspective

300

2007-03-18T15:11:00.000-04:00

There is a lot in the news about what's happening in Iraq and Afghanistan and other places around the world. And there is a lot of punditry that goes along with the news. I have heard in recent days that "the American people" think this or that. It's almost nauseating. We are at war and "the American people" whether or not they support the war, generally do not, in my experience, really understand what the American Fighting Man and Woman thinks and feels. They do not get it when a soldier, sailor, marine, or airman describe why they do what they do. In short, most people do not understand what it means to be a Warrior. For those that would like to get a glimpse of how a military man thinks, why he fights, and what he fights for, please see '300'. It is more than an action flick. It is a view into the heart and soul of men that fight for a living and a cause. Like the American fighting and dying on the field of glory in today's war, these men are not potters or sculptors or blacksmiths. They are soldiers. They fight. They die. It is not just a vocation, it is a life lived with others in mind. Warriors run to the sound of clinking armor and whizzing bullets while others cower. Warriors struggle with any enemy that would threaten the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breath free. Warriors are free men who battle enslaved pawns. The men and women I see fighting today are that kind of warrior. They live and breathe to do what they do...fight.

And what of the rest of us? Those of us who can not or will not bleed with them? What lesson can "the American people" take away from a movie? That death in the struggle is honorable. No one wants to die. But it happens. It is up to the American people to allow the American Warrior to die with honor. We can and should mourn at the loss of one of our own. But that loss should cause us to stand and beat our chests with patriotic pride, glad to live in a country worth fighting for.

If folks could gain even a cursory understanding of the ethos of the warriors that stand and fight in the gap for the freedom of fellow citizens they will never meet, I think much of our national angst would be replaced with national pride.

My Plight

2007-02-26T16:53:00.000-05:00

Hunger! Pain! Cold! Wet! Sissy stuff! I have met misery and these are not they. These are misery imposters. He who experiences these could rightly be called uncomfortable, pitiable, or even vexed. But miserable? NO! For I have met misery face to face and her name is Jet-Lag, that cruel mistress that doth hinder normal functioning in nearly every area of life.

My life of travel continues unabated and upon my arrival to my most recent destination I searched out and found a couple of lifes necessities...a bit of food, a quick but partly cold shower, and a small chunk of the 9th wonder of the pharmacological world, Ambien. Sleep came quick and was oh so satisfying. But my nemesis would rebel and after a somewhat shortened business day I turned in when everyone else did and without assistance immediatly dozed off. I slept soundly and awakened refreshed and ready to go approximately 90 minutes later. Oh, the cruelty of the thing. Must she torment me so, this demon called misery who also goes by the aforementioned name, Jet-Lag. So with sheer will and iron grit, I fought to return to my natural state of hibernation. However, two hours of staring into the darkness later, I determined that all was lost. In bygone days, on bygone travels, with bygone Ambien, reading has made for a speedy path to slumber. So it was that I grabbed the nearest reading material, a book that Tina had purchased for me just prior to my departure, and began to read with the expectation that a tired mind equals a sleeping body. Unfortunately, the book in question was written by the great Dave Barry and I spent the better part of the next 3.5 hours fightning not the specter of sleeplessness, but the urge to laugh uncontrollably so as not to awaken my hooch mates (seven in number sleeping soundly and making "I'm sleeping soundly" noises at regular intervals). Thus I found myself, eyes red and dry, mind racing, and body convulsing in silent misery neither laughing nor sleeping. Finally, to add salt to the deep and festering wound which Misery had inflicted upon my psyche and my body, the call of nature came clear and unhindered, bekoning me into the early morning darkness and cold to make my way to the nearest latrine. It was snowing.

You see, I have met misery and this is my plight.

Loving Lampwick Larry

2006-11-16T11:54:00.001-05:00

Before getting to the point a little context might be nice. I live, work, and worship in Savannah, Georgia. My home is modest, my employer gigantic, and my church small. It is within the confines of the latter that this story takes place.

As is the case with most churches in America, people attend for a variety of reasons. And like most churches in America, those reasons are sometime noble, sometime ignoble. For many of our young people their reason for coming is because Mom makes them. Not Dad...Mom! I hate to say it but the church at large seems to be severely lacking in male attendance and influence. I am speaking of real men, men who are neither cavemen nor croquet players; strong, caring, tender warriors. So, many young people come to church at the behest of their mothers and generally act as though, on the Personal-Agreeability-Scale, the entire affair is on par with sifting cat vomit through their fingers. Our church is no different. For the most part, the young people sit as close to the county line as possible so as to avoid actually hearing the sermon or understanding the songs. And they do their best to talk in muffled tones, attempting to walk the line between disturbing others and actually paying attention. A while back, one young man caught my eye.

Larry* appeared to be a young man of great potential. His smile was wide and infectious. Like most 13 year old boys he had trouble looking people in the eye and speaking up. Nevertheless, for some reason or other, I found that I liked him. Perhaps it was that he constituted something of a challenge for me. He stretched me. Whereas I come from a fairly squeaky clean middle class world, Larry lives in the projects. His father is in prison. He step father can’t decide if he wants to live in the same house as Larry. He dreams of becoming a construction worker or video game programmer but has no real prospects of reaching those dreams. His mother and grandmother exert the major portion of godly influence in his life. They faithfully bring him to church hoping something will grab his attention, but nothing does. Thus, aside from quietly hoping for success, they have no real plan and no real help in seeing this young man down the straight and narrow. And besides, they are women. Larry has no man in his life to mentor, direct, coach, or discipline him. I truly believe that his ideas about God and his future will be shaped by the male leadership he finds, or doesn’t find, in his life. Currently, when he looks around he sees a mom, a grandma, and a church that are uncertain as to how to best deal with him. It seems the best they can do is to hope and pray. I, of course, am all for hoping and praying, but action must be taken sometimes. So a while back, Larry caught my eye, and I began to act.

Larry was headed toward becoming the local Lampwick by dragging the other boys toward their doom on Pleasure Island. So over the course of many moons, anytime I saw those boys talking and I would politely but sternly ask them to be quiet. I would see them moving around during service and sit with them to ensure their respect for the house of God. Once I caught them playing cards and threatened to confiscate them if that immoral and appalling activity did not cease and desist immediately. I played the nice man that will give you a good talking to if you’re not careful. I tried and tried to influence them without driving them entirely out of the church or offending the adults that dared to claim them. But, there was never any real change in their behavior. Nice wasn’t working. So a few weeks ago, my teapot began to whistle.

It was “Homecoming” Sunday when all the old timers and previous pastors return for a celebration of epic proportions. Larry and the Lost Boys took up their usual positions in the very last row and service began. Attendance was high so mobility was limited. However, the ability of this small group of boys to get under my skin wafted unfettered through the sanctuary. It shouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that I was entirely unengaged from the rest of the Homecoming Service and focused almost entirely on those boys, especially Larry. So as soon as the service was over I quickly walked over to Larry, threw caution to the wind and ensuring that all the other boys could hear me I said, “Larry, I love you. I think you have tons of potential and I believe God has a plan for your life if you’ll let him do what he wants to do with you. However, if you don’t start behaving during church, one of these days I am going to drag you outside and beat your ass!” Well, you can imagine the reaction that got from them. I assume they had never heard, nor expected a chaplain to talk like that. Larry froze while the other boys scattered like frightened cockroaches. I got his attention! At the first possible opportunity, Larry slithered away to lick his pride and try to regain his glorious leadership. This being a special Sunday, we engaged in that time honored church tradition…the Potluck. As we ate, I approached Larry’s mother and grandmother and, wanting them to know my heart, told them EXACTLY what I had said to their boy. I kind of expected them to be upset. Grandma looked at me and said, “Thank you. He needs that.” Then his mother told me that he was on parole for taking a knife to school and that his parole officer had mandated that he link up with a mentor of some sort. Imagine my surprise when she asked if I would fulfill that role. We talked a bit and I noticed that Larry was nowhere to be seen, so I went looking for him. I found him a short while later hiding behind a brick retaining wall in back of the church. Understandably he was not in the mood to talk to me…but too bad! I sat down in the dirt in front of him and engaged him. He said he was mad because I had “cussed” at him and embarrassed him. “Good”, I thought. Upon further interrogation he told me that in his 13 year old world right and wrong are defined by what is fun. So if it’s fun…it’s right. I explained that I really did love him…too much to stand by and watch him do wrong and that I would drag him into the octagon if necessary to keep him from running head first into the arms of hell. And it wouldn’t be fun!

In the weeks that followed, I continued to ride Larry, asking him to sit with me and my family during church, talking to him about school, and trying to get him to look at me when we talked. Then yesterday something happened. My perfect wife picked Larry up after school and dropped him off at my office and for the next two hours I introduced him to the military, the vehicles, the helicopters, the weapons, the pluses and minuses. Not in an effort to recruit him, but to show him that the world is bigger than the projects and that it’s all available to him, should he desire to work for it. And that recalcitrant, rebellious, angry young man walked and talked with me and never stopped smiling. It was amazing. The veneer cracked. Finally I took him home and walked him to his door in the projects, knowing he was afraid to walk alone. After I got in my car I looked toward his apartment and noticed him in the window…waving…smiling…and looking me in the eye.

* Larry’s name has been changed to protect his anonymity and my fanny!