tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55632812024-03-23T14:23:55.624-04:00Training for EternityBecause Training is Everything, and Everything is TrainingChaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.comBlogger102125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-40163144501540129392018-12-27T12:31:00.004-05:002022-09-10T13:13:40.267-04:00Wide Open AnswersI can't claim to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. Still, it's taken me a while but I think I've figured it out. And it is no small problem. But I get ahead of myself.<br />
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Christmas this year was much like any other Christmas with the decorations and special meals, the smiling faces, and the occasional song. Plus, as an added bonus, I'm in Afghanistan! And nothing says, "Holiday Cheer" or "Season of Joy" or "What IS that smell?" or "I can literally see the air!" like Christmas in Afghanistan. See? Just your average Christmas. But the day subsequent to Christmas was an entirely different story.
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The "After Christmas" party began at about 7am on December 26th. And it started with gusto. Sirens announced its arrival and blaring voices proclaimed its message! INCOMING! INCOMING! INCOMING! Woo Hoo! And all at 7am! So I guess Peace on Earth has its limits, such as, when it's finally over, it ends early in the day, when most normal human beings are either asleep or wishing they were. Here's the point. When your day begins with sirens and an announcement to seek shelter, that day has no point! But, heck, we're in a war zone. Things blow up once in a while, right? The really good news is that those who feel the need to set off our early warning system are really bad at firing indirect fire, indirectly. Either that or they are exceptional at targeting wide open spaces. Plus, being 'mericans, we tend to come up with ideas. One such idea is the Phalanx Weapon System or PWS (as it's more commonly known to me since I just made that up). Anyhoo ... This is more of an anti-weapon weapon than an actual offensive weapon. Quite simply, it scans the air vigilantly looking for things being hurled in our general direction by evil men targeting our innocent wide open spaces. When any hurled thing is detected the PWS (more commonly known as the Phalanx Weapon System) essentially, with a loud "bbbbrrrrrrrrrrr" sound, hurls a wall of metal scraps back at said hurling item causing it to become more metal scraps which land quietly in one of our pristine wide open spaces. So 'twas the day after Christmas when some nitwits decided to let the 'mericans shred some of their favorite toys into tiny bits of shrapnel. Thanks, nitwits!
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And it might have ended there, and it did. Until the day after the day after Christmas. On THAT day (which is this day in some parts of the world) things began to really make sense. On THAT day, at approximately 7:06am, our good friends in the hills that love sacrificing their Christmas explosives to the innocence of wide open spaces decided that since the day after Christmas didn't go so well, maybe this was their day! At 7:06am, when most normal human beings are either asleep or wishing they were. It was at that moment that the loudspeaker, in a not-so-hushed tone, again screamed into my life with IMPACT! IMPACT! IMPACT! They'd finally done it. They'd succeeded in destroying one of our treasured wide open spaces...expertly! And as a result, I was told to seek shelter and stay there. Thankfully I have a very secure shower! 'Merica! While I stood there is when I figured it out. I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer but I figured it out.
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It's the reason this country is so war-torn. It's the reason its people can't play nice. It's the reason...what IS that smell? These people need sleep! Who gets up before the crack of dawn just to blow up wide-open spaces? The value of a good night's rest seems to escape this culture. We could probably end this decade's long war by giving the good people of Afghanistan, and their not-so-good counterparts who can't aim, a huge supply of Nyquil or Tylenol PM. And if we can convince MyPillow(r) founder and CEO Mike Lindell to donate a million free pillows with the purchase of 5 million or more ... man, this thing would end tomorrow.
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<br />See, I've totally figured it out!Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-64128544503868438072018-12-03T04:38:00.002-05:002022-09-10T13:24:10.138-04:00Loose Phrases and Mark TwainI believe it was Mark Twain that said, "The coldest winter I ever experienced was the summer I spent in San Francisco". On the other side of that coin is the saying, "The hottest summer I ever experienced was the winter I spent in Kuwait". At some point last night, or this morning, or late tonight, we landed in Kuwait. And now we are in lovely Camp Arifjan. Anyone who has been there knows that "Arifjan" loosely translates into English as "who needs water...or color...or joy!" But that's a loose translation. The real news today is that our difficult relationship with Those-Guys Airlines has come to an end and now we can get on with the business of reaching our final destination. But first, we will have an opportunity to sleep on an actual bed, with an actual mattress, that makes actual noise, and without an actual armrest to crush our actual hips.<br />
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I had a short but restful night that involved a quick shower, a walk through the dark in shower shoes, and an unending battle with dust sticking to my recently clean feet. You don't know the value of a good pillow until you don't have one. I assume the headache will eventually subside.
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Still, the adventure continues. We took a bus from Camp Arifjan to Ali al Saleem Air Base which was a quick 3-hour torture fest wherein my tailbone became acquainted with the higher portions of my spinal column due to the excellence of the Kuwaiti roads coupled with the smooth abilities and demeanor of the driver. It was more of an old-school roller coaster than an actual bus ride. It really makes my body feel its age, which is currently 124. So once we were peeled out of our chairs (I use the word "chair" very loosely) we grounded our gear and headed for the dining facility where we were treated to a meal that would make my grandma cry. It was the first of many such meals (here I use the word "meal" very loosely) after which we returned to the terminal to hurriedly wait for 6 hours or so. It was during this time that I became acutely aware that my tailbone and shoulder were becoming lovers. Finally, we boarded a C-17 and made the flight all the way to Al Udeid Air Base in Qatar. To offer some perspective, this would be like waiting in San Jose for 6 hours to fly to Fresno in a screaming refrigerator. So, in addition to everything between mid-thigh and Adam's apple hurting, my ears are in open rebellion! But, we're back on the ground and that's nice. At least it was. When we first arrived in Al Udeid, we were told we'd have to wait 4-5 hours because C-17s take a while to prep for flight and we seemed to have unexpectedly materialized out of thin air, so nothing was ready for us. But this being Qatar, we were not allowed to leave the passenger terminal for ANYTHING or we could possibly be detained and have to go through customs, and Qatari customs doesn't play!
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<br />After about 6 hours on the ground we started to get hungry as our last meal was "breakfast" (I use that word very loosely) in Kuwait. However, the food fairy was hard at work and in "no time at all" (I use that phrase very loosely) our hungry bodies were provided frozen turkey sandwiches (yes, still frozen), bruised fruit, meat sticks, actually open and stale potato chips, and Pop Tarts(r). Needless to say, the Pop Tarts(r) went first. Oh and that coffee we didn't get...we didn't get any! That means I was hungry, had a killer headache, and the Incredible Hulk was about to make an appearance.
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As we stood and waited, and sat and waited, and pretended to eat and waited we became acutely aware that the flow of information was somewhat lacking. And that because we had unexpectedly materialized out of thin air, there was no American aircrew to fly us in one of the 15 or so C-17s parked right outside the passenger terminal. Nevertheless, a fix was in the works. A Qatari Royal Air Force crew had been identified to fly us to our final destination. I have nothing against the Qatari Royal Air Force but it's not a real confidence builder when we're told they didn't want to take the job because they had never flown so many people at one time. So...after waiting approximately 10-12 hours in the passenger terminal our flight manifested at 0400 and was scheduled to lift off at 0800 for another 3.5-hour tailbone torture fest.
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Finally, the hour we had worked toward had come. We began the boarding process for the final leg to our final destination. The anticipation in the air was palpable as people came alive with joy. Once in our seats, the Qatari loadmaster said something in extremely broken English which I'm told was "please buckle your seat belts as though it matters." And with that, we began to slowly taxi to the runway, where we sat for another 30 minutes while the crew did stuff. Then, out of nowhere, the loadmaster said something else which included the words, "return" "broken" and "1 hour". At this point, we had to just laugh while simultaneously crying. But true to their word, almost exactly one hour later we were taking off and headed to parts unknown.
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It would be nice to say that's really all that happened on the trip from Sheol. But I can't make that unfounded and patently false claim. Given that we had slept rather fitfully for a grand total of about 4 hours in the past 4 days we were all very tired. So, as usual, once the plane reached its max altitude we unbuckled and found an open patch of floor to stretch out and try to sleep through the flight. Little did we know that the Qatari Royal Air Force seems to enjoy the interior of their planes at a comfortable zero kelvin. It's amazing how hard it is to sleep as molecular motion grinds to a halt. I've been in some cold places before, but I don't recall ever being THAT cold. It was as though we had passed through Dante's 9th Circle of Hell.<br />
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Still, by the end of the day, as we began to thaw, we landed in beautiful Afghanistan for a nice long vacation. And I can't complain. 18 years of warfare means we've had time to improve living conditions, creature comforts, office space and meals. But I use those terms loosely.Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-57007960696908490902018-12-02T13:44:00.001-05:002022-09-10T13:32:03.369-04:00Efficient GaggingIt could be argued that every culture has a trait or characteristic that defines its people to the rest of the world. For instance, there are the Kayan people of Myanmar that stretches the necks of their women from an early age as a sign of beauty. Or the Mursi of Ethiopia that put huge disks in their bottom lip as a sign of not being able to use as drinking straw. Or even the Sentinelese tribe of North Sentinel Island that is known for killing you. Then there are the German people of Germany known worldwide for sausages made from anything, driving 200 in a 35 zone, and gagging on their own language. And efficiency. Germans are among the most efficient people in the world. They are so efficient they only need to actually go to work 1 day a month. But what a day. This level of efficiency can be both a blessing and a curse. For instance, in a single layover, I experienced both. <div><br /></div><div>Our flight on "The Airline That Shall Not Be Named" made what was supposed to have been a quick pit stop in Niderhosen am Obergach (just saying it made me gag). The prospect of landing and escaping the jaws of the 737 of Doom was thrilling. Immediately upon seeing the "Fasten Restraining System" sign turned off, I and 200 of my best friends/fellow prisoners stood to our feet in anticipation of waiting. It was almost like when you take your dog out first thing in the morning and he rushes the back door as if wedging his nose into the gap between the door and the jamb with 250,000 pounds of pressure will make you open the door any sooner. And then you have to fight him to actually get the door open so he can get out. So it was that we rushed the door where we stood for approximately 6 days. Finally, the door opened and we caught our first breath of fresh, German air. The terminal was well-lit and inviting. The snack bar was open where you could buy a cup of coffee for 1500 Pfensters or a sausage made from something. Or you could purchase mementos of your time in Niderhosen am Obergach (I think I just gagged again) such as a T-Shirt that said, "I think I just gagged"! And then we settled in for the standard 6-28 hour wait while our extra parched plane roamed around the airport looking for water. However, given the efficiency of the characteristically efficient German people, we only had to wait 7.235 Magna Seconds before we were efficiently stuffed back into our own personal 737-sized flying metal sausage. </div><div><br /></div><div>Soon we were in the air again, dreaming of not being in the air again and fidgeting for comfort as efficiently as we could.</div>Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-78827178034375327322018-12-01T13:43:00.000-05:002018-12-12T13:43:23.459-05:00Mephistopheles AirlinesAs mentioned in a previous post, we gathered on Day 2, after saying "good-bye" to loved ones for the second time in as many days, at 0300. This gave us just enough time to pretend to get 5 hours of sleep before gaining accountability, boarding busses, and heading for the plane once again. It is worth noting here that we have been a nation at war for over 15 years. One would think that would be ample time to develop the deploying process into something of a science. One would be incorrect. Enter Atlas Airlines. They are to travel what sociology is to science. The people of Atlas Airlines (pilots, flight attendants, water dudes) seemed nice enough. However, I think it would be safe to say that the motto of Atlas Airlines should be, "Sit vis nobiscum" which is Latin for "You only had one job". After the debacle the previous night, the universe was desirous of making it up to us, and as luck would have it, the morning went relatively quickly. Here, "relatively" is meant to elicit a comparison to something that stands in direct contrast to the thing being compared. In this case that would be "relative" to every other second since the dawn of man. And so, after a reasonable wait (again as compared to the whole of human history) we were on our plane and airborne. Fortuitously, I was able to procure a seat in the bulkhead with no seat mate to hinder my ability catch up on some much needed rest, which I assumed would be relatively simple (there's that word again). As it turned out, I did indeed have a seat mate. His name was Mephistopheles, and unlike every other row in the plane, the bulkhead seats have much more leg room...and arm rests that are locked in place by the prince of darkness himself. So, for the duration of the first leg of our "trip" I attempted to sit/sleep/fit in a seat I like to call, "The Iron Maiden". The 2 hour flight to Kentucky to pick up some more friends lasted a relatively short 37 hours (see what I did there?). Once on the ground we were informed by the fine people of Sociology Airlines, "We'll be on the ground for 2-3 hours while we refuel and restock the plane, and then we'll be back on our way." As I freed myself from the torturous confines of "The Maiden", my tailbone began what would turn out the biggest fight of my life. More on that later!<br />
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Limping into the terminal I looked forward to the day I could begin to look forward to the day I would retrace my steps home. The 2-3 hour wait quickly became 5-6 hours and the natives were growing restless. After much inquiring we were told by the fine people One Job Airlines that we could not depart because...wait for it...the tank for flushing the toilets was not full enough for a trans-Atlantic flight. So as we sat watching it rain water everywhere, we couldn't help but note the irony in the dry interior of said plane's septic system. But not to worry. After much consideration, thought, and counsel, the good people at Dry Flush Airlines decided to purchase several cases of bottled water and put them in the lavatories as something of a manual flush system. Brilliant. It was at this point that they began to discuss the vagaries of "Crew Rest" and the impact of two hundred angry and tired travelers. And so, we finally headed back to the plane, double in number, hungry and tired, pretending we didn't need to use the latrine. The coming 8 hour flight would cure us of that. As for me...I gingerly remounted my dear friend "The Iron Maiden" and waited for the spine searing pain that was most definitely in my future.
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Once airborne for approximately 1 hour the crew began serving "dinner", which consisted of 3 ounces of fruit cocktail in "juice", the choice of a soggy baloney or soggy ham sandwich, and what I believe was meant to be a random condiment. So it was that after dinner I settled in for what would prove to be a relatively short nap a war raged between Mephistopheles, The Iron Maiden, and my tailbone.Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-46100187250352559072018-11-30T13:42:00.000-05:002018-12-12T13:42:19.218-05:00Pending A Two Step JourneyThe journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. When deploying that single step is saying good bye to kids, spouses, and even dogs. For even the hardest among us, the hours leading up to those last few moments are an emotional ride on a generally bumpy road. So with that in mind, I and approximately 100 of my closest friends arrived at the appointed time, in the appointed place, wearing the appointed uniform, with the appointed stuff. This initial gathering was early enough in the day so as to allow maximum lack of sleep the night before as well as ensure we had the required 26 minutes to check in and draw more required gear before spending the next 3 hours taking that first, painful, awkward step. This is not a random occurrence but a carefully calculated huddle designed to ensure that everyone begins their thousand mile journey as asleep deprived, emotional cripple. Final good-byes were said and final kisses bestowed as kids cried and spouses cried and warriors stoically walked to deny crying because I got something in my eye. At last, with a final glance we loaded busses and pulled away, bound for the airport and a quick flight to the bowels of the Middle East.<br />
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Once at the airport the fun began in earnest, starting with a lecture from the lecture guy (that's his official title) about how it's ok to take rifles and pistols on board our pending aircraft, but knives, nail clippers, and shivs would be promptly confiscated. Safety third, after all. Finally we were weighed with our gear and ushered into a large, hollow, very echoey hanger like concrete room for a brief wait before boarding our pending plane. Soon thereafter a delicious stake lunch (the term "steak" would be a misnomer) with a side of something resembling extraterrestrial life was provided as we stared at our pending plane blithely staring back at us from the taxiway 300 meters away. A mere 8 hours into our brief wait before boarding our pending plane, we were again loaded into busses to drive the last 300 yards to our pending plane (safety third, after all) followed my more blithe staring.
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At long last the moment arrived. Have reported to the family torture chamber at 0700 we were ready to board the pending plane at 1830. Which would have been great. Instead we were informed that an unknown part was broken, or damage, or working fine, and that the crew were mandated a certain amount of rest before they could fly our pending plane anywhere (insert wild cursing and breathless groans here). So instead of boarding our pending plane we went back to the family torture chamber and told to go home until 0300 the next morning. At which time we would cautiously attempt to again board our pending plane, but not until we took a second first step on our thousand mile journey.Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-12928578709319445172018-11-29T13:40:00.000-05:002018-12-12T13:41:16.120-05:00At War With GroundhogsThe official count is 37 months. Officially! The real count is probably much less than that. It works like this...when calculating months deployed, the Army counts a day in country as a calendar month deployed. So when they say, officially, that I have been deployed for a grand total of 37 months, they mean that I've been deployed for some portion of 37 different calendar months. The real count is probably much less than that.<br />
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What is certain (a better word would be "accurate") is that my last deployment ended 3,209 days ago. That's 8 years, 9 months, and 14 days. So it's probably about time I got back in the game and paid my dues. The problem is that during those 3,209 days this war (if it can still be called that) has turned into Groundhog Day...again. Each day nearly identical to the last. So, today I begin 9 months...real months...calendar months...back in the game. My job will be to coordinate Religious Support throughout our Area of Responsibility (AOR), to ensure American men and women have a hope that someday this war (if it can still be called that) will come to an end and we will get to enjoy the day after Groundhog Day.Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-91197389354256462842018-11-29T05:45:00.000-05:002018-12-12T13:38:39.995-05:00PrologueProvidence would dictate that the relaying of events be done in as close a proximity, time wise, as practicable to the actual occurrence of aforementioned events, given the propensity of human memory to delete or insert details as may evince a greater appreciation in the reader of the accuracy of the writing insofar as the writer pens his thoughts with minimal delay...to whit...Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-8022206082101487842009-10-24T15:31:00.005-04:002009-10-24T15:50:48.232-04:00God, Words, and Lima Beans<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in">There are a lot of ways to say things.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For instance, instead of using the word “rich” you could say “affluent”.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Or instead of using “gossip” you could use “quidnunc”.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>One might say, “I like waffles!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Or one might say, “Waffles are massively preferable to lima beans.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It is the art of wordsmithery, which may actually not be an art at all, at least not in the sense that you might visit a Wordsmithery Gallery.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Rather, it is a way of saying or writing things and events, in such a way as to make them more readable.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Generally, when I retell the story of something that happened to me I try to put my readers in that place.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I want them to see it, feel it, and smell it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And I spend a lot of time with my good friend Roget in an attempt to do just that.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And while it’s usually worth the effort to help people understand what life is like from my perspective, it’s almost never easy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In fact, many times I’ve not relayed something simply because I could not find the right words.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Today, I’m at a loss for words.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I’m going to write it anyway because it just feels important enough, in light of my job as a chaplain, to tell the story.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in">Recently, we’ve had some personnel changes, as is normal in the military.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>People come and people go and just this week one of the chaplains I work with here went home.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So besides being happy for him and his family, I now find myself having to absorb many of the duties he fulfilled around here until a replacement arrives.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Today we had another call to come to the hospital as there were wounded US soldiers inbound.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I and one of the chaplain assistants headed there to find out what we could and wait.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What we found out was that no one knew much of anything about this particular situation.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So I didn’t know if I was waiting to anoint a young American body, or pray over a new amputee, or console a gunshot victim.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So the waiting was a little unnerving.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As we waited, we chewed the fat about life before, during, and after this deployment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Finally, after about 45 minutes we could see two choppers on the horizon approaching our FOB.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When they landed the sense of relief was immense as we watched 3 young American GIs walk off the birds.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They had been in an MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected Vehicle) that had a mine roller on the front.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Naturally, it hit an IED, as it is meant to which did some pretty serious damage to the vehicle.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But as is always the case with the wonderful MRAP there was no real damage to the people inside.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Just 3 young American GIs walking off a helicopter.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A little shaken but none the worse for wear and in need of a check up to make sure all was well.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I thought, “God is good!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in">At the entrance to the hospital we stood and talked, while they removed their gear.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I tried to calm and comfort them as best as I could and we started to walk into the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The assistant I was with stood just outside and decided to head back to the office as this event was pretty much over.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At that moment, I heard what I believe is the loudest single noise I've ever heard.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A rocket fired from who knows where impacted approximately 25 feet from my assistant and about 35 feet from me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Everyone rushed into the hospital, as it is a hardened facility, to escape any additional incoming ordinance, which never came.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> For the next 30 minutes</span> we waited for the “All Clear” so that we could resume our “normal” day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in">Once we were able to leave the safety of the hospital, curiosity dictated that we go check out the impact site.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That’s when it became very clear that we had been watched out for.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As far as I can tell, my assistant, Michael, was the closest to the impact.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I may have been the second closest, I’m not sure.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It doesn’t matter. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What does matter is that the impact was in a storage area on the opposite side of several concrete barriers designed to stop shrapnel that flies around willy nilly during an explosion. They seemed to have worked quite well. It could have landed on our side, but it didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In the debris was the shell of an oxygen cylinder with a 3 inch hole in it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It didn’t explode.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If it had I don’t think I’d be typing this.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But it didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Instead of acting like bottled oxygen usually acts, it just vented and the releasing pressure sent it flying somewhere.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in"><o:p>In the end, no one was hurt while my assistant and I walked away with little more than a slight ringing in our ears.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I can’t wordsmith it any more than to say God is good and waffles are way better than lima beans.</o:p></p>Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-24660797344402994612009-07-06T14:25:00.003-04:002009-09-04T12:08:11.060-04:00One of Those DaysThere are days I really don't want to be a chaplain.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Several hours earlier a group of our guys had begun a patrol or a convoy or something other military activity and at some point encountered some very bad men with very bad intentions. I wish I could report what happened to them but I can't because I really don't know. 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 <em>something</em> despite a feeling of having no real purpose. So I did what I do and worked my way toward the chaos, watching for an opportunity. It came and I took it.<br /><br />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".<br /><p><em>Amen</em> 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 at that moment 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. <p>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 some fresh air for a moment. 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. <p>Back in the OR I immediately noticed that the beeping and chirping had stopped and the staff moved less deliberately and in total silence. 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 saw was simply amazing. <p>Without a word each one began to work like cogs in a wheel, but not without feeling. Quietly, tears fell 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 in a near whisper said, "Present Arms". There in the operating room, we all stood facing that young American 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. <p>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. <p>It is a custom that we practice with great diligence. Nothing can stop us. We call it a <em>hero flight</em> 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 reverently loaded the body on the helicopter, 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. <p>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 being here for, 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. <p>Today was not one of those days.</p>Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-26352604792184920702009-06-06T12:23:00.001-04:002009-06-06T12:23:22.050-04:00D-Day RememberedAmerican Cemeteries on Foreign Soil<p>Aisne-Marne, France- 2,289 interred, 1,060 missing remembered<br>Ardennes, Belgium – 5,329 interred, 462 missing remembered<br>Brittany, France – 4,410 interred, 498 missing remembered<br>Brookwood, England – 468 interred, 563 missing remembered<br>Cambridge, England – 3,812 interred, 5,127 missing remembered<br>Epinal, France – 5,255 interred, 424 missing remembered<br>Flanders Field, Belgium – 368 interred, 43 missing remembered<br>Florence, Italy – 4,402 interred, 1,409 missing remembered<br>Henri-Chapelle, Belgium – 7,992 interred, 450 missing remembered<br>Lorraine, France – 10,489 interred, 444 missing remembered<br>Luxembourg, Luxembourg – 5,076 interred, 371 missing remembered<br>Manila, Philippines - 17,202 interred, 36,285 missing remembered<br>Meuse-Argonne, France –14,246 interred, 954 missing remembered<br>Mexico City, Mexico – 813 interred, unidentified remembered<br>Netherlands, Netherlands – 8,301 interred, 1,722 missing remembered<br>Normandy, France – 9,387 interred, 1,557 missing remembered<br>North Africa, Tunisia – 2,841 interred, 3,724 missing remembered<br>Oise-Aisne, France – 6,012 interred, 241 missing remembered<br>Rhone, France – 861 interred, 294 missing remembered<br>Sicily-Rome, Italy – 7,861 interred, 3,095 missing remembered<br>Somme, France – 1,844 interred, 333 missing remembered<br>St. Mihiel, France – 4,153 interred, 284 missing remembered<br>Suresnes, France – 1,565 interred, 974 missing remembered<p>So others could know freedomChaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-37976746872255419102009-05-13T12:23:00.002-04:002010-05-02T05:57:19.016-04:00Doing the MathToday 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.<div><br />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.<br /><br /></div><div>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.<br /><br /></div><div>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.<br /><br /></div><div>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.<br /><br /></div><div>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.<br /><br /></div><div>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.<br /><br /></div><div>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.<br /><br /></div><div>Three lessons come out of this that I truly hope my readers will take away and share with others. </div><div><ul><li>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. </li><li>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. </li><li>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.</li></ul>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.<br /><br /></div><div>Still, I can't wait to go home.</div>Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-39496939497915466442009-04-23T06:08:00.003-04:002009-04-23T07:40:01.460-04:00Catching a Buz<p>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, </p><em><em><blockquote><em><em></em></em></blockquote><blockquote>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.</blockquote></em></em><p>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! <p>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. <p>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!</p>Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-15235209664804292262009-03-10T11:11:00.004-04:002009-03-10T14:22:42.097-04:00A Box Of Non Stop Half Time Time Out!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! <p>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... <p>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. <p>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! <p>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. <p>It's half time so I think I'll pour another cup of coffee and inundate my system with joy.</p>Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-78507562328211325022009-02-19T11:18:00.002-05:002009-02-19T14:02:27.615-05:00Providential CoincidenceCoincidence? Providence? Something else? <p>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. <p>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. <p>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… <p>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. <p>Call it coincidence. Call it providence. I just think God's control of things is amazingly cool.</p>Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-71361348768175543202009-02-16T02:35:00.002-05:002009-02-16T02:50:15.798-05:00Becoming Traditional CheeseTraditions. 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" <p>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. <p>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. <p>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! <p>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.</p>Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-87865342935757784562009-02-14T04:22:00.001-05:002009-02-14T04:22:26.895-05:00The Story of TodayThe 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.<p>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.<p>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.<p>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.<p>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.Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-50244283306862376312009-02-11T21:19:00.002-05:002009-02-11T21:48:05.112-05:00You Can't Go HomeThe 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 (<em>not me of course, I'm a chaplain and we are peaceful folk</em>), 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.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">pinkie</span> 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, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">although</span> 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.<br /><br />So the day is finally here. And, yeah, I'm excited about it. But only because you can't come home until you leave.!Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-9848063439405047262009-02-03T02:05:00.008-05:002009-02-07T01:32:50.579-05:00Ceremonial Prayer<div><div><div align="justify">While the nature of the war we are fighting has changed over the course of this conflict, the <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UUYRD2IGR6w/SYlHNX3B31I/AAAAAAAAAIo/76WzPyCvBLY/s1600-h/4-25+Deployment+Ceremony+22.JPG"></a>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. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299900571013874354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 268px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UUYRD2IGR6w/SY0HfUAsArI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/fSh00U0E-VY/s400/4-25+Deployment+Ceremony+06.JPG" border="0" />There was music, marching, and speeches. And for many the highlight was having the Governor of Alaska, <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UUYRD2IGR6w/SYlHN1LX-pI/AAAAAAAAAI4/xYNkXDjKllw/s1600-h/Gov.+Sarah+Palin.JPG"></a>Sarah <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Palin</span> 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. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299939429913793586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 268px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UUYRD2IGR6w/SY0q1MsZFDI/AAAAAAAAAJg/ukX7DFKWJyo/s400/with+Gov.+Sarah+Palin+copy.jpg" border="0" />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">today's</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">wordsmithed</span> formality while not speaking into the hearts of my soldiers or into the heart God. So I struggle with these kinds of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">occasions</span>. 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...<br /><br /><em>Almighty God, in whose hand alone reside war and peace, life and death;<br />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.<br />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.<br />It is in your name we pray. </em></div><div align="justify"><em>Amen</em></div></div></div>Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-54341943412172546272009-01-26T15:35:00.001-05:002009-01-26T15:35:11.632-05:00The ClimbIt 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.
<br>
<br>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.
<br>
<br>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.
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<br>Get ready. Clack. Clack. Clack.Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-24557147039710790482008-07-30T03:24:00.004-04:002009-01-14T20:27:35.122-05:00Retell Value<div class="Section1"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">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.<?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">So, today I have a story. And happily it doesn’t include my son and I becoming a tasty bear treat.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-34835692558449734582008-01-21T04:12:00.000-05:002008-11-13T04:58:09.072-05:00Backyard Bing<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UUYRD2IGR6w/R5Rlvo2RcHI/AAAAAAAAAEE/dRcC03-IZy0/s1600-h/P1010014.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157859342339371122" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UUYRD2IGR6w/R5Rlvo2RcHI/AAAAAAAAAEE/dRcC03-IZy0/s320/P1010014.JPG" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />And fortunately, we have photographic evidence.<br /><br />My wife says he looks like Bing Crosby!<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UUYRD2IGR6w/R5RjF42RcFI/AAAAAAAAAD0/odUucIsui-4/s1600-h/P1010014.JPG"></a>Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-31789809590776145692008-01-13T22:34:00.000-05:002008-01-15T02:47:59.192-05:00Proof PositiveWe left Savannah Georgia on the 12<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">knew</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">to live</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 13<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">th</span>. 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.<br /><br />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.Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-68782846818097620072008-01-02T02:23:00.000-05:002008-11-13T04:58:09.582-05:00Yukon, Ho!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UUYRD2IGR6w/R4FpO42RcEI/AAAAAAAAADs/Bum1I8kA4D8/s1600-h/to+alsaka2+017.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152515153187663938" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UUYRD2IGR6w/R4FpO42RcEI/AAAAAAAAADs/Bum1I8kA4D8/s320/to+alsaka2+017.jpg" border="0" /></a>We finally landed at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Haines</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Haines</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">mentally</span> intact in a small hotel room overlooking complete blackness is no small task. But we did it. And after getting <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">everyone</span> to bed later that <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">evening</span> we got some rest in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">preparation</span> for an early start today.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">assisting</span> with traction, tire chains produce approximately 3 billion decibels. And once I got past screaming to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">communicate</span> with my wife riding shotgun, I began to enjoy the scenery.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Haines</span> Junction, Beaver Creek, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Tok</span>. All these places make you wonder why anyone would put a town there! At one point the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">gauge</span> 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.<br /><br />Finally we pulled into <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Tok</span>, 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.Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-69184087961349817272007-12-30T20:55:00.000-05:002008-11-13T04:58:09.959-05:00Dreamin'<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UUYRD2IGR6w/R4Flbo2RcDI/AAAAAAAAADk/eP8-o7yIbNM/s1600-h/DSC03762.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152510974184484914" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UUYRD2IGR6w/R4Flbo2RcDI/AAAAAAAAADk/eP8-o7yIbNM/s320/DSC03762.jpg" border="0" /></a> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />It's a dream worth dreaming.Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563281.post-86895357551919036342007-12-29T14:25:00.001-05:002007-12-29T14:40:15.686-05:00Visiting RalphOur 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Bellingham</span>, WA where we boarded the M/V <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Malaspina</span>, a ferry from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Bellingham</span> to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Haines</span>, Alaska.<br /><br />As I write, I am on the observation deck of the aforementioned <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">vessel</span> enjoying a rather <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">rolly</span> ride across the Queen Charlotte Sound. The day is overcast and grey and not a little drizzly. But <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">in spite</span> of the weather it is remarkably pretty. Islands are on our left (starboard I think) and open ocean is on our right. Waves crash <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">high</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">against</span> the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Canadian</span> coastline. My family <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">wants</span> so badly to see wildlife that every rock in the distance is certainly a whale. And the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">driftwood</span> 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".<br /><br />And only one of my children has paid homage to Ralph, the god of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">porcelain</span>. So far!Chaplain Lewishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03158946587879170841noreply@blogger.com1