Training for Eternity

God, Words, and Lima Beans

2009-10-24T15:31:00.005-04:00

There are a lot of ways to say things. For instance, instead of using the word “rich” you could say “affluent”. Or instead of using “gossip” you could use “quidnunc”. One might say, “I like waffles!” Or one might say, “Waffles are massively preferable to lima beans.” 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. Rather, it is a way of saying or writing things and events, in such a way as to make them more readable. Generally, when I retell the story of something that happened to me I try to put my readers in that place. I want them to see it, feel it, and smell it. And I spend a lot of time with my good friend Roget in an attempt to do just that. And while it’s usually worth the effort to help people understand what life is like from my perspective, it’s almost never easy. In fact, many times I’ve not relayed something simply because I could not find the right words. Today, I’m at a loss for words. 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.

Recently, we’ve had some personnel changes, as is normal in the military. People come and people go and just this week one of the chaplains I work with here went home. 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. Today we had another call to come to the hospital as there were wounded US soldiers inbound. I and one of the chaplain assistants headed there to find out what we could and wait. What we found out was that no one knew much of anything about this particular situation. 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. So the waiting was a little unnerving. As we waited, we chewed the fat about life before, during, and after this deployment. Finally, after about 45 minutes we could see two choppers on the horizon approaching our FOB. When they landed the sense of relief was immense as we watched 3 young American GIs walk off the birds. They had been in an MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected Vehicle) that had a mine roller on the front. Naturally, it hit an IED, as it is meant to which did some pretty serious damage to the vehicle. But as is always the case with the wonderful MRAP there was no real damage to the people inside. Just 3 young American GIs walking off a helicopter. A little shaken but none the worse for wear and in need of a check up to make sure all was well. I thought, “God is good!”

At the entrance to the hospital we stood and talked, while they removed their gear. I tried to calm and comfort them as best as I could and we started to walk into the hospital. The assistant I was with stood just outside and decided to head back to the office as this event was pretty much over. At that moment, I heard what I believe is the loudest single noise I've ever heard. A rocket fired from who knows where impacted approximately 25 feet from my assistant and about 35 feet from me. Everyone rushed into the hospital, as it is a hardened facility, to escape any additional incoming ordinance, which never came. For the next 30 minutes we waited for the “All Clear” so that we could resume our “normal” day.

Once we were able to leave the safety of the hospital, curiosity dictated that we go check out the impact site. That’s when it became very clear that we had been watched out for. As far as I can tell, my assistant, Michael, was the closest to the impact. I may have been the second closest, I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter. 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. In the debris was the shell of an oxygen cylinder with a 3 inch hole in it. It didn’t explode. If it had I don’t think I’d be typing this. But it didn’t. Instead of acting like bottled oxygen usually acts, it just vented and the releasing pressure sent it flying somewhere.

In the end, no one was hurt while my assistant and I walked away with little more than a slight ringing in our ears. I can’t wordsmith it any more than to say God is good and waffles are way better than lima beans.

One of Those Days

2009-07-06T14:25:00.003-04:00

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 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 something 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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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

2009-05-13T12:23:00.002-04:00

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!

Coffee: Bringer of Joy

2006-05-03T07:56:00.000-04:00

I just love coffee in the morning.

Today after dropping my kids off at school, but before actually arriving at the office, I made a quick pit stop at the nearest Starbucks for a morning cup of Guatemala Antigua Coffee, which is probably grown somewhere in Ohio. I arrived to an unusually empty store. There were three employees and me. I casually approached the counter with my pre-purchased, Venti-sized, thermal, Starbucks mug and placed it on the counter whereupon I requested a fill-up of said Guatemala Antigua Coffee. I had not met the young lady behind the counter on any of my previous incursions to this particular coffee house. She smiled and as she was entering the order into her computer / register she said something to me in a tone that was inaudible to my aging ears. I politely asked her to repeat herself whereupon she said, "Could you please remove your top?" I paused for a moment and said, "I assume you're talking about my cup!" She didn't respond but her friends did, with taunts of "Stripping for Coffee" and the like as I laughed my way out of the store.

I just love coffee in the morning.

Falling...With Style

2006-03-22T18:26:00.000-05:00

One of the greatest things I get to do is jump out of various aircraft. I absolutely love it! The moments leading up to actually stepping out into the open sky are tense and exciting. Then the green light comes on, the Jump Master says “Go!” and everyone shuffles toward the door and in an instant you are airborne! The next 6 or 7 seconds are somewhat violent as the wind races past you and your chute opens causing you to decelerate from 90 knots (103.7 MPH) to zero knots (0 MPH). Then just as quickly, searing pain and mental anxiety give way to peace and calm and the “slow” decent to terra firma begins. The rate of descent is a bit deceiving at 1000 feet above ground level. You think you’re just kind of hanging motionlessly under your canopy, while in reality you are dropping at about 17 feet per second. It’s not the speed of sound, but it’s moving pretty fast. So you begin looking for a nice soft place to land and attempt to “steer” toward that spot. After “floating” earthward for a few moments the ground begins to appear to accelerate toward you. “Don’t look down! Don’t look down!” you repeat to yourself. Suddenly, you hit the ground with the violence of Hurricane Vito Corleone, you roll, release your canopy to avoid being dragged by the wind over your nice soft landing site, and it’s essentially over. That’s how it’s supposed to go.

Early in my Army career one of my Executive Officers told me, "Training is everything, and everything is training." Today I did some real training. I trained in the fine art of what can go wrong and the roll I play in the demise of the perfect jump.

Everything mentioned above went as it should, right up to the point where I steer toward a nice soft landing spot. The wind had other ideas. The location of our jump today was a small “mom and pop” airport in rural Georgia. The runway is surrounded by nice soft, just harvested peanut fields and we all wanted to land in that soft dirt. And we all did. Except me! The universe conspired to move me to the place where I would be most likely to get hurt. So as I descended and attempted to hit the dirt, I simply drifted toward the concrete landing strip and kept saying to myself, “This is gonna hurt!” And guess what? It did! It hurt a lot! I hit the edge of the concrete strip drifting backwards and instead of doing a proper parachute landing fall (or PLF) I hit my feet, my fanny, and my head.

Recently, the Army began issuing a new kind of ballistic helmet. It’s known as the ACH – Advanced Combat Helmet. But most guys call it the Mitch Helmet (I have no idea why or even who Mitch is). One of the nice things about the ACH versus the old style helmet is that it has very soft gel filled pads that can be moved inside the helmet to make it fit better and remain more comfortable while maintaining maximum protection for the wearer. Unless I’m the wearer. See, those nice gel filled pads need to be positioned properly. I neglected to do this. As a result, when I landed and smacked my head on the runway with approximately one million PSI my head received only partial protection. The not so partial part was that one of the pads (being improperly placed by me) did not cover one of four large bolts that connect the chin strap to the helmet. The bolt in question is about 1-2 inches behind and a little above my right ear. So when I hit, that lovely bolt sank into my head instead of the pad I should have covered it with and cut me like a pig being slaughtered.

The next few moments were kind of confusing as my noggin had been rattled quite severely. I remember warm blood running down my face and dripping all over the ground. I also remember releasing one side of my canopy but not the other (which I did). And I remember removing my helmet and grabbing my head only to find my hand baptized in my own blood. What I don’t clearly remember is being dragged across the runway by my chute (although the huge “raspberry” on my shoulder indicates that I was). Everything else is kind of in a haze.

So the afternoon went something like this…Take off, jump, enjoy the scenery, notice runway approaching fast, smack said runway with improperly set up helmet, bleed, bleed, and bleed some more, try to remember who I was and where I was, attempt silly things thinking they were the right thing to do (onlookers clued me in later) and then discover I was in an ambulance enroute to the hospital.

It bears mention that once at the hospital my doctor / torturer for the day scrubbed my wound with hydrogen peroxide and what felt like a large wire brush, then proceeded to give me 4 staples without using any anesthetic…at all. And just for grins, removing one of the four because it wasn’t in the right place after all.

I can’t wait to jump next month!

Removing a Blockage

2006-02-02T16:24:00.000-05:00

I wouldn't say I'm experiencing writer’s block, but I'm certainly experiencing some kind of blockage. I'll call it gratitude block. It happens all the time. Usually like this…

First you travel to a war-torn Middle East country. Then one day you are minding your own business and people you don't know start lobbing mortars in your general direction in a concerted effort to separate you from the physical world and force you to assume room temperature. Later, in an effort to ease the severe shakiness that comes with an extreme adrenaline overdose, you sit down and write about it in your blog that gets approximately 6 hits per month. Then the whole world starts logging onto your blog within .005 microseconds of Hugh Hewitt reading your post on his nationally syndicated radio talk show. Then you begin to panic because, come on, look at all those hits! After a while people begin reading your other posts and notice how one time you mentioned that you have the world's coolest wife. At this point Judy from Sunshine Quilts sends you a note and says, "I'd like to make your wife a quilt!" So you correspond a bit about colors and textures and the extreme coolness of your wife and Judy says, "I'll get back to you". After several months you get a small package from FedEx. That's when you remember that Judy forgot to mention that she is the Michelangelo of the Longarm. The next thing you know you are overwhelmed with the perfection of the quilt that she made by hand for your marvelously cool wife and despite your best efforts to sit down and write a note of thanks, you can't because of gratitude block. It usually happens like that.

My wife received this quilt just last week and I am dumbstruck at the beauty of it. It is the perfect combination of colors and has some absolutely magnificent stitching in it. Probably the most amazing thing about this quilt is that Judy made it as a gift for someone she doesn’t even know and asked for nothing in return. James said that true religion is to care for widows and orphans. I’m glad to say my wife is not a widow and my kids are not orphans. But Judy saw my little family, noting that I could not be present, and reached out to them. If I understand things correctly, that is almost exactly what James was talking about.

Please go to Judy's blog or check out some pictures of her work and drop her a line. Tell her you saw my beautiful wife's quilt and that I think it's incredible. Thank her for using her gifts and talents to serve our country. Then start looking for ways to serve others as well.

Thank you, Judy. You have a talent for blessing. You've blessed my family more than you can imagine.

Acorns and Headstones

2005-12-05T11:28:00.000-05:00

When it began, I knew three things about the man at the center of it all. First, his name was James. Second, he was a veteran. Third, he was dead.

There is usually a decent amount of time to prepare for these sorts of things but I had little more than one day and not much to go on. The call for assistance from a chaplain friend of mine was quick and simple, “Can you do a funeral tomorrow?” In recent days, I had often asked for the help of other chaplains and that help had been prompt and plentiful. Time to reciprocate.

James died in an elderly care facility in a nearby town. He was alone and nearly unknown. As I called around trying to find information about him that I could draw upon for the service the next day, I heard words like “vagrant”, “homeless”, “no family”, etc. Eventually, I reached the funeral home director. He verified that James was a veteran, though no one could be sure of the time period in which he had served. Most likely he was a Vietnam vet. He could have taken the easy road and opted for a standard burial, but this funeral director, with nothing to gain save the satisfaction of having done his civic duty, saw the need to honor one of our nations fallen heroes and arranged for a military funeral in a national cemetery. A graveside service was scheduled for the following morning at the Beaufort National Cemetery in Beaufort, South Carolina.

The weather was nice and my wife had the morning free, so we made a drive of it. It’s not far, but it gave us some good conversation time. We drove through the famous marshes of coastal Georgia, under huge live oaks covered with the beautiful Spanish moss that defines the view in this region. This is a heavy year for acorns, so we couldn’t avoid an occasional ping as our car came under assault by the trees. The sun was deceptively bright, masking the chill air outside the car. There was much to think about, and talk about. The bulk of our conversation rested on James. What can you say about a homeless man who died alone and was known by almost no one? The closer we got to the cemetery, the greater the struggle to think of something appropriate to say. There were sure to be mourners and family members and all manner of people present to bid their final farewell to a friend, husband, or father. And I had nothing to say to them. It was unfamiliar territory for this small time preacher and not a little intimidating.

We arrived at the cemetery a bit ahead of schedule and made our way to the appropriate graveside. The sun came through the large oak trees in small patches offering no escape from the crisp morning air. Once all the attendees arrived we had quite a crowd; me, my wife, and the funeral director. No friends, no family, no mourners, no co-workers or acquaintances; just the three of us standing in the shadows listening to the acorns rain down on the gravesites and headstones that surrounded us. Cemetery workers had interred James before we arrived and were just putting the final touches on the site. A little dirt here, a tamping there, even adjacent headstones were readjusted and straightened to ensure that the look and feel of a national cemetery was maintained. They worked quietly and with great reverence for the fallen, as though the President himself might just drop by to pay his respects. To those four workers, this was not just a burial. This was the burial of a veteran of the United States Military.

As we stood there waiting and watching with acorns dropping like a light rain, I couldn’t help looking around at some of the other headstones. Men and women representing just about every period of American history were there. The graves said things like, “Gone Fishing” and “Beloved Husband”, each wanting to be remembered for something special to them. The head stones were embossed with Christian crosses, Jewish stars, other religious symbols, or a simple name and date. And each represented a unique American with a unique history. Only one thing was common to all…they had served their country. Somewhere during those moments, I found what I was looking for.

This morning we buried a man who had died alone. There were no relatives in attendance, but there was family all around. In the end, James was surrounded by his military family. His family includes soldiers from the Union and the Confederacy, Medal of Honor recipients, Buffalo Soldiers, Sailors, Marines, Merchant Marines, Airmen, Soldiers, Officers, and Enlisted Men from all walks of life. Americans all.

His name was James and he was a veteran. Among the acorns and headstones, he lies with family.

Fade to Black

2005-11-08T14:04:00.000-05:00

I recently saw this poster from WWII of a paratrooper jumping into combat and slumping over just as he hit the ground. The caption on the poster reads, “CARELESS TALK ... got there first”. The implication is that what someone may have casually said cost that soldier his life.

We are a nation at war. Our enemy is both tenacious and intelligent. He will do whatever he can to defeat us and will exploit every possible bit of information to inflict damage on the US and our allies. Even the most seemingly innocuous comments can be used by the enemy to harm us or our interests. Operational Security continues to be an issue for our Armed Forces. Therefore, it is with a heavy heart that I must back away from the blogging community for an indefinite period, perhaps permanently. It would be easy to point a finger and blame someone or something but I won’t do that. It would also be easy to kick and scream about my rights or my desires, but that would be inappropriate. I love my soldiers and want to do what is best for them; even if it means not doing something that I love, like writing.

That said, thank you all for words of kindness and encouragement. I pray that I have been able to shed some light on the everyday events that our men and women overseas deal with. I pray that I have been able to offer insight into the struggles and triumphs that they experience. But mostly, I pray that I have been an asset to the Kingdom of Jesus Christ; an ambassador worthy of being used in the capacity to which He called me. I am grateful to have had this opportunity and hold no bitterness or angst at having to put my writing on hold. What I do, I do willingly out of respect for our leaders and love for our soldiers.

May God’s best be yours.

Training for Eternity

Chaplain (Captain) Brad P. Lewis

Fallen

2005-11-01T11:20:00.000-05:00

In my previous post I briefly mentioned a solider that was killed while attempting to help his wounded squad leader out of a house they were assaulting. Last night we conducted a memorial ceremony. That part of being a chaplain is very difficult and yet very fulfilling.

The death of a soldier can be both demoralizing and motivating to friends and warriors who survive an encounter with a deadly and determined enemy. Surviving soldiers often feel guilt and rage and want little more than revenge. It is an incredible honor to be able to speak to the comrades of the fallen and offer them hope and help them refocus on the mission at hand as opposed to the desire for vengeance. Last night I was afforded that honor.

The thing that makes the military memorial ceremony so memorable is when you see young men, warriors, with arms capable of lifting a small car and legs that could carry that car for several miles, weeping for the love of a lost friend. Such open displays of emotion and fraternal love are practically non-existent outside this context. These are real men with real hearts and real spirits who really mourn their real friends. But the tears are only half the story. The deliberate movements, the practiced words, the rock solid stare of a man at attention, are indicators, pointers if you will, to the deep respect and devotion these men have for one another.

As usual, the ceremony concludes with the playing of taps, the folding of the flag, and the silent dismissal of the troops in formation. As the men move out, back to their places of duty, back to the fighting, many will stop by the memorial stand, snap to attention, and render one final salute to their brother in arms. If you can watch that and not approach emotional meltdown, then you have no soul.

The Scars of War

2005-10-29T16:55:00.000-04:00

"The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war."
General Douglas MacArthur

Once in while I have the honor of meeting and speaking to a person who is in a different league. Today I met just such a person. I'll call him Sergeant K. He and I had a very interesting conversation. Actually I asked questions and he told stories. I say he is in a different league because he is what I wish I could be were I not a Chaplain. I would not change places with him for all the money in the world, but if life had pushed me in another direction, I would hope I had the kind of internal fortitude that I heard in his voice and saw in his eyes and felt in his hands.

Sergeant K probably tops out at 22 years old. He is short and muscular and has what might be called a baby face. We spoke for about 30 minutes and when we parted I felt as though I had met someone significant. He is a warrior and when I first encountered him, I liked him immediately.

As is the habit of most would be conversationalists, I approached Sergeant K and blithely asked, "How are you doing?" That was a pretty stupid question. You see, Sergeant K was lying on a hospital gurney, needles and tubes running in and out of his arms, with a bullet hole in one leg. He had been injured in a gun fight the prior evening and was being prepared for transport home. Having only a marginal understanding of the circumstances of his injury, and knowing that often soldiers appreciate the opportunity to decompress after a stressful situation, I asked him if he could remember what had happened. As he relayed his story, the innocence of his youth flowed intermixed with the maturity forced upon him by circumstance...and I was in awe.

On the night in question, Sergeant K and his squad were given the mission of getting a bad guy. They knew where he was and had a good idea of how to get him. They approached the house by darkness and began the assault. Sergeant K, being the veteran and leader of the squad went in first, clearing room after room. The bad guy was determined to fight back. As they entered one room, they met gunfire head on and Sergeant K was hit. They fought "for what seemed like forever". In reality the fight couldn't have lasted 20 seconds. Wounded and bleeding he directed his squad to withdraw so he could redirect a counter assault and tend to his leg. As they moved slowly back, a round caught the newest member of his squad, mortally wounding him.

As Sergeant K laid there on his back relating the story of how the building and bad guys in it were finally destroyed, tears wandered down his cheeks, slowly pooling in his ears. His days of mourning and wondering were just beginning. It was then that I was given the honor of praying with and for this wonderful young man. I prayed while he wept. We spoke a little longer and I left the hospital thankful for having had that conversation.

A couple more things bear comment that will help the reader understand the thinking and nobility of these great men. Less than a month ago, Sergeant K was in another fight in which he received shrapnel to the other leg. He now has two Purple Hearts pending. In spite of his wounds, he expressed a desire to be back with his men, engaged in the fight, supporting them and leading them. That desire and drive came from somewhere deep in his spirit; somewhere untouched by military training or conditioning; somewhere unavailable to man but open to God. Sergeant K's spiritual man played a huge role in his actions and attitudes and he displayed that unashamedly. As we talked it was impossible not to notice that in addition to the scars created by bullets and bombs, he bore a large tattoo on his left shoulder. It offered a window into the soul of the man and his understanding of why he does what he does. It read, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called Children of God."

The Politics of Greatness

2005-10-28T02:39:00.000-04:00

I'm not a political person. I vote in just about every election, I have opinions, I pay attention...But that's about it. I don't often talk about political matters (you know what they say about politics and religion) and I blog about them even less often. I accept at face value the fact that I was blessed to be born into a free country where people are allowed to hold and voice their support of or opposition to the practices and policies of the powers that be. But sometimes you just have to step out of your norm and venture into the world of punditry. And so it is that this particular post will probably lack any measure of eloquence or my normal "word-smithery" because of the angst I feel over the topic at hand.

Over the past few days there has been much in the news about the death toll in Iraq. Fox News, CNN, even AFN News are discussing and spinning the magic number 2000 to the point of nausea. Frankly, one is too many. But this is a war, after all. Blood will spill, lives will be lost, and families will mourn. It is the nature of what we do. The problem is that every news source that I have access to is focusing on our casualties. One of the results is that the American soldier is demoralized. Not because one or more of his buddies may have given their all, but because he feels like the American people do not really understand what he is doing and are therefore not truly behind him. There are two sides to every story, but the American people only seem to be getting half of it. A basic understanding of Operational Security (OPSEC) forbids me from divulging details of some of the things I've seen and heard. However, there are some things I can mention.

First, 99 out of 100 soldiers I have spoken with understand that we are involved in something substantial and meaningful over here. They are not the mind-numbed robots many make them out to be. They are well educated, highly trained, well equipped professional warriors who know their job and want to do it.

Second, the men we are fighting here are evil, blood-sucking vermin. They kill indiscriminately and without remorse. Their goal is power, and they seek to gain it even if it costs the lives and spirits of all their fellow countrymen.

Third, while we have lost 2000+ of our patriot sons and daughters, the number of terrorists who have assumed room temperature is estimated to be anywhere from 5 to 20 times that number (depending on who you talk to). We are taking the wood to the bad guys on a regular basis and in spectacular fashion. I never cease to be amazed at the warrior ethos that drives this great generation of American men and women or their willingness to fight and die for the freedom of people they will never meet.

And in the middle of the violence, blood, gore, and mayhem, the American fighting man stands as the paradigm of brotherly love, seeking the best for others. He kills when he must but never without cause. He fights to free others rather than to gain something for himself. He sacrifices daily to ensure that this country of sand and dust and people will not be subjected to this kind of lifestyle forever. He offers the Iraqi people a chance to taste the freedom he enjoys. And for what? So that those with a public voice can point a finger of blame and disgust while decrying his efforts and belittling his mission?

I'm not a political person. But my soldiers deserve to be heard and respected. They are a new generation of American and have earned the title "great".

When Worlds Collide

2005-10-26T09:50:00.000-04:00

Joe…Java…Black Gold…Liquid Joy…It has lots of names. I call it My Precious. Take your pick. For me, coffee is one of life’s great joys. I love it on a cold morning when it’s kind of drizzling outside, and the house is quiet. I love it on a hot Iraqi afternoon when you have to flitter from one shadow to the next not to suffer heat stroke. I just love coffee. A wonderful side benefit of the Elixir of Life is that it gives you a nice pick up when you want to really start your day.

Battle Dress Uniforms…Desert Camouflage Uniforms…Advanced Camouflage Uniforms…They have lots of names and lots of colors. The nice thing about Army clothing is that you never have to think about what you are going to wear on a given day. A wonderful side benefit of military clothes is that you don’t have to worry about whether or not they are entirely clean. After all, they are supposed to blend in with the dirt around them. That’s why they are so great.

Today started a little later than usual. I was up last night talking with a soldier a little later than usual so I slept a little longer today. This meant that as I rushed to make it to our daily Mission Oriented Prayer Huddle I was a bit groggy. Having thrown on the nearest pair of BDU’s, I stumbled into the operations area and grabbed that first fabulous cup of Heaven on Earth. I made my way to my desk to sit, sip, and wake up. And two worlds collided.

One misplaced bottom heavy styrofoam cup, coupled with one wayword elbow, and clothing and coffee became one in a single moment of searing pain bordering on nirvana. I quickly stood to my feet in a futile attempt to separate blazing burlap from sensitive skin. Suddenly, I remembered that I am a soldier surrounded by other soldiers and one cannot jump around screaming as though one’s lap were burning with the fury of a white hot sun. So I casually limped to the nearest paper towel to attempt to undo the process by which flesh and cloth are fused into one organic pair of multi-colored-earth-tone pants.

So my morning got off to an interesting start. And once the swelling and redness disappear, I think I’ll have a cup of Joe.

I-tensil Utensil

2005-10-24T09:51:00.000-04:00

I can't imagine that there is anyone over here that does not want to go home. It's very fulfilling to be a part of something so big and to play a role in the freeing of an entire nation. But it's like Dorothy said, "There's no place like home." They treat us pretty well here, but there are some things that just can't be replaced. As I sit down for meals and talk with soldiers about life, service, home, girls, boys, families, etc. everyone misses something. For one it coffee out of his favorite mug. For another it's the morning newspaper. One guy will miss the smell of his children or the taste of mom's lasagna. Everyone misses something. Everyone looks forward to getting back to that something. Everyone dreams of normalcy. That's where the sacrifice of these great people is most clearly seen. In the little things they willingly give up to live and work in a rat hole. And they don't complain or blame or whine. They just keep fighting and working and dreaming of going home. These are truly great people.

Like the next guy, I too, want to go home and hold my wife and my kids...to sip coffee from my own mug...to work in my yard. But having been deployed to several locations in a very short period I miss one thing more than any other. For me plastic is the problem. It's those silly plastic forks with the hollow tines where everything you eat gets jammed in there and it just feels funny in your mouth. I miss real silverware. Ah the feel of smooth aluminum or steel or tin or whatever they make silverware out of (maybe its silver). I'm no utensilogist, but I know a good fork when I see one. Knives and spoons are not an issue. Forks are what I miss. Like I said, I'm no different...just like the next guy...kinda.

You see, unlike the next guy, I have the perfect spouse. She knows me and loves me anyway. She's perfect. So, recently I was home just long enough to drive my kids to school a couple of times and kiss my bride. And just before taking off again for parts unknown, she bought me a fork! It's not a very fancy one, but it's perfect. Neither is it a girly fork. It has a nice big handle that’s a manly black and silver; it’s easy to hold onto with perfectly straight and smooth tines. I love my fork. So now when I go to eat breakfast or lunch or dinner or just an afternoon snack, I reach into my pocket and pull out my little friend...and we enjoy a meal together. There's no place like home, even when it's the size of a fork.

A True and Stirring Tale

2005-10-16T14:15:00.000-04:00

In order for the reader to get a genuine feel for the emotional tone I hope to create with this story, he or she would do well to find the nearest patriotic CD and let it play softly. If that's not possible, think of your favorite song of patriotism and begin to hum quietly to yourself as you read. I find a soulful rendition of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" to be especially emotive and appropriate. "Mine eyes have seen hmmm hmmm hmmmm hmmmm hmmmm coming of the Lord."

It is surely impossible for the casual reader to understand in a real way what it is like to be living in a war zone. Since this conflict began, our forces have done a splendid job of thwarting the plans of the enemy, all the while working to improve his lot in life. Where we once slept in tents, we now often sleep in plywood huts. Where we once walked everywhere, we now often are afforded the use of a car. Where we once ate Meals Ready to Eat (MRE's) from a plastic bag, we now have dining facilities that on occasion approximate real chow halls. And it is just outside one of these dens of culinary delight that a friend recently saw something that stirs the heart and ruffles the soul.

(Are you still humming?)

Just outside the kitchen entrance, where breakfast, lunch, and dinner go from chicken to nugget, was seen a stack of boxes bearing the warning, "Grade 'D' Meat - Prisoners and Military Only!"

Together...Nice and loud, "Over hill over dale la la la dee da dee la caissons go rolling along!"

Size Matters

2005-09-30T12:48:00.000-04:00

Today is an unusual day.  I try to be a person who unabashedly lets others into my world, allowing them to know the real me.  However, as most people of my gender, the level to which I reveal myself is usually somewhat guarded.  But, today is an unusual day.  Today I am going to lift my robe and reveal something about myself that may change the way people think of me but I can’t avoid it.  It must be done!  But first a little background.

People need people.  We are relational beings.  One of the main ways that need pans out among humanity is through the institution of marriage.  People get married all the time for a variety of reasons, all of which boil down to a desire for relationship.  I am no exception.  I need people.  And once upon a time, I met a person.  She was 12 years old at the time and over the course of the next several years we became friends.  Nearly a decade after meeting, she had morphed from a lanky, pimply, straight haired, knocked kneed little girl, to a downright hottie.  So, in my need for “relationship”, I up and married her.

The Global war on Terror has presented many challenges to our world, our nation and the men and women who currently find themselves away from friends, family, and home.  One of the larger challenges faced by today’s American soldier is the fact that many, like myself, are married.  As such, much work must be done to maintain the quality of those marriages in the face of extended separations over many important days.  Holidays, birthdays, graduations, and promotions are days regularly missed by our uniformed service members.   And in the realm of marriage, wedding anniversaries in recent days are being spent continents apart from one another.  Online chat has of necessity replaced pillow talk among soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines deployed in support of the war.  But these great men and women are resourceful, to say the least.  And the advent of the Internet has helped bridge the distance between separated husbands and wives on this, one of the most important days of the year.

Today marks the 17th anniversary of my marriage to my wonderful wife.  She is a simple woman who doesn’t require much and yet makes the most of everything she has.  She enjoys the decidedly feminine things in life and at the same time mows a mean lawn.  My brothers call her “a pioneer woman” because of her ability to take covered wagon surroundings and turn them into a livable and enjoyable environment for her family.  And we, like many others have spent our fair share of anniversaries apart from one another.  But I have discovered a way to ease the pain of separation while at the same time, causing me much emotional grief and making this such an unusual day.  So it is that with that background information in mind, I lift the veil and expose myself.

This year, in my efforts to do something nice for my wife, I went to the source of gifts for nearly all deployed service members…the internet.  Man, you can get anything and have it sent right to your house (in a beautifully gift wrapped package) as if you had gone to the local mall.  Well, my bride loves comfortable, workable pajamas.  She loves flannel and cotton and silk.  She loves long sleeves and long pants with pretty drawstrings.  You know, the kind of things that give guys hives.  But she likes em…a lot.  So this year, I struck gold.  I went to a well from which the waters of wedded bliss can be drawn with impunity.   I went to www.pajamagram.com.  This was the move of all moves.  They had exactly what I thought she would like.  Flannel and flowers, drawstrings and daisies.  I have ordered from them before and will again.  If you like raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, I’d encourage you to visit this wonderful company.  However, DO NOT try to surprise her.  This is the exposure I alluded to earlier as this is precisely what I tried to do.  I figured, “Hey, I’m millions of miles away.  I’ll find something I think she’ll like, take a guess at her size, and place my order.”  To the casual observer this may seem like a good plan.  However, if said casual observer is a guy, he is in trouble.  You see guys, women don’t wear small medium or large.  They maintain their power in the universe by wearing sizes designed to confound the average human male.  Sizes like 22.8GYT or Purple19S or XPR5Dog.  Didn’t the Packers use those last year?  So, I picked out a lovely pair of overly comfortable pajamas with a lovely bamboo pattern and clicked on the pull down tab to select her size.  Given that I didn’t have my Packers playbook with me, I had to guess.  As the law of averages dictated I guessed wrong.  I have no idea what the size was called but I knew I was excited for her to receive my very thoughtful gesture of love on this our 17th Anniversary.  When she received her beautifully gift wrapped package I called her from across the cosmos and begged her to open it even though it was several days before our day of glory.  I could hear the box opening and the paper tearing and the excitement in the air.  Then I heard the laughter.  She thanked me as best she could for her lovely new pajamas while chuckling under her breath.   Then the horror.  Her lovely new pajamas were of a particular size so that our whole family could wear simultaneously.

So today is an unusual day because I have the honor of celebrating my 17th wedding anniversary and because my wife is the proud owner of a brand new, bamboo patterned, silk tent.

The Fight

2005-09-16T14:53:00.000-04:00

I think few would argue with me when I say that the job of a chaplain is not necessarily a physical job. Oh, sure we have our occasional display of superhumanity such as when my heart continues beating even after running a few miles trying to keep up with the much younger and obviously better fit soldiers that surround me. But overall, I think, being a chaplain is not unlike being an armchair when it comes to actual motion in the performance of the job. But that’s not to say it is an easy job. The difficulty of being a military chaplain during war comes not from the exertion of muscle and sinew, but from an altogether different kind of exercise. One that is unique to the chaplain, I believe. One that I have not seen explicitly addressed before.

In order to gain a clear understanding of the world of a chaplain you must understand that the chaplain is more than just a pastor in a pickle suit. The chaplain differs from the civilian clergyman in that he wears two primary hats; that of the pastor and spiritual guide and that of the staff officer and advisor to the commander. These two functions work in tandem with each other, the one making the other possible in a military setting. As a staff officer, the chaplain is part of the mission planning process. He speaks with and advises the commander, prior to most missions, of the moral, ethical, and religious aspects of a given mission. As a spiritual leader, the chaplain reaches out to those men and women who will actually be conducting the planned missions to offer them a spiritual foundation upon which to build their actions during the mission.

One of the things I do, and enjoy very much, is to muster with the soldiers as they gather in preparation of an evening of fighting, patrolling, flying, etc. In a word, I see them off. However, this is not the “seeing off” of the movies. This is not the mother, with her hair in a bun and her ankle length dust covered skirt standing on the wrap around porch waving her hanky as her boys head off to war. I’m not there as an observer. I’m not there as a bystander. I’m there as a participant. Instead of a weapon and body armor, I carry a small bottle of oil. As my soldiers prepare for their mission, without interfering with their activities, I walk around and pray for them and with them. It is something spectacular to see an American Soldier, armed to the gills with pistols and rifles and all manner of explosive accoutrements, covered head to toe with Kevlar, and watch him bow to pray as I dab oil on his forehead and pray the protection and blessing of God on his life and his mission. Then to hear that same battle hardened warrior, in a voice shaky from anticipation, adrenaline, and appreciation say, “Amen” and “Thank you, chaplain.” I then move from vehicle to vehicle, aircraft to aircraft, weapon system to weapon system, and like a cammie clad prophet of old, pray for the success of the mission and the safe return of the soldiers. The sounds of clinking armors and snorting horses can be heard as the entire entourage loads up and moves out to the objective, by air, by land, by foot. If you’ve never seen bravado or courage, you’re missing something. I see it before every mission.

Then comes the difficult part of being a chaplain in war. As the sounds of marching armies fades into the distance, the night closes in like a body bag and I’m left with the struggle that few others will ever experience. It is a fight with me and my theology. It is an individual free-for-all of the heart and soul. Alone in the dark, I hope and pray that my part was sufficient. I pray my life was what it needed to be for my prayers to be heard so that my boys would come home safely. Will someone die tonight because I didn’t pray hard enough, or long enough, or sincere enough? Did I use the right words or make the right motions? What in my life might cost someone theirs? This is the battle for the chaplain’s heart. It is an almost nightly occurrence. And I believe it could crush Atlas himself.

It is here, in the middle of questions and questioning, under the weight of the burden of lives not my own, that out of the darkness comes a single simple idea straight from the Throne of Grace. I did my part, now relax and let God do His. I’m the chaplain not the Lord. And until they return, I monitor the radio and continue to pray believing that God can do incredible things in the lives and spirits of my soldiers.

So I may not have the most difficult job, but it is a struggle nonetheless. I may not fight with my men, but I certainly fight for them. And we will continue to fight, physically and spiritually, until the struggle is ended, the war is won, and we can return home to the smiles of our families or the judgment of our God.

Widows and Orphans

2005-08-27T08:49:00.001-04:00

Much has happened this summer that I have been unable to comment on due to operational security or personal reasons. June 28th marked the blackest day in my career as a chaplain thus far. You may remember that was the day a helicopter was shot down over Afghanistan killing 16. Seven of those were my soldiers. The fact is that often a chaplain is seen as irrelevant or unnecessary until a tragedy occurs, and then he becomes the most desired individual to have around. In the early days of July 2005 I found myself speaking to young widows, grieving parents, and children with no fathers. I chose not to write about this event as it unfolded out of deference to the families of the grieving, and for that same reason I will not go into great detail here. However, sufficient time having passed, I think, I wanted to get some things recorded for posterity, if you will.

June 29th was spent trying to keep the media at bay so that we would have time to inform the families properly about what had happened to their loved ones. We were not entirely successful as the news runs unchecked through events of the day while we were tied to a series of events that, of necessity, had to be conducted in order. So it was that the race to honor our fallen by treating their families with the respect they are due was hastened by a need to do things correctly and in order.

On the one hand I pray it is the last time I will ever have to do something like that. On the other hand, it was a privilege to be able to spend time crying and grieving with family members of all religious persuasions and praying that the peace of God would infuse their lives during that trying time (which continues to this day).

We are at war and people die. It is a sad reality. But I can say without hesitation that as the details of the actions of those lost that day come to my attention, I clearly understand that they willingly gave everything so that someday others would not have to do the same.

They lived to fight, and they fought to win.

Poultry Without Morals

2005-04-20T11:46:00.000-04:00

I do a little bit of browsing through other blogs, especially mil blogs. I enjoy reading about the experiences of other soldiers and how they differ from mine. To be sure the experience here is highly individual. However, there are some things that are the same for every soldier, everywhere, at just about every point in history. One could, if one were so inclined, put the wartime experiences of the average soldier on something of a continuum. It would range from that which is perfectly individual (such as the fit of the uniform) through the semi-individual / semi-corporate (such as the sound of gunfire at various times of the day and night) all the way through the entirely corporate (such as dust and heat). And on the corporate end of that spectrum would be something that every soldier experiences every day, if not multiple times a day. I am, of course, referring to chickens.

In my humble estimation, chickens are THE common denominator of daily life for the American soldier. Because different soldiers are on different schedules most chow halls offer not a mere three meals but an impressive four meals a day: breakfast, lunch, dinner, and the ever popular and name free midnight meal. And while each meal will offer a variety of foods from which to choose, such as veal, green beans, milk, burritos, etc. Without exception something in the meal cornucopia is made of chicken.

It is staggering, when you think about it, the number of ways the average chicken can be prepared, modified, recycled and reused. It can be fried, broiled, basted, roasted, and barbecued. Truly unique among the ingredients of the world. And as everyone knows, anything that is either unidentifiable or heinously unpalatable is usually said to taste like the wonder food, chicken. It would take volumes to adequately explain the creativity with which the food service personnel manipulate this culinary delight. And as I think back on my many months overseas in support of the war effort, I believe I can say with very little uncertainty that the US Army euthanizes and consumes at least one hundred billion chickens a day.

While I normally try to include in my entries some point, reason or moral, today I have none. Today's entry is little more than an ode for the food of the masses...our friend, the chicken. That said, it's dinner time and today I'm in the mood for a big, succulent piece of meatloaf.

The Power of a Pear

2005-04-13T01:20:00.000-04:00

It's only 9:20am but it's been a pretty good day so far, if for no other reason than that it was different. There is a bazaar just off post where local craftsmen and businessmen come to sell their wares. It is a good source of revenue for the locals, which works to our advantage. See, if there is any kind of attack against coalition forces during the week, the bazaar is cancelled that week and the local economy takes a hit. The locals are then pressured to cough up whoever was responsible for the attack so as to kick start the income producing wares sell-off. That may sound kind of harsh but it keeps coalition forces from being harassed or hurt, keeps the bad guys at bay, and offers local tradesmen a source of income.

The bazaar offers everything from local clothing, to pseudo antique stuff, to bootleg DVDs. It is a great place to buy souvenirs for folks back home or find a keepsake from the war. It was fun because if you even said "hello" to the sales guys they would point to something they thought you were looking at and say, "You're my friend. How much for that?" The game was to lowball the seller and see how far down he would come on his price. I wanted to find a teacup for my wife to add to her small collection. I thought it would make an interesting addition. But there were none to be found. The only thing I found was a small holy-grail-looking chalice made out of stone. Rather old looking but who knows. They guy said it was 2000 years old and cost $75. I chuckled and offered him $5. He chuckled back and said $75. He was the only guy who wouldn't budge on his prices. Most of his stuff looked like real antiques but you can never tell. Plus, he had unique stuff whereas most of the other guys were selling multiple copies of the same item.

I bought my boys some shepherd hats and a small walnut jewelry box for my daughter. I also found a small shield like you might see in a movie about the middle ages. The guy wanted $80 for it and I told him $20. He said no so I walked away but stayed in the area knowing he would make a counter offer. He did. $60! I said I could pay $20. OK, then $45 but no lower. How about $20, I countered. Final offer, $25. I'll pay $20, no more. As we stood there not budging, I pulled a pear out of my pocket that I had left over from lunch and began to polish it on my sleeve. That did the trick and he flinched. "OK, I'll take $20 and the pear".

I'm sure some of my readers may be thinking how cruel I was to lowball this poor man. Here I will interject that in fact the shield in question wasn't worth $15 and certainly not worth my pear.

The Global War Against Groundhog Day

2005-04-05T14:42:00.000-04:00

It could be called several very appropriate names. The most popular of which is unquestionably, "The Global War On Terrorism" or GWOT. It's a good name. After all, we are here to fight terror. Peace loving people from many nations are dead because of terror. And the goal is to defeat the scourge of terror around the world. It's a good name and a good goal.

It could also be called "Groundhog Day". Each day is a near carbon copy of the day before. In fact, it can be outright boring. Sure there are the occasional heart-stopping experiences that seem to come out of nowhere, but the mundane, everyday stuff is nothing to write home about.

We are sleeping in 8 man "B-Huts" that are not unlike your grandfathers tool shed, except without the tools or the accompanying yard. Plywood and bunk beds round out the decor. Privacy is the rarest of commodities. However, when you exit your living quarters, the drabness of plain plywood gives way to a sight right out of a movie, if that movie were titled, "The Day The Earth Turned Brown". Man is it brown. The dirt is something of a light mocha color, like the perfect cup of rich, dark coffee destroyed by a touch of milk. And to ensure that depth perception is next to impossible, the Department of Defense Hue Equivalence Team has developed an exterior paint that perfectly matches the dirt. It is the most impressive display of chemistry in action that I think I've ever witnessed.

In stark contrast to the extreme brownness of the world outside is the little dabs of color and life God puts on display. This morning, as I languished in my 8-man den of public non-privacy, I happened upon the smell of coffee. One of the guys in my room had brewed a fresh pot of coffee and man did it smell good. Side note here, the coffee was actually Starbucks that was donated to the American Red Cross and handed out to the troops. Wow, was that a nice smell to wake to. So I got up, grabbed a cup and headed out the door to enjoy the morning air and the fresh coffee. It was relatively quiet and there was a light rain coming down. Not the soggy type, but the kind that makes everything smell damp. It was actually quite lovely. Some things, like the smell of morning, are the same around the world (except in Korea of course). Just beyond the front door of our B-hut is a wall made out of Hesco Barriers which are essentially 6 x 6 x 6 foot sand bags. So we have what amounts to a large, 12 foot wall of very brown paint-colored dirt just outside. As we sat and talked and enjoyed that beautiful cup of Joe, I noticed something. There atop the brown wall, silhouetted in a dusty brown sky was a single, scarlet flower. It stood out like a lit match in a dark closet (not that I ever lit any matches in the closet, mind you. It's just a metaphor...or simile...or metaphor). The thing is that one flower had the potential to become a whole acre of flowers, given the right growing conditions.

Here is where reality punched me right in the face. We are fighting a fight against an enemy that is all around us but so blended in that you can't see him. But despite the violence and hatred, a seed of freedom has been planted and watered by the scarlet blood of combatants and non-combatants alike. And given the right conditions it will eventually become a huge field of color where only drab brown reigned before.

When that happens, look out, 'cause a whole bunch of tired GI's are coming home.

Self-Inflated Travel

2005-04-01T08:27:00.000-05:00

This trip began much the same way my previous deployment did (as recounted in "The 50,000 Foot Nap of Death". After rising early in anticipation of freezing my tail off for several hours on end, my wife and I hurried to prep the kids for another day of school. After dropping them off we stopped for breakfast at a local greasy spoon and then she drove me to the air field. I hate saying goodbye but even more, I hate saying goodbye over time. So I checked in, walked her back to the car, and sent her off with one more kiss.

The first leg of our journey was again on a C-17 which took off right on schedule. As we sat and waited to depart, I glanced around the plane, which is really little more than a flying tube. It was loaded to the gills with all manner of equipment, ranging from large vehicles to small people. A vehicle near me had a warning sticker on it that read, "No Smoking Within 40 Feet From The Vehicle". I couldn't say what was wrong with it but I knew an English major had not composed that sentence. I figured that would not be a good time to take up smoking as I was well within 40 feet from the vehicle.

If you have ever graced the tubular interior of a properly functioning C-17 with your presence, then you would know that the sound is not unlike the sound of an industrial strength shop vac running at full bore inside an echo chamber. So, to ensure that passengers and crew exit the aircraft with the ability to hear a normal human voice, we were issued ear plugs. These are wonderful little devices. They are small bullet-shaped chunks of foam that can be rolled up like a playdough snake and inserted into the ear canal where they expand. This serves two major functions. The first is that they protect the hearing of the wearer by basically forming a sound barrier inside the ear. The second function they serve is to cause such pain that the wearer is forced to make a judgment call as to whether it is worse to loose his hearing altogether or be subjected to a lifetime of aural bruising. I like to think of myself as a practical man, but I'm not sure I did the right thing, judging from the lack of hearing in my left ear and the excruciating pain in my right.

Once at altitude, we were allowed to find a comfortable spot on the floor and try to catch a few hours of sleep. I happened upon a cozy portion of flight deck right next to the non-smoking vehicle and something that looked like a big box on wheels. The first thing I did was to reach for one of the greatest pieces of equipment ever devised...the self-inflating sleeping pad. I think the idea is that this pad, when released from the confines of whatever is containing it, will slowly inflate and offer a comfortable surface upon which to repose. So, I released my self-inflating sleeping pad to do it's magic and after a few moments of sleeping bag preparation and combat boot removal, I curled up on said self-inflating sleeping pad with no small measure of anticipation, only to find that it's self-inflating feature seems to work best when manually-inflated by mouth. Thus, I began to assist the self-inflation process until my cozy little pad resembled a thin, nylon hunk of three quarter inch plywood. Finally, with my manually-inflated-self-inflating pad ready to go, I climbed aboard in search of my friend, Sleep. Sadly, he was nowhere to be found! Besides the sensation of thumb screws jammed in my ears, my sleeping pad did not appear to be doing it's job. In order for the reader to understand why this is so, it is important to know that I weigh approximately 150 pounds when wrapped in a soaking wet yak fleece. Therefore, I have many pointy parts, including my hips and my shoulders (both principle sleeping equipment). Thus, in order for me to experience pressure pointless sleep, that upon which I seek softness must, by definition, be at least 13 inches thick. You, the reader, can approximate my experience by doing the following: First, get a large plastic garbage bag and lay it flat on a concrete surface (this will serve as your manually-inflated-self-inflating sleeping pad on the metal floor of your standard C-17). Next, find two large marbles. Laying on your side (as though feigning sleep) slip one marble under your shoulder and the other under your hip. Isn't that comfy? It doesn't end there.

As I mentioned, I had taken up some prime real estate between the non-smoking vehicle and a large-wheeled box. As I looked at this box I could not figure out what it was for. However, once I snuggled up to it for about 2 seconds, it became very clear that this thing's sole purpose was to smell like diesel fuel. And I must say it did it's job very well. The result was twofold. As the plane continued to climb, I flew even higher, reaching a place of euphoria rarely experienced by mortals. It also produced one of the most intense, brain wrenching headaches I've ever known. Fortunately for all, the smelly box car was not a smoker either as it too was within 40 feet from the other vehicle.

All that said, God bless our medics for providing Ambien(r)!

The final show stopper came as we approached the end of our first leg of travel. As I awoke from my drug induced, gasoline assisted, manually-inflated-self-inflating slumber, my eye happened upon one of my soldiers sleeping soundly in the arms of his teddy bear!

A Soldier's Fight

2005-03-29T11:02:00.000-05:00

Some days I love being a chaplain. Others, not so much. And sometimes, the worst days are the days of greatest ministry opportunities and ultimately the greatest fulfillment. A few months back I was involved in a horrible event in Iraq that I wrote about and from which I received a lot of great feedback. That was a horrible, yet fulfilling day as a minister. But the fact of the matter is that it was a singular event at a particular moment in history. Last week I experienced exactly the opposite...the inevitable end of a long war highlighted by many battles.

I don't think anyone really wants to die. Nevertheless, it is a matter of fact that we all will. If you were to ask any soldier, sailor, airman, or marine about death, most would probably talk about dieing "gloriously on the field of battle". If you gotta go, that's the place to do it, they might say. But sometimes they don't have that choice. About 6 months ago one of the soldiers in my unit, Mr. Turns, after 26 years of military service, decided to retire. As a part of that process he underwent a physical exam, during which it was discovered that he had colon cancer. Instead of retiring and spending the rest of his life enjoying time with his family, he was given 6 to 12 months to live. Being a soldier, he determined to fight. And for the next 6 months, he did just that. He took all kinds of pills, endured innumerable shots, received radiation therapy, and who knows what else. While his body began to shrink from the cancer and the treatments, he continued to fight. Over the months from then till now, I spent time with him in his home and in his hospital room discussing everything from the weather to eternity. And throughout it all, with the cancer spreading all over his body, he complained very little, and continued to fight, determined to win, with a smile on his face. He was amazing.

Cancer, it seems, can spread beyond the confines of the human body. It infected his wife. She, too, fought while the cancer unavoidably ate away her heart and soul as her husband suffered. Their daughter, in her first semester of college, suffered academically as she struggled with her fathers illness. Their son worked feverishly to complete everything necessary to become an Eagle Scout and make his father proud. And again, despite the circumstances, the family pressed on like the military family they are.

Last week the struggle ended. Mr Turns passed away at his home, in his wife's arms. He is survived by his wife of 20 years, his teenage daughter, beginning her second semester of college, and his teenage son, who became an Eagle Scout the day after his father's funeral. He is also survived by the hundreds of soldiers with whom he worked and played, in war and in peace.

While he didn't die on the field of battle, he did die fighting.

PostScript
With the permission of Mrs. Turns I am including the address below in the event anyone would like to help her with her children's education. Donations can be sent to:

Turns Children College Fund
(Lynette Turns)
c/o Savannah Mall Bank of America
14083 Abercorn St.
Savannah, GA 31419

Thank You

Apropos

2005-03-02T10:06:00.001-05:00

I normally try to write my own stuff and shy away from hanging my hat on the peg of others work, but I came across this poem today by the worlds greatest poet, Edgar A. Guest. Originally published in 1918, near the end or just after WWI, it struck me as rather relevant in 2005.

To the Men at Home
by Edgar A Guest

No war is won by cannon fire alone;
The soldier bears the grim and dreary role;
He dies to serve the Flag that he has known;
His duty is to gain the distant goal.
But if the toiler in his homeland fair
Falter in faith and shrink from every test,
If he be not on duty ever there,
Lost to the cause is every soldier's best.

The men at home, the toiler in the shop,
The keen-eyed watcher of the spinning drill
Hear no command to vault the trench's top;
They know not what it is to die or kill,
And yet they must be brave and constant, too.
Upon them lies their precious country's fate;
They also serve the Flag as soldiers do,
'Tis theirs to make a nation's army great.

You hold your country's honor in your care.
Her glory you shall help to make or mar;
For they, who now her uniforms must wear
Can be no braver soldiers than you are.
From day to day, in big and little deeds,
At bench or lathe or desk or stretch of soil,
You are the man your country sorely needs!
Will you not give to her your finest toil?

No war is won by cannon fire alone.
The men at home must also share the fight.
By what they are, a nation's strength is shown,
The army but reflects their love of right.
Will you not help to hold our battle line,
Will you not give the fullest of your powers
In sacrifice and service that is fine
That victory shall speedily be ours?

Homecoming

2005-01-02T02:24:00.000-05:00

In situations like this one never knows whether to embrace the inevitable elation or the inescapable guilt. The past 48 hours have been some of the longest of my life as I am now back on American soil. The return trip was little more than the reverse of my trip to the middle east. And while it was uneventful outwardly, it was tumultuous inwardly.

One of the things causing the tumult is my wife and kids. I cannot explain the excitement and impatience one feels when returning from a place like the one I just left. It seemed the flight would never end. I planned and played out in my minds eye the reunion that would take place when we landed. While I was in Korea for a much longer period of time, the anticipation of this reunion was much greater, I think, because of the magnitude of the events I've just come through. There is an appreciation for my family that far exceeds anything I've known heretofore. On the short drive from the airport into town, I called my wife and told her where we were. Here was the first indication that all my planning and visions of the grand reunion were thrown into the garbage pile. I had anticipated coming home just after school let out and seeing my wife and kids waiting in the parking lot. However, as we approached home, it was about 4:30 in the morning and my phone call woke my wife. Since our kids are old enough she left them in bed and quickly drove over to pick me up. Just seeing her standing there was incredible. She could have been covered in seaweed and she still would have looked fabulous at that point. But she wasn't. She was all gussied up...hair done, a bit of make up, brushed teeth, pressed clothes, looking as beautiful as anyone I've ever seen. She was the only wife there, while the other guys had empty vehicles waiting for them. I think I'm the luckiest man in the world.

When we got home, my dogs, Deacon and Scout, not recognizing me, bristled up and barked for a few seconds. Once they figured out who this guy was coming home with their matriarch, the tail wagging began in ernest and I got a severe doggy greeting. The kids were still asleep so we sat down at the kitchen table (my very own table with my very own chair) and talked for a bit. I think my wife even made me some coffee (fresh and perfect out of my very own coffee pot). When the time was right, I snuck upstairs and woke my kids one by one. Their responses were fabulous. One half whispered, half yelled, "Dad!" and I got a wonderful hug. Another peeked up at me , smiled and said, "Hey Dad" and I got another wonderful hug. Still another just said, "Daddy" and then a wonderful hug. The last one I woke up didn't say a word. He just sat straight up, threw his arms around my neck and squeezed for what seemed an hour. I could have stayed there all day if he wanted to. After getting them ready we took them to school and then went out for breakfast and talked some more. And at last, we went home and I crawled into my very own bed with my very own pillow and slept like a baby.

The flip side of the reunion coin is the clear understanding that while I was enjoying my family and the comforts of home again, there were and are still soldiers downrange facing the same dangers I just got away from. Herein lies the guilt. Despite my joy at being back home, I want so much to be with my soldiers, praying with them, encouraging them, laughing and crying and bleeding with them. I can't wait until they get to come home.

I guess you can't avoid either the inevitable elation or the inescapable guilt, and I wouldn't want to. Instead, I rejoice in my time at home and I pray for my soldiers downrange. Anything else would be inexcusable.

Field Expedient Ministry

2004-12-30T10:34:00.000-05:00

Some things are worth remembering simply for the sake of how awful they were. I learned yesterday, in a very tangible way, that being a chaplain does not make one impervious to danger.

There are some chaplains that serve as an example of what not to do and other chaplains who serve as a paradigm of what I'm certain a good chaplain should be like. The former are few but glaring while the latter are even fewer and even more glaring. My friend, "Jay" is the latter.

When I grow up, I want to be a chaplain like Jay. He knows every soldier in his unit by name. Scripture is always on his lips and always appropriate to what soldiers are going through. He brings comfort where it's needed and a swift kick in the pants where it's needed. He plays the guitar and has a big picture of his family on the wall of his office, even in the desert. He has the respect of every member of his battalion from the commander to the private. He knows his lane and stays in it, and others come to him for help, advise, friendship, or to just grab a guitar and jam. I want to be a chaplain like my friend Jay.

Tonight I went to bed a bit early and grabbed a book to read. It was comfortable in my little hooch and for a moment or two I escaped my immediate situation. Before long someone knocked on my door and said I was needed in the TOC. When I arrived, our Medic said there had been a plane crash and the injured were being brought to the hospital. We jumped in his vehicle and zipped down the street. On the way there said something like, "I know you're good friends with Jay so I thought you would want to see him."

To that point, I didn't know Jay was involved. My heart sank. The medic said they didn't expect him to make it through the night. I've seen a lot of carnage here, but never a friend and fellow Chaplain. I began to feel ill at the prospect of seeing him. When I arrived in the ER the medic pointed to a man laying on a gurney and said that was him. He was being tended by several nurses and doctors and was awaiting transportation out.

I approached him and thought, "Wow, that looks nothing like Jay". His face was swollen and bruised. Tubes were coming out his mouth and nose. A nearby ventilator kept him breathing. The medic explained to me that he was on some kind of medication that paralyzed everything so he needed the ventilator to keep him alive. For the second time in as many weeks, I felt entirely helpless. All I could do in that situation is pray.

I am from a school of belief that takes Saint James literally when he writes, "Is any one of you sick? He should call the elders of the church to pray over him and anoint him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise him up." With that in mind and being were I am, I usually keep a small vial of oil with me for just this kind of situation. Wouldn't you know it, I left it in my room. I began to look around the ER to find a substitute. My medic asked what I was looking for. Medics are know for their battle field improvisations to mend broken bodies so I said in a joking sort of voice, "Behold, battlefield ministry!" and grabbed a tube of the only thing I could find to anoint my friend with, surgical jelly. I squeezed a small amount onto my fingers and drew a cross on his swollen and purple forehead with it as I prayed for his recovery, his battalion, and his family. Soon thereafter, a helicopter arrived and he was taken away.

Jay's assistant was also injured quite badly and was in intensive care. I went in to pray with him also. He would be spending the night, as would one of the load masters on the aircraft. This morning I returned to the CSH to visit both. The load master had a broken elbow and told me that he had seen the pilots pull Jay out of the burning plane.

In the end, Jay and everyone elso on board that plane will be alright. He is on his way to Walter Reed Medical Center where he will see his wife and kids again and begin the long road to recovery.

I'm ready to go home.

Rooting out the Non-Essentials

2004-12-27T14:38:00.000-05:00

They are officially called, "Non-Essential Personnel". That is, anytime the Army must deploy these people don't necessarily NEED to be invited. How they got to be "Non-Essential Personnel" in the first place is a complete mystery, although I have a theory. I theorize that once upon a time there was a guy who lived comfortably in his ivory tower, looked down upon the general populace and, thrusting his very long, very bony index finger downward, declared, "those guys aren't necessary! Don't invite them" And the events of today prove beyond all doubt, at least to me, that they are not persona non grata. I'd say they are a grata as anyone. "They" are dentists.

In my post dated October 21, 2003, I wrote about my need for emergency dental work and the lessons I had learned about why one shold not wait to have such problems treated. Note to self: Listen to self! I apparently did not learn a thing.

About 2 weeks ago, while enjoying a wonderful Iraqi afternoon, I perchance took a swig of nice cold water. Immediately I thought to myself, "Perchance my face is gonna explode!" Unsure of the cause, but certain it was a tooth that had gone to the dark side, I did what anyone who had been in this siuation once before would do...I took motrin. Lots and lots of motrin. That seemed to work for awhile.

As the days passed, the level of discomfort grew until it dawned on me that I hadn't slept in 48 hours because of the pain. So last night, right around 2 am, I headed to the doc's room. He felt so much sympathy for my plight that he laughed and asked what took me so long to tell him. He gave me a rather high powered pain killer called Tylox and sent me home with instructions to go see the dentist in the morning. I took my medicine and proceeded to writhe in agony for the rest of the night.

After painfully staring at the darkness until it ceased to be dark I dressed and headed to sick call. Until the night before, I didn't even know we had dentists here. I figured I was going to have to wait to get home and just kind of endure. I am thankful I was wrong. Upon arrival and initial assessment by the "Non-Essential Personnel" at the dentist office, I was x-ray'd and given a chair. Being entirely tired, I nearly fell asleep within moments.

The dentist (I wish I had his name because he deserves a medal) began to drill and poke and pull and jab all the while using words like "lingual" and "mezial" and "no wonder that hurt so much, you should see this!" When all was said and done he had performed what is lovingly called a "pulpectomy" which turns out to be something of a modified root canal. I was totally intimidated by the title but it was almost an entirely pain free procedure. That dentist is a god amongst men as far as I'm concerned.

So now my pulp has been ectomied and I am looking forward to a solid night's rest. All thanks to the most essential "Non-Essential" on the battlefield.

Front Line Family

2004-12-25T10:01:00.000-05:00

Compared to recent days, today was fairly uneventful. A steady, cold drizzle ensured that this was quite possibly the muddiest and least comfortable Christmas I've ever experienced. For all appearances, it was not very noteworthy. But appearances can be deceiving.

From Bastogne to Baghdad, Christmas and war have always seemed to travel hand in hand. Soldiers from most generations have endured Christmas in the face of battle. And in the past 36 hours I have learned two very important lessons about Christmas, the nature of war, and the spirit of the American Warrior.

Lesson Number One ... war is unrelenting. Despite the fact that today is a national holiday and a time normally spent relaxing, opening presents, and watching or playing football, the fighting didn't stop. Throughout the day the drone of war could be heard in just about every direction. Whether it was an aircraft of some sort zipping overhead, the rapid ping of nearby gunfire, or the thump of a distant explosion, it didn't stop. War continues at a breakneck pace. Even in moments of relative silence it hung in the air. There is no escaping the fact that we are in harms way. Some more than others.

Lesson Number Two ... Christmas is unrelenting. Last night we held a Christmas Eve service in celebration of the birth of Jesus. In that service, I came to realize that the American soldier is indeed a unique and awesome individual. Despite the roar of mortars in the background, smiling faces sang, Silent Night. Despite the complete lack of greenery for miles, men of all ranks shook hands and sang, Deck the Halls. And despite being away from friends and family, our battle-hardened brothers joyfully sang, We Wish You a Merry Christmas. Men who look like they'd just as soon break you in half as speak to you, smiled at one another and hugged one another as wishes of "Merry Christmas" echoed throughout our little chapel. After the service we gathered in a small trailer converted into something of a theatre to watch a Christmas movie or two and laugh together. Believe it or not, gifts were exchanged via Secret Santa's and we laughed as men hollered, "Thanks, it's just what I always wanted!" upon unwrapping a bar of deodorant, or a ball cap, or whatever else could be found at the Post Exchange. Today has been no different. With each soldier I passed a hand was quickly extended in greeting as "Merry Christmas" hit me like a freight train. I think I've been patted on the back one million times today.

It would be easy for today, Christmas, and the circumstances we find ourselves in to be an excuse to foster self-pity or to retreat into a shell of depression. However, our soldiers don't work that way. I am at a loss to express, today, my pride at being an American and my love for my brothers-at-arms. Because while I do not have my wife and children with me, I am nevertheless with family.

Merry Christmas

MASCAL

2004-12-21T10:25:00.000-05:00

By the time I got back to our compound it was all over the news. It seemed like the thing had just happened when in reality I had been neck deep in it for several hours. And there it was on TV. Frankly, it's kind of a blur.

The day began early as I didn't sleep very well last night. Once I was awake I decided not to just lay there and stare at the darkness so I got up, got dressed, shaved and headed into the TOC, the heart of what goes on. In the TOC (Tactical Operations Center) they monitor several different radio nets to keep abreast of what is happening in the area. It's the place to be if you want up to the minute information. When I arrived it was fairly calm. I made small talk with the guys there and sipped that first cup of morning coffee. The day was clear and there was very little going on, or so it seemed. A very short while later we received the initial reports. In this area there are several "camps" or "posts" that house the various combat and support units that do the day to day fighting and working around here. The first report said that a mortar had just hit one of the nearby chow halls during the middle of lunch (I'm on GMT so my morning is actually the middle of the day). It's called a MASCAL or Mass Casualty event and it's where the rubber meets the road in military ministry. They said there were approximately 10 casualties. That was the extent of it so I kind of filed it away in the back of my mind and continued to sip my coffee. The next report wasn't so good. 10 dead and approximately 50 wounded. They were being transported to the Combat Surgical Hospital down the street. The Chaplain at the CSH is a good guy and I knew he'd be in need of help so I woke my assistant, SGT Crawford, and we rushed to the hospital. I didn't expect what I saw.

The scene was little more than controlled chaos. Helicopters landing, people shouting, wounded screaming, bodies everywhere. As the staff began to triage the dead and wounded I found the chaplain and offered my assistance. He directed me to where he needed me and I dove in. I would be hard pressed to write about every person I had the opportunity to pray with today but I will try to relate a few.

I found "Betty" on a stretcher being tended by nurses. I introduced myself and held her hand. She looked up at me and said, "Chaplain, am I going to be alright?" I said that she was despite the fact that I could see she had a long road to recovery ahead of her. Most of her hair had been singed off. Her face was burnt fairly badly, although it didn't look like the kind of burns that will scar. What I do know is that it was painful enough to hurt just by being in the sun. I prayed with Betty and moved on.

"Ilena" had been hit by a piece of shrapnel just above her left breast causing a classic sucking chest wound. The doctors said she had a hemothorax (I think that's what they called it) which basically meant her left lung was filling with blood and she was having a very hard time breathing. For the next 20 minutes I held her hand while a doctor made an incision in her left side, inserted most of his hand and some kind of medical instrument and then a tube to alleviate the pressure caused by the pooling blood. It was probably the most medieval procedure I have ever been privy to. In the end she was taken to ICU and will be OK.

"Mark" was put on a stretcher and laid along a wall. A small monitor on his hand would tell the nurses when he was dead. Even a cursory glance said it was inevitable. Mark had a head wound that left brain matter caked in his ear and all over the stretcher he was lying on. I knelt next to Mark and placed a hand on his chest. His heart was barely beating, but it was beating, so I put my face close to his ear to pray with him. If you've never smelled human brain matter it is something unforgettable. I had something of an internal struggle. He's practically dead so why stay? He probably can't hear anything! A prayer at that point seemed of little value. But I couldn't risk it. I prayed for Mark and led him in the sinners prayer as best I could. There are few things in this life that will make you feel more helpless. After that, I needed some fresh air.

I stepped outside and found the situation to be only slightly less chaotic. The number of body bags had grown considerably since I first went inside. I saw a fellow chaplain who was obviously in need of care himself. I stopped him and put my arm around him and asked how he was doing. A rhetorical question if ever I asked one. He just shook his head so I pulled him in close and prayed for his strength, endurance, a thick skin, and a soft heart. Then I just stood and breathed for a few minutes.

Regardless of what some may say, these are not stupid people. Any attack with casualties will naturally mean that eventually a very large number of care givers will be concentrated in one location. They took full advantage of that. In the middle of the mayhem the first mortar round hit about 100 to 200 meters away. Everyone started shouting to get the wounded into the hospital which is solid concrete and much safer than being in the open. Soon, the next mortar hit quite a bit closer than the first as they "walked" their rounds toward their intended target...us. Everyone began to rush toward the building. I stood at the door shoving as many people inside as I could. Just before heading in myself, the last one hit directly on top of the hospital. I was standing next to the building so was shielded from any flying shrapnel. In fact, the building, being built as a bunker took the hit with little effect. However, I couldn't have been more than 10 to 15 meters from the point of impact and brother did I feel the shock. That'll wake you up! I rushed inside to find doctors and nurses draped over patients, others on the floor or under something. I ducked low and quickly moved as far inside as I could.

After a few tense moments people began to move around again and the business of patching bodies and healing minds continued in earnest. As I stood talking with some other chaplain, an officer approached and not seeing us, yelled, "Is there a chaplain around here?" I turned and asked what I could do. He spoke to us and said that another patient had just been moved to the "expectant" list and would one of us come pray for him. I walked in and found him lying on the bed with a tube in his throat, and no signs of consciousness. There were two nurses tending to him in his final moments. One had a clipboard so I assumed she'd have the information I wanted. I turned to her and asked if she knew his name. Without hesitation the other nurse, with no papers, blurted out his first, middle, and last name. She had obviously taken this one personally. I'll call him "Wayne". I placed my hand on his head and lightly stroked his dark hair. Immediately my mind went to my Grandpa's funeral when I touched his soft grey hair for the last time. And for the second time in as many hours I prayed wondering if it would do any good, but knowing that God is faithful and can do more than I even imagine. When I finished I looked up at the nurse who had known his name. She looked composed but struggling to stay so. I asked, "Are you OK?" and she broke down. I put my arm around her to comfort and encourage her. She said, "I was fine until you asked!" Then she explained that this was the third patient to die on her that day.

"Rachel" was sitting in a chair with no injuries. She was worried about two friends that had been moved to other hospitals in country. So we prayed.

"John", a First Sergeant, asked me, "How does my face look?" knowing he had been badly burned and would probably have some scaring. He was covered in blood, pus, and charred skin so I said, "First Sergeant, you look better than some people I know back home." He laughed and we prayed.

One of the many American civilian workers had been hit in the groin. He was happy to be alive and even happier to be keeping, "all my equipment." It was a light moment in a very heavy day.

As SGT Crawford and I walked away at the end of the day I saw another chaplain and a soldier standing among the silent rows of black body bags. The soldier wanted to see his friend one more time. We slowly and as respectfully as possible unzipped the bag to reveal the face of a very young Private First Class. His friend stared for a few seconds then turned away and began to cry.

The last count was 22 dead, and around 45 wounded. Nevertheless, our cause is just and God is in control even when the manure is a yard deep. I'm where God wants me and wouldn't change that for anything, even if it means death. After all, "to die is gain".

Post Script: all patient names are fictitious.

An Open Letter

2004-12-16T12:45:00.000-05:00

To My Dearest Wife,

Once again we find that by force of occasion and occupation I am separated from you. War is, indeed, an ugly business. However, the death, bloodshed, and emotional turmoil that it generates are but a small part of it’s ugliness. It’s most grotesque face can be seen in the soldiers I almost daily speak with who are suffering the ravages of war in their homes and marriages. And as I speak with each, I cannot help but thank God for you, my very heart.

My desire, above all, is that you would know of my deepest admiration and gratitude for the sacrifices you make each day to the cause for which so many have given so much. Would that all of my soldiers had such a rock to rest upon, such a place of solace, as that which I find in one word from your lips. I can’t help but believe that their hearts would be bolstered, their spirits lifted, their minds put at ease if only they could know the love of a woman as I find in you. I consider myself the most fortunate of men and am compelled to tender to you my sincerest and life long love.

My love, thank you for being such a wonderful mother to our children, thank you for the smile forever found on your beautiful face, thank you for your willingness to follow my calling, thank you for being my bride. I am all the better a man for having you as my perfect companion.

Please kiss the children for me and ensure they know of my pride in each of them, as well as my heartfelt love for their mother. I long to see you again, and anticipate doing so very soon. Until that wonderful moment when my lips taste of the nectar of your kisses, always remember,

My Heart Is For You.

Brad

On A Dime

2004-12-09T14:23:00.000-05:00

It is becoming clearer every day that events here can turn on a dime.

One moment everything is quiet and still, the next there is a huge burst of M-2 (.50 cal) gun fire and several small explosions and then, just as suddenly, it's quiet again. One minute you are chilled by the fact that someone may be dying right then, the next moment you are chilled by the cold desert nights. Not that I'm afraid of anything happening to me personally. I really don't fear for my safety. But once in a while the entire situation makes me stop and realize that every thing here is tenuous at best.

Tonight presented one such moment. It's quite cold outside and there is a mission planned for later in the evening. There is a nearly imperceptible edge to the tone of peoples voices and their overall attitudes. No one is nervous, per se, at least not any more than they would be preparing for any other mission. A better word would be focused. Everyone is focused on what part they play in tonight's mission. It's like this every time our guys are preparing to go out. But tonight, it would turn out, is a bit different. Tonight, for some, History and Fate would conspire to change the future.

On any airfield you have what's called a FARP (Forward Area refueling Point). Aircraft of all sorts will move to this location at the beginning of every mission to top off and then again at the end of the mission to refuel. This is tricky business in the day time and even more so at night. Tonight, one of the units stationed here had a UH-60 Blackhawk with 6 or 7 personnel aboard. It made it's way to the FARP and set down to refuel. As this was going on, an AH-64 Apache approached under night vision, and not seeing the Blackhawk, pretty much landed on top of it. I can only imagine what the next half second must have been like in the middle of that mess. By the time we knew what was going on all that could be seen from our position was a big fire down by the FARP. Remember, there is a lot of jet fuel at the FARP so naturally we all kind of held our breath a bit. My first question dragged slowly out of my mouth. I was afraid of the answer. "Is it ours?" "No" someone nearby, standing in the darkness answered. My heart leapt back to life as I slowly exhaled. The calm yet jagged preparations of the evening were turned into a few tense moments for our battalion as we stood on the roof of our TOC (Tactical Operations Center) and watched the fire rage.

I think you'd have to be made of stone not to look at a scene like that and ponder your own mortality. None of us here fear death neither do I invite it. Certainly we court it on a regular basis, but were it to become our focus we would surely become less than effective. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but think about all those men that at that moment were standing on the edge of eternity, wondering in a split second if they would see tomorrow. I could hear the prayers of their families back home. I could see Christmas gifts that are still in the mail, headed for a recipient who may not be here to receive them. I could see a commander struggling over what words would be appropriate for a letter of condolence or sympathy.

Yet where History and Fate conspired, God intervened. All of the personnel in the Blackhawk escaped without injury. No one on the ground was injured. Only the Apache pilot and crew lost their lives. God again proved that despite the fear and confusion of a moment, He is still in control. His mercy is an unfathomable thing.

It is becoming clearer every day that events here can turn on a dime.

Confessions of a Junkie

2004-12-08T12:48:00.000-05:00

Help, I'm addicted to Freecell!

Conversational Angler

2004-12-07T18:50:00.000-05:00

Most of my blog entries concern people or events of the day. The subject of tonight's entry is not unique, which may be why I don't usually discuss the religious side of my job. It's just not unique enough. However, it is more exciting than all the jumps and bullets and explosions because it is eternal.

The best part of being a chaplain is the conversations guys strike up. Nine times out of ten the conversations begins with, "Hey Chaplain, if there's a loving God why would he allow..." (fill in the blank) or "I used to go to church but people..." or "Hey chaplain, I'm a pagan!". I get all kinds and thrill with each one. Tonight at dinner, a soldier started one such conversation. He began with seeming innocuous questions about various religions and belief systems. I answered as best I could. He had lots of comments and opinions about religion and faith as a general topic. One of my more enjoyable strategies is to try to engage the soldier in a moderately prolonged conversation loud enough to be heard by anyone nearby without seeming to be broadcasting what we are discussing. After five or ten minutes we had a decent sized audience full of soldiers who didn't know I was aware that they were listening. This is what makes it so fun and rewarding. I answer questions that one guy asks for all of them. Then I pounce. I told him his problem is that he is making excuses and asking all the wrong questions. As always, he is taken back and not sure how to respond. Every listening ear immediately tunes in because of my tone and his befuddlement as I slam em with the Gospel. And they don't even realize what's going on.

Now a dozen soldiers know the gospel truth and soon 3 or 4 of them will come ask me some follow up questions when no one else is around.

I love my job.

Plaster and Gold

2004-11-28T13:25:00.000-05:00

Every story deserves a happy ending. Unfortunately that's not always the case. However, no matter how dark circumstances may seem, there is always a small sliver of hope that manages to shine through. So it is with Rami and Fami.

Despite their personal situation, these little boys continue to touch my heart. A couple of days after Thanksgiving, they came into the chapel to make themselves useful. They decided that the shelves of books and comfort items for the soldiers needed to be organized a bit. So they began working, quickly and happily. I saw what they were up to so I strolled over to them to thank them and supervise a little. Since they had the situation under control, I didn't stay long. They made small talk as they worked. Before leaving them to their work, I presented both of them with a one dollar bill, the equivalent of about a days pay for your average Iraqi (I'm told). The boys didn't want to accept payment from me but I insisted and they smiled and continued to work. The next day, Rami came into my office and motioned for me to come look at something. He took me out to the lobby area, near the shelves they had organized the previous day, and pointed to a small plaster sculpture. It is a small cheesy souvenir type trinket with camels and palm trees. It says "Iraq" on it and has a big chip out of the front. He said in his broken English, "Me go to supermarket buy you." He had taken the dollar I gave him and purchased a gift for me. There is really not much I could say to that without breaking down entirely. It's not just plaster and paint. It's gold!

Yesterday, Rami returned to my office to chat. His hair was combed, his face washed, and he was wearing a new set of clothes. He smiled and told me that he was able to go home and see his mother because the police, with the help of the Americans, had run the Anti-Iraqi Forces (AIF) out of his neighborhood. He had delivered his savings to her and spent the night in his own house.

So hope continues to carve it's way into the Iraqi landscape.

Thanksgiving for a Price

2004-11-26T02:40:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was Thanksgiving and I was once again away from my family. In all reality, I was a bit peaved by it but, of course, I had to put on my best game face because what good is a Chaplain with a bad attitude? So I made the best of it. However, I wasn't actually all that thankful. Why should I be. I'm away from home for the second year running, sleep is a fleeting activity, dry turkey in a chow hall full of dusty people in the middle of a war torn desert is a far cry from Tina's home made stuffing and mashed potatoes. Gee, thanks! I have ample reason to complain and put aside any vestiges of thankfulness. Don't I?

Well, this being a holiday and me being a chaplain provided all the ingredients necessary for your average compulsory holiday worship service. There are currently two other chaplains here with me, Ron Webb and Jeff Jay. So the three of us put our heads together and came up with a simple game plan, Jeff would lead in a couple of songs, Ron would present a meditation or sermonette relating to thanksgiving (he did an excellent job) and I would polish off the evening with communion. Fellowship afterward would include pie and coffee and some good old conversation. So, we set out early in the day to implement the aforementioned worship plan.

At this point in the story I'd like to introduce the reader to Rami and Fami. They are brothers from the local community. Rami is eleven years old and Fami is about nine. As we were preparing for the evenings festivities of forced fun I had a nice little conversation with Rami. He wanted to help me fold bulletins, so I showed him what to do and as we folded, we chatted. His English is broken but understandable and when he encounters a word or concept he doesn't know the word for he uses hand gestures rather effectively. I had heard rumors about his situation but they were unconfirmed so I decided to confirm them. "Where are your mom and dad?" I asked. In his own broken way he launched into his story.

Rami and Fami come from a family with 5 boys and one girl. At some point in the past his father left, never to return. He may have simply abandon them or he may have been killed by the Hussein regime. Either way it was very clear that he would not be coming back. So their mother was left to raise them. Of course, Rami and Fami being the oldest sought work to help their mother.

"Where is your mom now?" I asked

"At home" came the very simple reply.

"Do you go home at night." I queried, half knowing the answer.

Rami explained that he sends all his earnings home to his mother. He used to live with his mother and siblings, but there were bad Iraqis that would shoot all the time and explode things and he couldn't sleep very well. So now he stays on compound somewhere.

"How do you sleep now?"

Holding up his fingers in an "OK" fashion, he said, "Very good!" Then he added. "If I go home the Iraqis..." At this point he gestured by making a cutting noise and drawing his little hand across his neck. So Rami, 11, and Fami, 9, have a price on their heads for working with the Americans. When I was nine the price on my head was self imposed and valued at the price of one large orange that I owed my older brother.

Later in the evening, as I celebrated the Lord's Supper, I was thankful. For my freedom, for the chance to share that freedom with others who have none, for my family, for my job, and especially for my salvation.

It's amazing the perspective one can gain by having a conversation with an eleven year old.

Becoming a Veteran

2004-11-12T11:29:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was certainly an exciting day, for a number of reasons. First, it was Veterans Day. That's always a good day to sit back and reflect. However, there was very little time for reflection this year.

It all started rather early with another loud explosion. Obviously it wasn't really close, but it was big enough to wake me up. So my day started with a mortar and went on from there. Throughout the day we experienced sporadic mortar and rocket attacks that, once again, were less than intimidating due to their complete lack of accuracy and apparent randomness. However, once the sun went down, the fun really began. I was sitting in my office writing email or studying or reading, with SGT Crawford dutifully at my side, trying to while away the time. A soldier came in and said, "Hey you guys need to see this!" We grabbed our Night Vision Goggles (NODs) and ran outside. In the direction of the front gate to the base here could be seen tracer rounds shooting into the sky and small explosions could be heard. After watching for a while, and being confident our soldiers had things under as much control as can be had in such circumstances, we headed back into the chapel. Soon someone else ran in and said, "AIF is inside the wire!" AIF are the bad guys, terrorists, insurgents...call them what you will, they can taste American blood. So SGT Crawford and I grabbed our ballistic vests and helmets and he grabbed his weapon and we proceeded to the TOC (Tactical Operations Center) to find out what was going on. As we stood in the TOC listening to the intel reports coming in and the Battle Captains assessment of the situation, one of our senior NCO's came running in, almost ashen and said, they're attacking our compound. Every guy grabbed his weapon and headed outside. Someone or something had tripped a trip flare on our perimeter, about 100 meters from the TOC and the guard towers had opened fire on it. Tracers continued to fly for the next several minutes, only meters from my position. I told SGT Crawford to grab the soldiers not actively engaged in the fight and set up a defense around the TOC. He did that perfectly. I continued to monitor the situation from inside the TOC so as to be able to respond quickly should someone need a chaplain. The fight at the fenceline soon died down but everyone remained on edge and ready to cap the first guy who didn't know the password. Throughout all this the fight at the front gate continued and intensified. Grenades and .50 cal bursts could be heard. At one point someone out front cut loose with a Mark 19 automatic grenade launcher. That is one bad weapon and they certainly put some serious hurt on haji.

A couple of hours later, around midnight Zulu, I felt it sufficiently safe for SGT Crawford and I to make our way to the air field, where several of our soldiers were manning fighting positions, prepared to defend the airfield. We walked the 200 meters or so and began making our way from one firing position to another, checking up on the morale of the guys and saying a quick prayer. As we stood and talked with each team inside their bunker or next to their vehicle we watched with interest the goings on at the front gate, approximately half a mile away. Gunfire and explosions continued. Overhead we could hear the drone of what turned out to be an AC-130 Spectre Gunship circling over head watching the fight and waiting for it's opportunity to strike. The Spectre is the bad boy of airborne armament. Armed with two 30mm cannons and a 105mm Howitzer it strikes fear into any enemy that knows it's in the area. Haji didn't know! As we watched it circle suddenly it "lazed" something on the ground. That means it pointed an onboard laser at a potential target. The beauty of the laser is that it is invisible to the naked eye. However, to those of us with NODs it shows up clearly as a bright red line from the plane to the ground. That lasted only a second or so before we heard 3 explosions in rapid succession as the rounds from the Spectre's Howitzer hit their intended target with ferocious accuracy. It was terrible and beautiful. Haji continued to fight but even if he didn't know it, his efforts had been crushed. Then, as if to add insult to injury, it appeared. We didn't even hear it coming because it was flying only about 200 feet off the ground and going very fast. It was either an F-15 or F-16 and it flew toward the fight and then pulled up and punched it's afterburners. Beautiful. We didn't hear anything and assumed that it had abandoned it's run for some reason. Later we learned it had struck what it wanted and done so with impunity as yet another of haji's "secure" locations was pounded into the realm of the unrecognizable.

Not too long after that the fighting died down. Today we learned that despite their being direct and indirect fire fights in at least 5 locations throughout the city, only 5 US soldiers received minor injuries and were returned to duty before the sun came up. On the other side of the coin, one of those 5 locations reported 52 AIF dead. We also got pictures of some of the damage done. The most encouraging picture of all was one of an AIF "soldier" lying face up next to a mortar tube, with something of a surprised look on his face. His hair looked to be parted strangely. In reality the top left side of his head was missing. Speculation is that when he attempted to fire a mortar at us, the mortar cooked off too slowly and he got curious and decided to look down the tube to see why it hadn't fired. Timing is everything!

Things continue to be tense around here with Ramadan coming to a close and the events in Fallujah being what they are. The bad guys are looking for somewhere else to hole up. This may be that place. So the next couple of weeks should be exciting.

Happy Veteran's Day!

Another Day at the Office

2004-11-10T05:34:00.000-05:00

Lunch yesterday began as it always does. We wash our hands and move to the line to get chow. My Assistant, SGT Crawford, and I sat at a table with the hospital chaplain and a nurse. Earlier in the day there had been a mortar attack about 2 miles from where we are and the wounded were brought into the hospital, so as we ate they brought us up to speed as to the disposition of our soldiers. One KIA and the other two hurt pretty bad. So with that in mind we continued to chat and eat. Not too loog after that there was a rather loud boom. The people in the chow hall scattered like mice off a sinking ship. They cowered next to walls and ran outside to bunkers. SGT Crawford and I continued to eat. The next one was a touch closer and then...boom...closer still. By this time there weren't many people left in the chow hall but we continued to eat. Not that we are terribly brave or terrible stupid but the odds were definitely on our side. The fourth round hit about 4 or 5 hundred meters from out table and prudence said we should get down, just in case. So we knelt by the table and continued to eat. That fourth impact was something of a surprise to me as they usually come in threes. That one left a nice looking impact crater in the middle of our flightline. Nevertheless, once we were certain there would be no more we got back in our chairs and finished lunch.

That was the beginning of a very long and interesting night. Also that night, we enjoyed a concert by a guy named Russ Lee. He used to sing with Truth (Living Life Upside Down) and New Song. Now he sings solo and writes songs that other artists record. What a neat guy with a great testimony. The 5th Special Forces Group Chaplain arranged the whole thing. Well, as Russ sang and spoke and unashamedly preached the gospel, another very close, very large round hit...BOOM. The building actually shook. But we continued to sit and listen and he continued to sing. It was a great concert. There were several other smaller booms throughout the evening, as well. All said there was probably 20 mortars and rockets launched in our general direction.

This morning began with a very loud explosion at about 8am. And pretty much it's been a day of having stuff blow up. Well, our intelligence guys said that the bad guys have taken over several police stations in town and are working out of them. Apparently, someone figured out where they were staying because early this afternoon a Howitzer battery a mile or so from our position opened up. The sound of those things going off was musical. I'm tempted to feel sorry for Haji on the receiving end...nah! Now we are hearing news of 1 to 5 hundred AIF moving in our direction. We are at Threat-Con Delta (that's bad) awaiting a long night of mortars and gunfire.

However, as I sit here writing I'm at peace and confident not only in the abilities of our soldiers to destroy anyone stupid enough to even think of attacking us, but in God's ability and willingness to protect His people. So it's gonna be a long night with much happening, but as Russ Lee said to me only 3 minutes ago, "In my humble but accurate opinion, it's a bad night to be a bad guy!"

Election Night Fireworks

2004-11-02T03:47:00.000-05:00

One of the few benefits to living in an actual combat zone is the imminent danger pay. This is a small stipend paid to soldiers in designated places around the world that Congress feels puts them at risk of actually loosing their lives, or worse, their ability to play video games. Such is Iraq, most of it anyway. Well, in my little corner of Iraq imminent danger is generally kept at bay. Generally.

Today, as we all sat around in anticipation of the imminent election projections, there was an extremely large explosion about a quarter mile away that shook the building we were in and threatened to blow out the windows. I'm told these things always come in groups of 5 to 10 if they are mortar attacks. Well, this seemed to be an isolated explosion so we slowly ventured out to see if we could ascertain what had happened. That's when my First Sergeant was heard to say, "That Fu@#*& is burning down!" We looked to the horizon an there were flame shooting up about 100 plus feet with an occasional explosion type ball of fire and smoke like you'd see in a movie. It was both terrible and beautiful. None of the subsequent explosions were as loud or produced the kind of shock we all felt after the initial boom.

The primary assessment was that a rocket had hit the compound (the initial explosion) near a fuel depot (the subsequent explosions). However, the investigation the next day concluded that a connex (a small outdoor storage building) full of acetylene tanks had ignited when a spark produced when a soldier shut the large metal door lit the contents of one of the canisters that had a small leak. Acetylene is used for welding and is extremely flammable and explosive. The soldier at the door received very serious wounds and burns over much of his body and is not expected to live. Two others were injured as well. I am unsure of their disposition.

So today we earned our pay.

Dust Devils & Side Arms

2004-10-29T06:09:00.000-04:00

If I had to describe Iraq in one word or less it would be "Grapes of Wrath dusty"! Holy Mackerel it's dusty here. It's not like a huge dust storm or anything, more like you can smell and taste it in the air kind of dusty. Rather hot days and slightly cool nights but our weather guy says it's gonna start getting a bit cooler over the next month or two.

This is a great unit to serve in for many reasons, not the least of which is that my uniform consists of combat boots, black shorts and a brown T-shirt. Also they gave me some high speed Oakley glasses for the day and a Petzel light for the night.

Our living conditions might be considered Spartan but it's not as bad as some other guys have it. My little hooch looks like the trailer on an 18 wheeler except it's only about half that size and has no wheels. More or less a big metal box with a window at either end, a door and a small A/C unit. There are bunk beds in it but fortunately there are enough of them so that I don't have to share it with another officer. RHIP!

The chow is not bad either. It's not home but it's not totally unpalatable. However, the Iraqi people who make it seem to really like cabbage. Not Korean kimshi type but it's cabbage nonetheless. Not often the main course but almost always included as a side dish in one of about one million configurations.

My unit operates on Greenwich Mean Time rather than local time so we get up around noon local and hit the sack around 2am. That's actually up around 9am zulu (GMT) and then to bed at a quasi decent hour. Where I am is relatively safe, or at least as safe as a war zone can be. We hear gunfire periodically but it's fairly far off. Besides which, we are surrounded by other units and everyone is carrying loaded weapons. My unit all have pistols they carry around loaded. Kind of old west style. The conventional army guys around here carry their ammo separately so they don't accidentally shoot someone. I always thought that was the point of fighting a war. Silly chaplain. They watch us walk around and get a bit ticked that they have to wear flak vests and ballistic helmets all the time while we wear shorts and Oakleys. Nice!

It's exciting around here at times. Last night our guys went on a mission and jacked up three bad guys transporting mortar tubes. They won't be trying that again.

I'm glad to be a part of this effort. Our guys are doing a wonderful job for the cause.

The 50,000 Foot Nap of Death

2004-10-26T10:15:00.000-04:00

It seems the nature of this business in this day is separation. Again today I loaded a plane without my family and headed to Iraq, alone. The past several weeks have been spent preparing so that once on the ground and settled in I can begin to reach out to our soldiers in their place of business, the field. I don't regret my calling or career choice. I know I'm doing what God wants me to do. However, it would be nice if I could do it with my family.

At any rate, after several hours of loading our gear, we finally boarded a C-17 and headed out. This is not a small aircraft. Exactly what we brought with us is kind of classified, but we did bring a lot of stuff. And then we crammed in a lot of guys. Once we reached altitude, we each took an Ambien to help us sleep, picked a nice spot on the floor between boxes and machinery, and tried to get some sleep. About 2 hours later the flight crew woke us up to buckle in while the aircraft was refueled in flight. That took about an hour or so. Then we moved back to our own piece of airborne real estate and tried to sleep some more. However, sleeping on a hard metal floor that is in no way uniformly smooth while flying close to the arctic circle at about 50,000 feet is not easy. It was cold, with emphasis on the word "freaking"! This had the effect of making one believe the notion of "sleep" was a fantasy only to be hoped for and never actually achieved. This meant that in the course of multiple hours of flying, I laid on every possible side I could think of, critically damaged several hip joints and induced the kind of all over pain one normally associates with prolonged wearing of medieval armor. Couple that with the giggly euphoria one experiences from mind numbing fatigue and you will get a slight idea of the wonders of last class travel. Finally we landed in Germany to switch out flight crews and have our last taste of western culture (Burger King) before moving on to the big sand box.

After another mid-air refuel and another unsuccessful attempt at sleep, we landed in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. The month of Ramadan was about half over so there was an extremely full moon. Thus my first impression of the desert was that it was much lighter than I had expected. As we taxied to a stop, someone turned on all the lights inside the plane. At this, everyone started shouting to shut off the light. Then I remembered we are in a war zone and lights equal targets. Mortars not being uncommon here I was pleased to join in the call for darkness.

After doing a little paperwork and unloading our gear, we were assigned a hooch and allowed to crash. So now here I am, at war , supporting the fight for freedom in Iraq, and sleeping well. It's not home but it ain't an airplane floor either.

Universal Terror

2004-07-20T08:56:00.000-04:00

Orlando vacation, Day 2! Universal Studios. As was the case yesterday at Disney World, this was a day filled with memories. We did it all from fighting off bad guys with Buzz Lightyear to racing through time in a DeLorean with Dr. Emmett Brown from Back to the Future to trying to rescue Princess Fiona with Shrek. A couple of things stand out and are worth mention.

First, I can hardly explain what a joy it was to hang out with my boys eating ice cream or watching a show or hearing them laugh. It was a tiring day and by the end nerves were on end, but that's part of the game and after the fact it's part of the good memory. They were way too much fun. We took pictures and Samuel explained everything to me while Wyatt asked me a million questions and Mason held my hand. Each one had a few dollars they had saved from various projects and gifts and were itching to spend it. Since it was their money, we let them buy whatever they wanted or could afford. It was an interesting lesson in economics for them. Suddenly they were faced with purchasing quality versus eye candy. And with limited resources they were forced to make some important decisions. I thoroughly enjoyed watching them make those decisions. I was very proud of them. This was a great day for me.

The second thing worth mentioning was Olivia on a couple of the rides. Jaws was great because I knew what to expect and she didn't so I put her on the end between me and the open sea! It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened. When things started exploding and Jaws raked the side of the boat inches from her, she almost had a heart attack. Her screams were incredible. After that we headed for a ride that I thought would be a bit less frightening, Earthquake. On this ride they explain to you some of the secrets of movie special effects. They illustrate how rain is simulated and how a blue screen works. Then they load you on a mock up of the Bay Area Rapid Transit for a ride into San Francisco California. Here's where it got a little crazy. I knew it was about an earthquake, no one tried to hide that. Again, Olivia was between me and the effects so that she could get a good look at what was going on. When the earthquake hit we were underground, the train skipped off it's track, the roof began to cave in, a huge tanker truck from the street above came crashing through the roof and slid right toward us, gas pipes burst and flames shot every where and then the bay began to flood in threatening to drown us. With each new method of impending doom she screamed louder and louder and gripped me tighter and tighter until she was in my lap with her arms and legs wrapped around me screaming at the top of her lungs, "Daddy, are we gonna get dead?" I tried to console her as we were ushered ever closer to the pearly gates and the people around us looked at me as though I were the worst person on earth to subject my beautiful daughter to such terror. As we exited the ride, with her still wrapped around me, she said very sternly, "Daddy, I did not like that ride."

Never the less, the day ended with us alive and full of stories to relive for years to come.

Magic Memories

2004-07-19T08:00:00.000-04:00

Since leaving Ft. Polk, we have slowly meandered east, enjoying time in the van with the family. We stayed in Baton Rouge and Tallahassee and have really been having a good time with the kids and each other. The dogs have traveled well and Deacon has not been car sick once (a huge answer to prayer). This trip had been masterminded by Tina. During my year in Korea, she has been planning and saving, determined that we would spend some quality family time together before diving head first into my new position, a new city, and a new life. I can't explain how grateful I am tha God blessed me with a woman who thinks ahead and puts family at the top of her priorities. She is such a blessing.

Since being on the road, the weather has been not so great but we drove on to Orlando, FL anyway. We stayed at a great hotel, the Holiday Inn Family Resort. This place is really geared toward families on vacation. The pool ranged from one inch deep to 5 or 6 feet deep so everyone could swim. But more than that it had several fountains and water guns and all kinds of cool stuff for the kids to play with and on and really wear themselves out before retiring for the evening. The restaurants were nothing terribly fancy which, again, fit the family motif.

This morning we got up bright and early to discover that the rain had stopped but the clouds were still over head offering shade for a day of fun. So we headed to none other than the Magic Kingdom itself, Disney World. Man, we were pumped! It was a great day from the very first moment. This being the first time in this place of wonder for the kids, they wanted to do everything. However, since Tina and I had both been to Disneyland as kids, we wanted to go on certain rides, not only to introduce our children to the things we enjoyed at their age, but to relive our youths for a little while. Throughout the day we ran into several well known characteres such as Micky, Minnie, Cinderella, and others. Some of them we were able to meet, others had huge lines up tothem so we only saw them from a distance. We bought a small note book for the kids to collect the characters signatures and Olivia quickly took charge of that task and asked every character she met for their "ortograph". She was a girl on a mission!

We rode Space Mountain (glad that all the kids were tall enough), Dumbo, and the Tea Cups (a real hoot). We also ventured into the Haunted Mansion. The boys had a great time laughing at the ghosts and trying to figure out how the illusions were created. Olivia did not like it at all and took every possible opportunity to say so. "Daddy," she said, "I don't ever want to go in there again." I don't recall her acting scared during the ride, but she was not enjoying it either. Afterward, as I carried her out, she had a smile of releif on her face. I think she was glad to be able to say she did it but will probably not want to do it again for several years.

At days end, we picked up our kids, packed up our memories, and were glad for the chance to build a history worth having.

More Goodbyes

2004-07-14T18:55:00.000-04:00

The past few days have been rather hectic. I got home from Korea about a week ago and today we pulled out of Ft. Polk for the last time. As much as we hated it when we first got there, it was really hard to leave. Especially for Tina who has made some wonderful friends in the neighborhood while I was overseas. God really blessed her with good Christian ladies all around her and that made it easier on me to know she had a good support system in place.

Our church was also hard to leave. Pastor and Sherlene Reddout have been wonderful fellow Kingdom workers. Brother Roy has been incredible with my boys in the Royal Ranger Program. There are many wonderful friends and memories that will make Leesville a place we look back on with fondness.

Certainly it will be nice to get out of the forest and into a cityscape but the family atmosphere and the peace that comes with a rural life will be sorely missed.

...To Greater Things

2004-07-07T17:37:00.000-04:00

After just shy of 12 months, I'm going home. It is hard to believe that I will be home in just a few days. It seems like I've been here forever and for just a day or two. This has been a very rewarding assignment. I've made many friends and done what I hope was some good ministry. I'll know on judgment day, I guess. Usually, within a few months of leaving some place I have trouble remembering the names of the people I knew there. Remembering the events is not too difficult but remembering the names is nearly impossible for me. So here are a few of the people I have met...

Major Anthony Benitez. First the Battalion XO then the Battalion S-3, Major Benitez was one of my favorite people. He is genuine and fun and professional. Major B was always the one I could talk to personally when I needed an ear to bend. He was always in chapel and bible study and a real asset to my time here. He even served in chapel, leading the singing. That was a huge help. His wife, Christy, and his daughter, Lydia, were absolutely wonderful. They kind of served as my surrogate family.

Major Jon and Mary Ring. He is the Battalion S-3 turned XO. Their 5 children Brandi, Jon, Nick, Sam, and Maria were great to be around. They didn't always like their days up here but Mary saw to it that since Major Ring couldn't get down to Seoul, where they lived, that she would bring the family up here. She was and is determined to make her family work. She sewed the curtains for the chapel and was a huge help in redecorating it (since I have zero color savvy). The Rings were always in chapel.

LTC Matthew and Teresa Margotta. He was the BN Commander for all but a month of my time here. They and their boys, Chance and Chase, we also very faithful to chapel. He is one of the gentlest men I think I've ever encountered in the Infantry, but at the same time there was no denying that he was in charge.

CPT Jeff Wood, Battalion S-2 and fellow No Name. We went through the fabled, "Monk-In" together and his room was right next to mine. He got married last month and tried everything he could think of the get the Army to fly me to Nebraska to wed he and his wife. I was honored just to be considered. Also a faithful chapel attender and good friend.

CPT Light Shin. He's only been here a short while but I have really grown to appreciate him. What a solid Christian and friend. I sincerely wish I had more time with him as he was a great influence on me.

CPT John Serafini. He just got out of the army to return to Boston and attend Harvard. Rabid Red Sox fan and wandering seeker. John asked some of the best religious questions. I am not certain he has yet made a commitment to Christ, but he certainly is headed in the right direction. I could always depend on John to be in chapel and then ask question later. What a delight.

I could go on all day...PFC Benjamin Dye, CPT Brett Turbyfill, CPT Tony Braxton, CPT Gary Kuczynski, CPT Ryan Roberts (a good friend), Air Force Maj Gen Tom Kane, SGT James McMillian (my second assistant), CH (COL) Sam Boone, CH (LTC-P) Mike Tarvin, CH (CPT) Jeff Jay, and on and on.

This has been a terrific year filled with terrific people. But now, I'm off...

228

2004-07-04T23:45:00.000-04:00

July 4th. What a day! BBQs...fireworks...picnics...the grandeur of Independence Day!

Then there's Korea. We awoke to a July Fourth filled with the edges of a local typhoon. And when it rains here it doesn't mess around. It's more like an airborne flood. But, being the hard charging military types that we are, we went ahead and held the annual Toilet Bowl, a flag football extravaganze pitting the Non-Commissioned Officers against the Officers of the battalion. Basically it was a contest to see who could slide around in the water and mud the least...cause that guy was gonna win. Sadly, that was the NCOs. 18-0. But I got in a few good plays. I received one good pass in splendid fashion and then turned to run only to find my feet sliding the way I didn't want to go. And of course the freight train that was trying to take my head off couldn't stop before cramming a knee into my forehead. Later, I got the ball again, and blinded by the rain ran into a mob of very large, very muscular, very uninclined to move for me sergeants who proceeded to pummel me into the ground and then takeing the flag off my near corpse and proclaiming down over. The last thing I remember was shouting, "A little help?"

Well, the toilet bowl ended around 11am. Just in time for chapel. So soaked to the bone and a bit chilly, I went to service for our special 4th of July Water and Patriotism service. I've never preached in shorts and running shoes while covered in grass clippings. Another first on the DMZ for me.

At any rate, Happy Birthday America.

Meet Deacon

2004-05-23T05:18:00.000-04:00

Before today I have not made much mention of my new little friend other than a quick reference to his snake hunting skills. His name is Deacon and he's my dog. I didn't mention him because I was not sure I would brin him home. Initially I adopted him thinking I would give him to someone here when I left. After all, how attached can one become to a silly little dog? Well, pretty attached.

I believe he was born in January or February of this year, while I was on leave. He is one of a litter of 4 and they caught my eye as being particulrly cute. Well, for a couple of weeks I would just stop by their little house where their mother kept them and play with them a bit. Deacon grabbed my attention because he seemed to be rather lively without being a total spaz. Plus he was a bit bigger than his siblings and seemed quite healthy. Well, after visiting for a while, I couldn't take it any more and I took him to my hooch.

A couple of weeks ago, he got his puppy shots and they made him very sick. He had to spend 2 nights at the vet with an IV in his little arm, so now he has a shaved front leg. Also, he gets car sick. The other day I put him in the van and he started salivating before I even started it up so I think it's partially psychosomatic. The 24 hour plane ride home will be interesting. I'm gonna feed him vast quantities of drugs so he'll sleep most of the time.

He is definately my dog. He responds to me and plays with me and walks with me even when other dogs are around (most of the time). He is by far the best dog on compound. He's just a good dog. So I'll be taking him back to the states with me to become a part of our family. I sincerely hope he and Scout get along and that the kids like him because I'd hate to have to send my kids to live with a distant relative :)

The funny thing is, I never knew how lonely my little room was at night until he came to live with me. He keeps me company and even lays down next to the tub when I'm in the shower. In fact, he hates baths so I have to get in with him (ya just gotta watch the claws).

So that's Deacon, my dog. Hopefully he'll be with us for a long time.

Addendum of the Unwise

2004-05-21T07:04:00.000-04:00

It's not very often that I see snakes so this mornings encounter on the bridge of no return was rare and exciting. Well, the story continues. As usual, I had dinner in the Montastery tonight. Afterward, as is my custom I sat and watched a little TV, sipped a little coffee, and played with Deacon a bit. My coffee ran out so I headed into the next room, where dwelleth the pot o' brew to refill. As I was doing so Deacon decided to go absolutely nuts. I looked where he was barking and there was another snake. This one was about 8 inches long, mostly dark green with black stripes and had a tint of red or orange between it's scales on the front half of his body that showed up nicely when he flattend himself out and stood up to look at me. Well, he's just a little guy...I'd better pick him up! So very cautiously I did what needed to be done to pick him up without hurting him or getting bitten. I did the Erwin method of holding him by his tail and allowing the front half of his body to stay on the ground. He never struck at me or did anything aggressive so I coerced him into a couple of styrofoam cups and took him outside and released him. Feeling good about my herpatological self, I began to do some research and ask around as to what kind of snake my little friend may have been. Turns out he was a Tiger Snake. Click on his name to discover the details about the little bundle of joy I was handling!

Honey Nipples

2004-05-21T02:58:00.000-04:00

Today's little incident bears noting. The president of a large Seminary in Texas came to the JSA for a tour. Since I'm the religious expert on post, I got to serve as the escort for the tour. This was a small VIP tour consisting of the VIP himself, his wife, a chaplain friend of theirs from somewhere else in Korea and his wife. with the tour guide and me we had a grand total of 6 people on the tour. Well, when you have a tour that small,it allows you a little more flexability than a big group because you can move a little quicker. There was another tour just behind us at the JSA consisting of two full bus loads so I knew I could deviate from the normal tour stuff just a bit and it would be easy to stay ahead of them with little effort. Near the end of the normal tour we drive by the Bridge of No Return and people take photos from the bus, but we don't usually get out. Well, the group behind us was clearly visable from the Bridge, at checkpoint 3 so I let the VIP group get off the bus to take some pictures next to one of the border markers. We approached the bridge and right where we were going to stand for photos was sitting an absolutly huge snake. It had to be over 5 feet long and was every bit as thick as my wrist. He just kind of watched us but didn't move. So I decided to get a little "Steve Irwin" on him. As I approached he began to slither down his hole. I reached out to take him by the tail and do the herpatologist act when I remembered Honey.

Honey is a rather large dog that belongs to one of the officers in the battalion. Honey was out playing in the local rice fields last year when she was bitten by a snake. It didn't seem all that bad at first but it nearly killed her. The nice part was that the skin on the area surrounding the bite began to literally rot off her leg. It just wouldn't heal no matter what the vets did for her. Finally, they had to graft some skin from her belly onto her leg to stem the disintegration of her flesh. Remember, dogs have about 5 or 6 nipples down each side of their belly. So Honey, to this day has several nipples on her leg. Not only that but the hair is entirely different. As a result, she has a band of long hair with nipples around her hind leg. Well, I don't really want nipples on my arms so instead of grabbing the monster snake I just tapped it a few times with the anntena of my radio until it was completely inside it's lair.

Partying, Painting, and Syllabification

2004-05-14T02:05:00.000-04:00

You may remember the Orphanage Christmas Party I wrote about back in December 2003. Well, Spring has sprung and so we decided to have a spring party, too. Again it was a great event. While the younger kids played a bevy of games, the older ones were taken on a tour of the JSA and introduced to North Korea. After their tour they went over to the Engagement Simulation Trainer (EST). This is basically a huge video game that utilizes real weapons hooked up to a big computer and projector. All kinds of scenarios are available, ranging from rescuing hostages in an urban environment to an all out gun fight in the desert. The weapons even "kick" using compressed air so it's extremely realistic. The kids loved it (as did the soldiers). As was the case in December we had dinner with them followed by a fabulous show consisting of various speeches and traditional dances by the kids. One young lady bears mention. She is about 6 or 7 years old and her name is Yi, Chi Soo. She speaks no English and since I don't speak Hangul we spent the day not talking together and entirely enjoying each other. Well, we each understand at least one thing the other was saying...our names. I would say, "Yi, Chi Soo" over emphasizing each syllable. She would reciprocate with "Moke Sah Neem" (Hangul for pastor or chaplain) also over emphasizing each syllable. We probably said that to each other a million times during the day. Eventually it became a game. She would disappear for a minute or two and then from about a hundred yards away I'd hear a faint "Moke Sah Neem". I, of course, would reply, "Yi, Chi Soo". And so it continued until they left (and she shouted it once out the window of the bus, just for good measure I suppose).

This party, however, unlike the Christmas party was a two part event. Part one was the party itself. Part two was strategically scheduled less than a week after the first so as to capitalize on the sympathy factor. Part two was a clean up day at the Orphanage. We took nearly 40 soldiers to the Pyong Hwa Orphanage to pick up old stuff, fix broken stuff, and paint ugly stuff. It was great. However, the Korean culture doesn't really have an equivalent for "don't look a gift horse in the mouth". So after my soldiers had painted a swing set a lovely orange, we were informed that orange is not a playground color and we would therefore have to repaint it a more appropriate red. Well, unshaken and enjoying a good bit of American sarcasm in English, the soldiers filled the rest of the day with warnings about playground versus indoor colors. We also removed 2 truck loads of old junk, broken appliances, and trash. Not your standard Toyota half ton pick up loads. Rather these loads were 2 entirely full military 2 1/2 ton trucks. If you can't picture it, just let me say, that's a bunch of junk.

At lunchtime, we barbecued burgers and hot dogs and enjoyed a refreshing beverage. Now, if you've ever been responsible for planning an event such as this you know that there are millions of details. Most of them were seen to. However, in the shuffle I forgot condiments and ice. So lunch was meat and bread washed down with warm soda. Yummy! This whole event took place while the children were at school so as to minimize the amount of paint on things and people it wasn't intended to be on. In the middle of the afternoon the kids started trickling in, enjoying the look of their freshly painted, tidied-up, orange-free playground. And as we were cleaning up our brushes and rollers preparing to depart, I heard from the far end of the compound, "Moke Sah Neem"! She ran and jumped into my arms and gave me a huge Yi, Chi Soo hug and with the exuberance of a 6 year old she proceeded to tell me about her day. I was glad to listen.

Political Ventilation

2004-05-11T21:44:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while, everyone needs to vent a bit. Behold, the beauty of the blog. Of course, I don't usually get very political. There's an old axiom that says you shouldn't discuss politics or religion because you never know who you're going to upset. Perhaps. But world events being what they are, there comes a time when you have to stop worrying about who might not like the fact that we live in a free society and can therefore say what we feel without fear, and say what's on your mind.

I have heard in recent days pundits, pinheads, and public personalities sharing all manner of opinion regarding the War in Iraq and the need for a "global coalition" and the United Nations to take command in that theatre of operations for the good of all mankind. Apparently, it would be way better for everyone if anyone but the US were in charge of what goes on over there. Perhaps. But now it's my turn.

To those who have advocated giving the mission in Iraq to the UN as a way of equalizing the political "burden" of giving freedom back to the Iraqi people I say, "It won't work. Period." How do I know? What makes me such an expert on international affairs? I know because I live and work 400 meters from the southern boundary of the Demilitarized Zone in the Republic of Korea. What does that have to do with Iraq? Well, at the end of the Korean war the 17 countries fighting in the south under the UN banner, and ultimately making up the United Nations Command, were the Republic of Korea, The United States, The United Kingdom, Canada, Turkey, Australia, The Philippines, New Zealand, Ethiopia, Greece, Thailand, France, Columbia, Belgium, South Africa, The Netherlands, and Luxembourg. All agreed to the conditions of the Armistice which stated that the United Nations Command would oversee the maintenance of the Armistice and the DMZ. And for 50 plus years, the United Nations Command has done just that. However, I look to my left and right and see not one Canadian Mountiee in arms...not a single French Legionairee...no Columbian freedom fighters...none of the mighty Ethiopian hoards...not even a Greek militiaman. No one except Koreans and Americans. Maintianing a United Nations Armistice.

I believe the Koreans are here mainly because this is Korea. If they really believed in the cause of global freedom and not just homeland security, they would not be hedging on their pledge to send a whopping 3,000 troops to Iraq to guard some remote and relatively safe plot of Iraqi desert as opposed to the 36,000 American soldiers currently residing in this cesspool of a nation and living in places like Camp Bonifas, Camp Greaves, Camp Giant, Camp Gary Owens, and many other "Camps" that offer the US Soldier little more than a place to eat, a place to sleep, a place to work, and a bunch of whores and bars waiting to take their solid American dollars.

I was not entirely truthful about there being just Americans and Koreans living in or near the DMZ. There is a contingency of Swiss and Swedish officers as well. They form the Neutral Nations Supervisory Committee (NNSC) put here to negotiate with the North Korean Army regarding armistice violations. That contingency is actually more like an ensemble. There are 9 of them. That's right...Nine. And they, of course, have their families with them. However, our neutral compatriots usually stay in Seoul while we live in squallor guarding their caviar eating derriers. Of course, they don't have an infrastruture to support their incredible efforts on behalf of freedom so we support them. Yep the good ol' USA supports those 9 fat cats who have live in chefs while we have rotating cooks...they drink brandy while we drink brown water...they throw parties while we guard those parties...they eat off china and silver while we eat off plastic and tin. And what do you suppose it costs the American taxpayer to support 9 whole guys from Switzerland and Sweden? $900,000 last year! Not a typo. Nearly a million US dollars. So, to believe that handing the mission in Iraq to the UN is good for America is stupid and niave. Because once that's done, everyone but the US will go home, pat themselves on the back for everything that went right, and then turn and point their soft, pudgy fingers at us for everything that goes wrong.

I've learned that the difference between expressing an opinion and whining is the presentation of options to cure the problem one is opining about. I recommend the following: 1. put all other countries in the world on the front lines until the number of their mourning mothers equal ours; 2. enforce repayment of debt from all countries who have benefited from our generosity and given nothing in return (Canada would be a exceptional example here); 3. if said country cannot afford to repay their debt, we seize whatever national treasures they think they own until said accounts are settled; 4. leave Korea and see how long they remain a democracy. My guess is they'd be absorbed by their brothers to the north within a week; and finally, just for grins, invade Mexico and show the world that there is clean water there if you care to work for it. Besides, we could use just a little more space to drive our SUVs.

But that's just my opinion.

Dirge of the Homesick

2004-04-24T02:18:00.000-04:00

Today I am writing from the Post Library at Osan AFB in Korea. About once a month the JSA sends a bus down here for whoever wants to come because there is some incredible shopping just off base and it's a nice way to get away from the DMZ. The library here is very nice, complete with gourmet coffee and over-sized chairs for reading, and of course, computers for guys like me. That's just background. I didn't really even want to write about the library. The real reason I decided to jump in here is because I have a recipe I want to share with my myriad readers (I'll call my mom and my wife "myriad"). It is not your average recipe. It is not something most people even enjoy. Nevertheless, I know how to produce it perfectly.

I have been in Korea for about nine and a half months and have only been to Osan one other time, when Tina was visiting last October. Those two facts form the basis for my recipe. So now I will tell you my recipe for homesickness and superb loneliness.

First, leave home for an inordinate amount of time and remember, you re not allowed to take anyone familiar with you. Next, get a visit from the one person in the world that is most important to you but ensure they don't stay very long. Then go home for an even shorter time several months later and then return to the utter silence of your room / flat / hooch / apartment. Finally, go somewhere you and Mrs. Important went together and try to enjoy yourself in the middle of thousands of happy people.

It may sound to the casual reader that I am experiencing a world class pity party. Not so. However, I find myself in circumstances that are out of my control while watching everyone else enjoying the company of their important people. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel and that seems to simply highlight the fact that I'm still in the tunnel. I only have about 75 days to go. That's better than 76 but infinitely more distressing than 74.

It is time to go home. Today at least, I hate it here! I miss home. I miss the smell of America. I miss people who know how to drive. I miss food that's fantastically delicious and not merely edible. I miss understanding what people are saying. I miss Samuel. I miss Mason. I miss Wyatt. I miss Olivia. I miss Scout. And, more than anyone, I miss Tina.

75 days and (sing it with me), "I'm leaving on a jet plane...blah blah blah not coming back again...ya ya ya I hate it here!" (Everybody) "La la la leaving Korea. Everything here tastes fermented. yada yada no more rice with every meal."

Old Man Smithers

2004-04-13T02:28:00.000-04:00

I was always under the assumption that it would come quietly, gradually, unnoticed. I expected that it would happen a little here a little there until I was held firmly in its unyielding grip. Actually, it happened for me exactly the other way. All was well until one day, seemingly at a preordained moment, it hit me like the proverbial piano being dropped by the clumsy movers from the 3rd floor. I am talking of course of none other than age itself. That's right. I'm getting old. Only recently did I come to realize and/or accept it. But it's true and unavoidable. Well, that begs the question, how do I know I'm getting old?

As I said it all seemed to happened in a blink of an eye. One day everything worked swimmingly. Then next day, parts of me began to fall off, stop working properly, and hurt. If you remember my entry of 21 January 2004, The Six Year Follow-up, you'll recall that I mentioned that I now wear glasses. That was just the beginning.

All of my recent dental work is yet another testimony to the need for medical intervention should I wish to continue leading a somewhat normal life. Well below the tip of that iceberg lies some splendidly geriatric problems.

About a month ago, while playing street hockey, I took a puck to the shin and thought my foot had been knocked off. In fact, that puck pinched a nerve against my shin bone. Only until recently, such a injury would have disappeared quickly. However, I still limp! A month later! What a sissy! I'm getting old.

Later, I went to our doctor to help with some basic cold symptoms. He decided it would be a better idea if I had allergies. So now I have allergies. I'm getting old!

Only a couple of days ago I was studying for Sunday service and had to remove my glasses and put on reading glasses just to read my Bible! Next it's bi-focals, tri-focals, and google-focals! I'm going blind and I'm getting old!

Every wonder why soldiers shave their heads? I'll tell ya. I recently went to get a hair cut and as the barber proceeded to cut and trim I noted an ever growing pile of grey in my lap. I'm turning gray and I'm getting old!

I hate to admit it, but I found an ear hair about 17 inches long and 2 inches thick! I have ear hair! I'm getting old!

Next on the agenda is probably something to do with the prostate, "male itch" (if you know what I mean)and a walker!

So, I'm getting old all at once. Just yesterday I was a carefree and life loving 38 year old youth. Today, I'm a broken down, blind, gray, hairy-eared, life loving, 38 year old semi-senior citizen.

There's a Hole in My Head

2004-03-11T02:06:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, life takes an unexpected turn. Right now I'm doing two things at once. I'm writing, obviously. I'm also in some rather superb pain. It all began about two yeas ago.

While stationed back at Ft. Polk, LA, I had to have a cavity filled in my number 2 molar. If you've had your wisdom teeth removed it would be the first tooth in the back on the upper right side of your mouth. Oddly, this is the tooth directly above my famous double root canal tooth. Well, when the dentist did that work he said that he would need to put in a temporary filling for reason blah blah and factoid yada yada dental talk. So he put in a temporary filling meant to stay there for about 6 months. 2 years later I returned to the dentist.

The dentist here in Korea is an excellent dentist who explained everything to me and proceeded to clean out the old "temporary" filling in Molar #2. Once done, he said something like, "OK. The good news is I got all the old filling out. The bad news is I have to pull that tooth." This was significant news for me. All of my wisdom teeth grew in straight and useable. I still have them. This was to be the first tooth pulled since I was about eight. Immediately, my stress level jumped to just slightly above ludicrous.

The tooth pulling process is a time honored process, steeped in tradition that begins by giving the victim papers to sign that outline some of the possible side effects of tooth extraction such as a broken jaw, the need to extract neighboring teeth, and an inability to chew for the rest of your life. Next, the dentist, wearing a black hangman’s hood, injects the victim with just enough anesthetic to ensure that his face is asleep while his mind stays alert. This ensures that the victim’s anxiety levels stay dangerously high.

The actual instrument of extraction looks very much like your standard wire cutters. This is very comforting. The peace that overwhelms the victim at having wire cutters jammed into their unnaturally wide open mouth is something that must be experienced to be understood. Once the dentist gets a good grip on the tooth in question, he simply and gently pulls, tugs, twists, and pry’s. Then he says, in a mocking / whispering tone, "You should feel a little pressure." Yeah, that's what I was thinking. A little pressure. To simulate how very little pressure I felt, grab your nose and gently push it into your mouth through the soft palette. I was certain my eyes would find their way into my throat. A little pressure.

But even then the pressure was not the worst part. One of the side effects of the kind of pain killer they use is that it heightens the sense of hearing. As a result, the sounds created in my head were among the grossest things I have ever heard. It was the sound of bone and sinew being slowly separated and torn. Crunching, tearing, ripping noises that bordered on nauseating.

Finally, just before my nose caved into my head I gave birth to a healthy molar. It's three roots fused into one which made extraction much easier than anticipated. It still had bits of gums attached and looked like a lumpy, blood covered bullet. I asked the doctor what the jagged little hard bumps on it were. He calmly said, "Oh, those are bits of your jaw bone." When I woke up...

So now there is a gap in my formerly uninterrupted tooth line about the size of my fist. So now instead of getting small bits of food stuck between my teeth, I get whole meals.

Hello Daddy, Goodbye Childhood

2004-01-31T01:49:00.001-05:00

There are lots of things that happen in life that are nice to remember. There are other things that are important to remember. And there are still other things that if forgotten constitute an emotional crime. The events of last night and today fall into the latter category.

As I mentioned in my previous blog, I had a rather harried and hurried day getting home. However, I did get home. And what a home coming it was. My plane arrived earlier than expected and so when I landed there was no one to greet me. However, I knew they were on their way. I disembarked and headed to the luggage claim carousel. As I waited for my luggage, I kept one eye on the street outside anticipating the arrival of my beautiful family. In short order I saw the van drive by and knew they had arrived. I went outside to see what would happen as I knew it was going to be a contest to see who could get to me first. Mason was the first one out of the car. However, instead of running he looked at me and stood there. I think he didn't realize it was me a t first. Samuel and Olivia got out and that's when Mason sprinted and hit me full steam ahead. As he jumped into my arms it was all I could do to stay on my feet. He was immediately followed by The other tow kids. Kisses and hugs all around. What a great moment! I grabbed Samuel and pulled him in close rubbing his crew cut hair and loving every second of it. Olivia seemed so small in comparison to her brothers but so much bigger than when I last saw her. She gave me about 300 of the best kisses I've ever had and said that we had to go home right then so I could giver her "training wheel lessons", which is to say she wanted me to teach her how to ride her bike like a big girl. I had to explain to her that it was too late and that we could do it the next day or some other time. She seemed OK with that.

But there was a child missing. I looked up and along came Wyatt. Except he wasn't running. He seemed to be prompting his mother to go ahead and greet me before him. She pushed him forward however and he gave me a world class hug. It was the kind of hug that makes you feel like a dad. It was a hug stories are written about. He held onto me and I to him for what seemed like ages. He's getting so big and I just held him savoring the fact that I can still hold him. Later I learned that the reason for his hesitation was that he had told his Mom that he would greet me last because, "the first shall be last and the last shall be first."

The ride home from the airport was unbelievable great with all four kids telling me everything that had happened during the previous six months I had been gone. All talking at the same time each trying to be the loudest and all talking faster than the speed of sound. I would not have traded the noise and confusion for all the peace and quiet in the world.

Since I'm married to the world's greatest woman (who just happens to be a hottie, too) I was ostensibly supposed to sleep in on my first full day home. In stead I was awakened by a smiling little face, all dressed and ready to go sometime around dawn. This was to be the big day. "Daddy" the face said, "it's time for my training wheel lessons!" No if's, and's, or but's. Today was the day. She was certain there wasn't even time for me to get dressed and have some coffee first. Just lessons, right now! Well, somehow I convinced her that if she could wait an hour or two we'd get it done before noon. So I got some coffee, some breakfast, and a shower.

Finally, the moment was upon us. Olivia and I headed out to the back yard to remove her training wheels and begin the tedious process of running up and down the street until that wonderful moment when she could do it alone. This would be my fourth time at this. I knew from experience with each of the boys that in order to get her the confidence necessary to go forward, stop, and turn would require that I spend most of the morning (at least an hour) running from the sign near the corner to the van near the Madkins house. This would be repeated over and over with me holding onto her a little less each time until finally rode her bike all by herself. So, with that expectation in mind we mounted the street and, with her pointed in the right direction I gave a few last minute pointers. "Keep peddling and don't worry I'll be holding you the whole time so if you start to fall I'll catch you. Are you ready?" I asked. In a shaky little voice mixed with fear and excitement she said, "I'm ready." So she started peddling and I started running. The next 20 yards were scary and fun and over almost immediately. "Good Job! You did great!" I said and proceeded to pick up both child and bike and turn them to face the other way. "Let's do it again" I said and grabbed her shirt as before ready to run. "Let go dad. I got it." she said confidently. It'll be a good lesson to have one small crash, I thought. It won't hurt her, only let her know she's not invincible. And with that I let go and she proceeded to peddle. And she didn't stop. She kept going and going. She even stopped and turned around and went around corners and probably would have attempted to jump the Snake River Canyon if it had been in front of her. Man, I was jipped! One lap holding on! What's that? I was supposed to be running all morning getting impatient and upset that she wasn't getting it. What happened here? My little perfect girl is growing up. And for the rest of the day, she was glued to her bike. Back and forth, around the block, each time she passed me she smiled as if to taunt me and rub my pride in her success.

I couldn't have been prouder of her.

Cuttlery in a World of Hurried Travel

2004-01-30T00:50:00.000-05:00

What a day! As I mentioned before, I can't really say what actually happens in the assessment process for my new unit, but I made it! For a minute or two I was sure I would be taking a position at Camp Dungheap in central Saskatuan, but I made it and we report this summer. Here's where the day gets fun. I finished with everything early in the afternoon and so have time to kill until my plane leaves tomorrow morning. I talked to another guy who was in the same situation and he said he was able to get on an earlier flight. After all, why wait? I had to check it out.

The airport is about 1 hour or so from here and it takes a few minutes to check in and get through security so I gotta allow for some extra time plus I still had to check out of my room which shouldn't take all that long. So after calling the airlines I determined that if I left within 38 seconds of hanging up the phone and zipped through the hotel lobby and then drove non stop at about 183 miles per hour, I could make it to an earlier flight and see my family for dinner (I haven't seen them for 5 1/2 months). I quickly packed, which didn't take very long, except that I think my t-shirts had kids because all of a sudden I didn't have enough room for my stuff. After much pounding and prying on my luggage, I headed down to the lobby to stand behind a guy with an unsolvable problem. He had the clerk tied up over something like getting a different room because his wasn't clean. AS IF! So, I finally cleared the hotel and jumped into my rented car and headed for the airport. It was a pleasant enough drive. But as I approached the airport I remembered the rental agreement stating, "If you return this car missing any gas, you will have to pay approximately the annual GNP of Andorra to have us fill it for you. Thank you for using Franks Rent a Car!" So I had to stop and waste precious time filling the car with gas. Come on man! Finally, I got to the airport and headed for the rental turn in. And after being directed by the guy in the blue vest to go there, the guy in the purple vest said I had to go there instead. Bill's rentals on the left, Franks on the right. At last I'm on my way to the ticket counter where my ticket is waiting (I reserved it over the phone). But in my haste I went to the wrong counter. The gentleman behind it was very helpful and really wanted to get me squared away which he did. As I left the counter he put a nice red sticker on my newly purchased ticket and I headed for the plane. After easily flying through security of course! Here enters the Curse of the Red Sticker. Because my ticket was a last minute purchase, I was a security risk. That's right, Chaplain Lewis, US Army, loving husband and father, minister of the Gospel, is a security risk. So I got to go to the special line where time stands still. I put my backpack on the conveyor to be x-rayed while I removed some of my clothing and all of my shoes and received a severe "wanding". As I was being "wanded" I noticed a funny look on the x-ray technicians face. Back and forth the conveyor went as if he was trying to figure out what he was seeing. He called a buddy over and they had a look together. Soon there was a small party going on at the 12 inch black and white TV and almost in unison, as though rehearsed, they looked at me, Chaplain Terrorist. I knew with out a word from my audience what they where looking at. I had left my pocket knife in my back pack. I finished taking my "wanding" and proceeded to try to explain the knife. I'm not out to take over the world. I just want to see my family. Fine with them. But what to do with the knife? They kindly informed me that I had several very good options. First, I could put it in my checked luggage, which at that point was buried in 8000 other pieces of checked luggage. Second, I could return to the front desk, get the necessary supplies and mail it home. This, of course, would mean another "wanding" upon reentry. Lastly, I could simply put it in the amnesty bin. Well, hey that's perfect. It's just a very nice knife that I paid good money for that I'll never see again. Can I give you a hundred dollars with that, too? Well, seeing as my flight was soon to depart, I opted for the amnesty (my boy will love this new knife I found at work) box. Thank you Mr. Lewis for your understanding and cooperation. Could you please step right over here while we complete the necessary paperwork for your generous donation. So I stood and explained the "forgotten knife in the backpack in hopes of taking over the world" trick to the extremely quick penned clerk. Once we finished Amnesty Form 1452-45s and the necessary Knife Disclosure Statement I headed for the gate. And believe it or not, I made it home early, and had dinner with my wife and kids.

The Joy Of Floaties

2004-01-27T00:39:00.000-05:00

It snowed a little last night. Just a dusting. And when I got up at 1 million AM it was dark and cold. I think I'll go swimming! I arrived at the pool (an indoor pool fortunately) and entered the water ready to learn how to float. I tried and tried but still I sink. I knew all along that I would be taking the retest at the end of my hour of "training" so I was more than a little nervous. I'm not real big on omens or signs, per se, but as I sank time and again, the snow storm outside grew and grew until it was an angry white out. And as before, just to make things even, I gulped a lung full of water and proceeded with the test. Ultimately, I passed...not because I learned to float, but because I learned stay only 15 inches below the surface instead of on the bottom of the pool. Apparently, floating is a big part of serving in this unit so I better figure it out somehow. I wonder if they allow implants?

Like a Rock

2004-01-26T00:16:00.000-05:00

Today I began the assessment process into my next unit. I am excited about the prospects of ministry it offers. If I successfully complete the tasks given me this week, I will be assigned there for about the next 3 years or so. The best part about a move to out of Louisiana is that my family will be in a decent city should I ever have to deploy or leave for training. No more Sherwood Forrest or Leesville. I'm only guessing but there are probably more than 2 restaurants in town and more than just a single Wal-Mart for shopping. So I am glad they will have new opportunities. I think it will be a good place and a good unit for raising our kids as they enter their teen years.

At any rate, the assessment process is something of a secret. They made me sign a non-disclosure statement so that no one outside of the unit would find out what really happens (such as the secret handshake). Actually it is simply a way to ensure that future inductees experience the same level of uncertainty and stress that I did. And I did. What I can tell you this far, is that it began with a PT test and a swim test.

The PT test was your standard, hateful, stress inducing US Army torture session that it always is. I think I did fairly well (or at least well enough to pass). After the PT test they had us do some pull ups. This is not a good time to do pullups. It'd be like striking your legs with a ball peen hammer for several minutes just to tenderize them nicely and then doing 600 pound leg presses. The nice thing was that the grader said something like do as many as you want any way you want. It didn't really matter, he seemed to be saying. So the rest of the group ripped out hundreds of perfectly styled pullups, each one showing supreme definition of the very fibers of muscle in their arms, chest and back. I, sporting my legendary pipe cleaner arms, did three. I just figured, if he wanted 40 he should have said 40.

The swim test is terribly misnamed. It did actually began with swimming. Mind you that we were in our BDUs, boots, flight vest, and helmet during this wonderful test of aquatic dexterity. First we had to swim several different strokes for a certain distance (measured in furlongs, I think). This went great. Sure, I actually inhaled several pints of chlorinated water but I finished the swim. Here is where the title "swim test" should end. Next we had to tread water for about 17 hours using no arms or no legs or whatever. I did it using no lungs. I discovered that while swimming is not a problem, not swimming is. When horizontal motion stops, vertical takes over and I sink. Full lungs were of no help. My fatless body sinks like a rock. Well, I did so great on the sinking test that they asked me to come back tomorrow. Joy.

The Six Year Follow Up

2004-01-20T23:49:00.000-05:00

As part of my upcoming assessment into what I hope will be my next unit, I have to undergo a two part physical. I've already complete part one which was little more than depositing various bodily fluids into various containers, tubes, beakers, cups and a jar or two. Today however was part two, a totally different story.

Part two of the standard US Army Flight Physical began with a quick check up by the eye doctor who promptly discovered that I need glasses. Well, that'll make you feel old. So now I wear glasses, but only when I need to actually see clearly. The next step was to actually be seen by the local flight surgeon. He checked everything, including things that ought not be check by another man. It was not natural or ever intended by our beneficent creator. Besides which, he had fingers the size of my thighs. Anytime a doctor tells you to "clean up" you know you've been through hell.

That done, we sat down for a good old fashioned medical inquisition wherein he asked me questions such as, "Do you have a family history of heart disease?" and "Have you ever had a panic attack?" and "Are you busy Friday evening?" Seriously, after much questioning he said, "Well, chaplain, every looks good!" and with that he proceeded to sign my paperwork so that I could proceed head out and conquer the world. But wait, what's this? This whole thing was going way too smoothly. "I can't sign this!" says he. "Why not?" asks me. "You must be deployable and you are not due to some necessary dental work." Well this was easily explainable. I had a root canal several months back (see my entry for October 21, 2003, Yin, Yang, and the Zen of Dental Agony) which required some follow up work. Said follow up work would require that I be placed on the "Follow Up Work Required" waiting list. Sadly this list is approximately 6 years long. So I was unable to get the necessary follow up work in time for my trip. Thus I was between a rock and a hard place. The doctor suggested I go to the dental clinic, explain my situation, and ask them to fix me up. On the surface this sounds like a good idea. The problem is that because of where I am stationed, my dental records were 2 hours away.

So, a bit later, I walked into the dentist's office hoping there was a good root canal follow up guy there and proceeded to explain to the clerk that I need a root canal but I don't have records with me and I need it right now and you're gonna have to believe me. Basically I was not just between a rock and a hard place, I was sandwiched between to concrete slabs. After pleading my case to the clerk he asked me to have a seat while he conferred with the dentist. Soon out came a dentist looking guy who happened to be the local root canal expert and happened to be free for a couple of hours and who was just dying to fix my tooth. PTL! Two hours later I walked out feeling like a million bucks, except for the right half of my head which was feeling like a dead fish.

That done, I am now able to go and see if my "new unit" would ever want a guy who's had a root canal twice in one tooth. We'll see.

Korea: Land of Converging Winds

2004-01-12T22:17:00.000-05:00

During the summer months in Korea it got so hot and humid that I was beginning to think I was living in hell. Those days are gone...Hell has frozen over. It snowed much of yesterday and last night, and by this morning we had a lovely white blanket covering a freshly beautified Camp Bonifas. Along with the beauty of the snow comes it's tyrannical soul mate, cold! Man is it cold. The usual nice three minute stroll to my office has quickly become a twenty-five second sprint for life. You see there is a wind that blows through the Panmun valley that originates somewhere near the north pole and converges with an unusual south pole wind right in front of my office. It's not a particularly hard blowing wind, but the unique combination of north and south freezing winds allows it to actually freeze thought! And the fact that I weigh 150 pounds soaking wet and have approximately -6% body fat is of no real help in defending against the attack of the demon wind. Get the idea. It's cold.

It's funny how people react. Last night as the snow was really beginning to come down, there were a bunch of guys out on the parade field having a snow fight / football game. Just looking at them as I sprinted by made me cold. Nevertheless, despite the cold, it is beautiful. Last night's snow was kind of wet and it stuck to everything. Thus there is a small layer of snow even on the barbed wire surrounding the camp. And the empty rice paddies in the area are frozen solid. A couple of them look like white skating rinks. Today the snow has stopped but the cold won't let it melt despite the clear skies and blazing bright sun. It is so bright outside you almost can't see.

It's nice to stand at my window and look at everything outside. Too bad it's not as inviting as it looks. The forecast is for more snow in a couple of days. Summer is sounding better by the minute.

Professional Amputation

2004-01-11T07:23:00.000-05:00

I'm losing my right arm! Well, kind of. Tomorrow my Chaplain's Assistant, SGT Lanier, is leaving. He is transitioning back to the United States after 15 months in Korea and will be stationed in Texas. This is what the Army is made of and what makes it a unique social institution. As we move from place to place we say goodbye to old friends and immediately begin to make new ones. Relationship building in the military moves in hyperdrive. There is no time to wait around for just the right neighbors or just the right co-workers. If you wait too long, they're gone before you have a chance to meet them and you'll spend your life feeling very lonely.

Over the past 6 months, SGT Lanier and I have worked well together and I have grown to appreciate him as a soldier, a confidante, and a friend. We would spend many mornings sipping coffee and talking about home, family, food, Korea, and anything else that came to mind. We bounced ideas and strategies for ministry off one another and developed plans and procedures to make things run smoother. And when it came down to doing ministry, he was my right arm. I would not have been nearly as effective a minister were he not here, because while I was preaching and shaking hands and counseling, he was preparing and counting and ensuring that the next event was ready to go. He has been one step ahead of me every where I have gone and when I arrived there, I looked like a genius because of his work. What more could I ask for.

I have no idea what my next assistant will be like. Over time we'll sip coffee and talk of home and build a relationship. I do know this, however, if he is half the NCO that SGT Lanier has been during the past 6 months, I am in great shape.

How To Make A Soldier Cry

2003-12-13T06:12:00.000-05:00

The upside is, it's over! The down side is, it's over! For months the lions share of our effort as the Unit Ministry Team at Camp Bonifas has been aimed at today. Approximately 8 weeks ago we generated an Operations Order (OPORD) and since issuing that OPORD to the battalion, we have been faced with planning everything about today down to the detail. Stress has become a way of life. As the day grew closer, today is just about all I thought about. So now it's over and I can breathe easier. On the other hand, today was such a success in the eyes of those that matter that I wish it could have lasted longer than it did. Today was the annual Pyong Hwa Orphanage Christmas Party. Fifty-seven kids ranging from 5 to 19 came to the JSA for a day of fun, music, food, and all out play. Here's how it went...

Several weeks ago, as part of the planning process, we collected the names and ages of the students from the orphanage and began to talk to every soldier, NCO and officer on post to see if they would sponsor a child for the party. In the end we had one US soldier and one ROK soldier sponsoring each child. Sponsoring a child meant buying them an age and gender appropriate gift, wrapping it, and then spending today with that child as much as possible. An eight hour adoption, if you will. Some soldiers adopted 3 or 4 kids. When they arrived today, we had the gym set up with huge inflatable games and ball throwing games. Outside we had 2 Humvee's ready to take the children on rides around camp. We also had one parked for them to climb all over and explore. There were 4 or 5 soldiers decked out in all their military gear with faces painted and guns and everything. Then there was a 50 caliber machine gun set up and an M240B machine gun set up for the kids to sit behind and pretend they were shooting. We also had our ambulance there in case of an emergency and also let the kids climb inside while the medics explained everything to them. So they got off the buses we had sent to pick them up, linked them up with their US and ROK soldier sponsors and then sent them into the gym to play and explore to their hearts content. The looks on their faces would melt your heart. I'm talking about the tough infantry studs playing with the kids. It was amazing.

After playtime, we marched them up to another building where they lined up and out came Santa Clause. They were pumped (the kids too). So each child, in turn, sat in Santa's lap, got their gifts from both soldiers, had their picture taken, and then moved out smartly to open and play with said gift. That was about the most fun. And to top that off, the Marine Corps gave us 57 of the most amazing gifts imaginable from "Toys for Tots" so each child received 3 presents. And man did they play and make a ton of noise (and the kids too). All during this Santa time, a brass ensemble from the 8th Army Band in Seoul were playing background Christmas music. It was perfect.

Next was dinner. We marched them down to the Dining Facility where they ate like kings. Fried chicken, hamburgers, hot dogs, turkey, rice, mashed potatoes, gravy, rolls, fries, onion rings, salads, deserts, jello. You name it, they had it available and the kids had a wonderful meal sitting by their sponsors unable to communicate verbally but smiling ear to ear and loving each others company. One of the kids I sponsored was a 13 year old girl with a great sense of humor. We took turns at dinner pointing across the room at some imaginary distraction and then when the other turned their head we would steal something off their plate. At one point she didn't bother to distract me and just reached over with her fork and took the slice of turkey I had just cut.

As the children and their soldiers finished eating they trickled back up to the Santa room. When all had arrived, they put on a show for the soldiers that was amazing. They did about 7 folk dances in varying age groups. First a bunch of girls no more than 5 or 6 years old came out and did a traditional Korean fan dance that was amazing. You should have seen the soldiers watching them. These were love stricken men and they didn't even know it. You could see them smiling at their kids and waving as though they were their own. One of the dances was performed by two little girls around 7 years old. They were dressed in beautiful white dresses and did the most graceful dance I think I've ever seen. I remember watching them and being struck by their grace and femininity. It was beautiful and not a person in the room made a noise until they finished. I thought the windows would break for all the applause and whistling. Such tough infantry guys. After that we made an attempt to sing some carols with the kids, accompanied by the 8th Army Band, and then it was time to say good bye. The kids piled on their busses and the soldiers surrounded them. Arms and heads were moving in and out of the windows as each tried to remain with their kids at least one more second. Kisses and hugs were too numerous to count. The busses couldn't move because of the mass of soldiers pressed around them. I went to the door of one bus to tell the driver to move out slowly and a little girl in the font row jumped into my arms saying "Moksahnim" (pronounced Moke Sah Neem) which is a special reverent word for pastor. She was 6 years old. She hugged my neck and gave me a big kiss right on my mouth and then smiled at me. I melted.

Finally, the busses began to pull away with a hundred soldiers waving and blowing kisses to children they will probably never see again. No one wanted to turn and walk away. As the busses moved out a little boy leaned out the window and saluted. Every guy gasped and started laughing in order to keep from crying.

So I'm glad it's over. But if I could I would do it again right now.

Meals and Music Make Strange Bedfellows

2003-11-16T09:09:00.000-05:00

Today I attended a luncheon and the Neutral Nations Supervisory Commission camp in the JSA. It was hosted by a General from the Swiss Army and the food was magnificent. I guess the proper way to hold a formal lunch is to begin with cocktail hour at approximately 11am. Well, being a non drinker I asked for coffee. I think at that point I really insulted the guy behind the bar because he looked at me as if my face were made of stewed carrots and said, "This is cocktail time. We have no coffee!" Oh, pardon me! How dare I! Quickly and a tad less authoritatively, I asked for a glass of water. He glanced with disgust and handed me a glass of crystal clear water as if he were handing me a napkin full of ox droppings. After enjoy the conversation of a hotel manager from Australia, a Canadian Embassy worker, and a few other interesting people, we were invited into the meal. We wandered to whatever table and chair we felt comfortable with and sat down. At my table was my battalion commander, our signal officer, a young man and his little sister who are the children of a Swedish Army officer. Also there was the worlds quietest man who I'm fairly sure never brushes his hair and one other. He was a "Brew Meister". He too lacked hair care skills and needed dental work as badly as a cockney chocolatier. I say he was a brew meister because he attend a school in Munich for two years after working 6 years in the beer making business. This guy loved beer. In fact, he kind of smelled like he bathed in it. The first part of the meal was Swiss cheese melted in a little oven and then eaten hot with fruit and vegetables. Cauliflower and Swiss cheese is an unusual flavor combination to say the least. However, the taste was mild and quite enjoyable. The same cannot be said of the smell. As the cheese melted it began to emit a rather interesting odor. Maybe "interesting isn't the right word". I think rancid works a bit better. And not just a little. Overwhelming comes to mind. I noted, out loud, that the smell was unusual and the brew meister said, "That's not the cheese!" glancing down at his feet. Well, we all gave an uncomfortable chuckle at his little "joke" and it became as clear as my ox dropping water that he had the social skills of said ox. Notwithstanding some of the company and the smell it was a wonderful meal of various meats, fresh bread, fresh fruit, and some of the most incredible desserts ever made. The Swiss know how to put on a first class lunch. There was one chocolate dessert, a cream/cake thingy that I think I'd actually kill for. It was fabulous. After lunch we "retired" to the lounge for some of the best coffee this side of Seattle. Wow!

After returning to Camp Bonifas I made my way to my hooch for my compulsory Sunday afternoon nap. As I lay on my bed watching TV (actually just looking at a running screen) I began to think about chapel service this morning. I preached about music and why we sing and what it does for us. It's not always comfortable but it's always beneficial when we allow God to speak to us through music. I muted the TV, went to my computer, and began to play some music. I started looking for songs I didn't know and ran across one called "How Deep The Fathers Love For Us". I think I've listened to it a thousand times today. It starts like this...

How deep the Fathers love for us
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch His treasure

What a deal. Imagine being God's treasure! He must see something I don't cause when I look I see trash. He sees treasure. The more I think about it the more I am moved. I have to wonder if God brought those words to my attention because of how I looked at my friend the Brew Meister. Another part of that same song says...

Behold the Man upon the cross
My sin upon His shoulders
Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice
Call out among the scoffers

I mock Him when I look down on those made in His image. To think I am better than anyone belies a belief that some parts of God's image are better than others. How sad to think such a thing. AW Tozer said, "The Church [in this case me] has surrendered her once lofty concept of God and has substituted it for one so low, so ignoble, as to be utterly unworthy of thinking, worshipping men."

My new little song friend ends with...

I will not boast in anything
No gifts, no power, no wisdom
But I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection
Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom

So I preached about music and singing this morning and ended today singing alone in my room. Not trying to be rather spiritual but just imagining that simple song as being the sound of Christ's work for me, and for those that reflect his image better than I ever will.

All good things...

2003-10-25T08:44:00.000-04:00

Tina left today! Welcome, Silence my old friend! Come on in Lonliness! Make yourselves at home.

Yin, Yang, and the Zen of Dental Agony

2003-10-21T02:56:00.000-04:00

Things always seem to come in pairs, often opposite pairs. Black and white...hot and cold...Hope & Crosby. So it was with Tina's visit to Korea. But the problem actually began about a week before she arrived. My tooth began to ache slightly. No real pain just a dull ache. So I figured in my own logical way that I'd just take some motrin and then see the dentist after she left. Good plan. NOT! As the days wore on it began hurting a bit more so I upped the dosage of motrin. Finally I decided I should go get with the PA and see if he could hook me up with something a bit more powerful. He did just that and the Tylenol with Codeine coupleled with the topical lidocaine for more immediate relief worked pretty well . For a while. Then Tina and I headed to Seoul for our stay at the Dragon Hill and the tooth began to hurt more and more. Finally I couldn't take it any more and one morning I went on emergency dental sick call and they performed a root canal. That did the trick. We were able to enjoy the rest of our time in Seoul with only a bit of post dental surgery pain. Problem was that the pain didn't loose momentum. In fact it got worse. So back at Camp Bonifas 3 days later I was in such pain that I took about 1000mg of motrin. That did nothing so I took some codeine. Still no effect. The pain continued to grow. But this was not ordinary pain. If you've never had real tooth pain the only way you'll understand my agony would be to slowly push a 16 penny nail through your face and slowly pull it out the other side. Had it not been for Tina's quick thinking by hiding my Leatherman pocket tool, I would have pulled my own tooth without hesitation. I tired with my fingers but teeth are fairly slippery I guess because I couldn't get a grip on it enough to pull it. Finally Tina had enough of my pain and she walked down to the Doc's room around 10 PM to see if he could help. He asked me a few questions to which I answered, "Can you just remove my face please?" So he gave me the wonder drug...valium. That ended the pain and put me to sleep. It was beautiful and I didn't wake up until a full 20 minutes later in agonizing pain. So, pumped up on Motrin, Tylenol, Codeine, and Valium and still experience the worst pain short of giving birth to a horse through your nose I was driven 1 hour to the hospital in Yongsan where they gave me a "nerve block". Basically they temporarily disabled the nerve to the right side of my face. It was heaven. No pain at all. In fact no feeling at all. And no control at all. But man did I sleep well. So I returned to Camp Bonifas and then the next morning went back to Yongsan to the dentist who gave me another root canal. In the end, all is well and I have a couple of followup appointments later in the month to kind finish stuff off. In the middle of a wonderful visit we went on a blind date with misery, and she ordered the lobster.

A Week On The Hill

2003-10-18T10:34:00.000-04:00

Tina and I spent the last 4 days at the Dragon Hill Lodge in Yongsan. It was a great time. The room was beautiful and because I am such a nice and thoughtful individual I had flowers sent up to the room on our first day there. We spent the first day walking around Itaewan shopping. I took Tina to the little store where I had ordered a dress made for her and they had the wrong color trim so they redid it and we had to go back later in the week. As we walked around This guy coerced us into his store and we ended up ordering a hand made suit. Man, it fits like a hand made suit. During the week we shopped at various outdoor markets such as Insadong and Myongdong, and were able to find toys and clothing and just about anything in the world. We visited a huge centuries old palace and watched the changing of the royal imperial well dressed guard where this one guy beats the daylights out of a drum the size of Rhode Island. It was pretty cool cause you just don't see guys usually dressed like that. All in all our week there was a wonderful treat. We ate all kinds of food. I was very proud of Tina as she actually tried Kimchi and a host of other dishes made out of unknown creatures and plants. Again, it is so good to have her here. I wish she could stay till sometime around June.

Comfort from Home

2003-10-09T07:57:00.000-04:00

Unless you've been plunged into a strange place away from everything and everyone you know and are comfortable with you cannot possibly know the loneliness and isolation that a place like Camp Bonifas represents. Despite being around plenty of people, it is amazing how lonely one can feel in such circumstances. It was that context into which Tina broke. I would be hard pressed to describe how my heart leapt at the first site of her in the airport. I felt like I was in high school again. It was simply incredible and she looks wonderful. Not unlike the comforting smell of a favorite shirt or a warm fire at Grandpa's house. It feels comfortable to look at her again. Her hand in mine is a perfect fit. And besides all that, I married a hottie! Not much more to say. It's good to have my friend with me again.

A Rat with a Gun

2003-08-31T11:26:00.000-04:00

It’s called Lotte (pronounced Lowtay) World. And, brother, it is jammed with fun. If I had to describe it I would say it is a theme park that seems to exist in that ethereal place where Knott’s Berry Farm® meets K-Mart®. I recently spent much of a day playing in this wonderland with several of the soldiers from my battalion as part of a 3-day retreat away from our home/work place. Lotte World screams to be commented on.

We arrived via subway shortly after the park opened. In order to get from the subway station to the actual park, one must possess a very sensitive global positioning system, an extremely acute sense of direction, or a Korean. Without one or more of these things you don’t stand a chance of ever reaching your destination. The reason is that the entrance to Lotte World is buried deep in the bowels of Seoul at the far end of an apparently endless cavern. In order to get the proper picture of the situation one must not envision a cave entering the side of a lonely mountain. Instead, one must envision a cave entering the side of a lonely mountain lined with all manner of vendors, or as I prefer to call them, crap peddlers. Man, they will sell you anything and everything. And the thing is that one shop will be stocked with cell phones and accessories and the very next shop will be stocked with more cell phones and accessories. After approximately 135,287 cell phone shops you arrive at the first of the 34,951 shoe stores followed immediately by the 587,012 cheesy dress sellers. And these do not line a single tunnel. Instead, you must navigate through a labyrinth that would make the Minotaur jealous. Once you have successfully moved through this maze of vendors, you come at last to the gates of nirvana … Lotte World.

The first thing one notices about Lotte World is its mascot. It is written into the World Theme Park Charter of 1274 that all amusement parks must have a mascot. Disneyland has Mickey Mouse. Six Flags has Bugs Bunny. Lotte World has…well, I’m not sure what that thing is. My compatriots and I stood for several moments discussing the species of the Lotte World mascot. Some said it was a squirrel…but where’s the big bushy tail? Some said it must be a raccoon…but what’s with those teeth? Still others thought it has got to be a chipmunk…come on, look at those eyes! All anyone knows for sure is that it belongs to the class mammalia and the subclass eutheria. I mean, really, a pongo pygmaeus would know that much! With the identity of the mascot’s species still undecided, and not knowing its name (since we don’t read Hongul) we braved entering the park not knowing what to expect.

As it turns out, Lotte World has much about it we could not ascertain from mere empirical observation. This held true in regards to the actual theme of this theme park. For the most part it was a smattering of 17th century Caribbean piracy infused with touches of medieval baroque, some Bavarian castly stuff, a little 23rd century futuristic technothings, some good old down home home flavor, and perhaps a dab of disco. This should give the reader a very vague sense of what Lotte World is all about to the casual observer, because frankly, having been there in person I still have only a very vague sense of what Lotte World is all about.

Being an amusement park, Lotte World had amusements. Adrenaline producing rides that leave amusee in a state of euphoria and with a deep-seated desire for more. One ride spun like a merry-go-round while swinging on a pendulum while another ride lifted the rider to dizzying heights only to let go and offer a brief free fall. But the ride that bears the most comment had to be the Sinbad ride. This is one of those indoor boat rides that take you into a dark tunnel where you slowly work your way through scenes of horror and fright, except on this ride they emphasized the “slowly” and seriously downplayed the “horror and fright”. The designers of this ride must have lived with the conviction that to drag riders at an almost imperceptibly slow pace past a hundred zillion plastic skeletons yammering chilling words in a strange tongue would produce maximum scarage. Can I just say here that this was not the case? In reality what this ride does is eat 20 minutes of your life. Riders of several nationalities could be overheard saying, “Man, I thought that would never end!”

Lunchtime rolled around and we headed for the food court. Here our Americanness came fully to bear. When coupled together, the words “food court” indicate certain things to the westerner. Things like pizzas, tacos, slushies, lemonade, pretzels, and hoagies. The producers of Lotte World have a different idea of what a “food court” is and it involves a choice of Korean food or Japanese food! So let’s see…hmmm…do I want the fire hot rice with meat of unknown origin or the raw fish and seaweed pate? I’ll just interject at this point that dinner never tasted so good!

In the heart of Lotte World sits an indoor ice rink complete with every Eric Hayden wannabe on the Korean peninsula. Adjacent to the ice rink is a state of the art bowling alley complete with dimly lit, smoke filled video game arcade. Next to the bowling alley is probably the most disturbing part of Lotte World. It is disturbing not only because of what it is but because of the several posters throughout the park informing guests of its presence and bidding them come and enjoy this most exciting of activities. The posters feature the indeterminate rodentish mascot of Lotte World pointing with one hand in the direction of said attraction and with the other hand brandishing a Glock 9mm. That’s right, Lotte World, family oriented theme-like amusement park has a shooting range. All one has to do is go up, pay a small fee and “rent” any of a number of weapons ranging from the kid friendly .22 caliber pistol to the Dirty Harry .44 caliber special. Approximately 15 weapons representing most major gun makers and most of the “popular” calibers are available to John Q. Citizen. Roughly $35 buys you 10 rounds and a human silhouette target. Fun, fun, fun.

So, as evening approached we departed Lotte World, and made our way out into the shop maze. We arrived back at the subway station approximately 8 hours later and headed home to ponder the events of the day. And the next time I see a Racchipmunsquirrel I’ll remember Lotte World and smile.

Notional Caffeine

2003-08-26T07:33:00.000-04:00

There are many events in the military that you will never see in the civilian world, such as 200 people wearing identical clothes and no one being embarrassed. “Oh great, look he’s wearing camouflage, too. How embarrassing!” But more interesting than common clothing is the “alert”. This is basically notional and controlled panic. It is when everyone in a given unit or installation takes a day at least and physically practices what to do in a given contingency. That contingency could be a terrorist attack or a plane crash or a civil emergency of some sort. Last week we had what is called a NEO alert. While it may seem difficult to believe, the Army has devised a plan for saying Noncombatant Evacuation Operation. And last weeks exercise gave everyone lots of opportunities to say “NEO”. Another interesting thing about emergency situations in the military is that they never take place right after lunch. Usually, Army style emergencies occur within mere moments of attaining REM sleep. Our NEO exercise was no exception.

Bright and early the horns of hell sounded. To the seasoned Camp Bonifas dweller this sound means, “Get up and move quickly to your place of duty!” However, to those of us new to this place, the early morning siren meant our alarms were probably going off and if we would just hit it hard enough it would stop. But it didn’t and approximately 23 minutes later I found myself in a briefing indicating that the North Koreans had just begun to move south and we were in imminent danger. This was of course notional but it was sobering nonetheless. The entire camp was to be evacuated along with the DMZ Village of Tae Song Dong. Each section and platoon had a very distinct task that had been planned and briefed months and years in advance. The plan was in effect, all that was required was to execute it.

My role in this alert was to go through the motions like everyone else and do notionally what I would do actually were there to be an actual attack. After the meeting, I headed back to my office area and linked up with my assistant and a cup of coffee. Our vehicle was already loaded with our rucksacks, duffle bags, religious supplies and plenty of cold sodas. The idea is to be able to survive 30 to 60 days without resupply. If required we may have been able to pull it off, too, except for the fact that we had only one meal each. So while 30 to 60 days may have been something of a stretch, I truly believe we could have gone say, 30 to sixty minutes. Had this been a real alert and not just an exercise, we probably would have been over run by North Koreans quicker than you could say, “Did you start a pot of coffee?” Also we would have actually done some ministry. But since it was notional and since it is difficult, based on the nature of the business, to do notional ministry, we just kind of hung out for a while and talked about what we would be doing in different circumstances. After the ups and downs of imaginary ministry, we got the word that some or other event had notionally taken place that would normally precipitate a move for us. So we moved. We grabbed our coffee, jumped in the van, and drove to the aid station, which if the roads are clear and the weather is accommodating is approximately 28 seconds from my office. Quickly we rushed inside, pretending to be reacting to emergency situations, and in our most simulated voice of panic said, “Where’s the coffee?” The aid station is an ideal place for me during this kind of a situation because it is where one would normally find victims of a war situation and those looking for coffee. So we fit right in.

After hanging with the docs for a while, again a code word rang out over the radio indicating that we were to move to a central point where everyone left on camp would evacuate after the simulated destruction of all assets remaining behind. Here it is a good thing this was notional because had the Angry Pink Hoards come rushing up the road they would have found us standing around, sipping the last vestiges of the wonder brew and complementing ourselves as to how well this thing was notionally going. Finally the convoy formed up and we headed out along the preplanned escape route.

Just as we were preparing to cross the bridge to freedom it was notionally destroyed, and I notionally soiled my notional self. Plan B went quickly into effect and we all headed down to a predesignated point on the bank of the river. Once there, all were accounted for and we began to cross the river to safety. This was not notional. That is to say, we did not actually pretend to notionally cross the river. In other words, our crossifying was unnotionalized. We got in rubber rafts and really went over the river after coming through the woods. I got a little wet, about up to mid thigh. This would include my feet, which were in boots at the time, which happened to be filled with water. For the soldier in the US Army, having wet boots and feet is not really a problem. The difficulty comes during the slow, painful drying process. As the water slowly seeps out of the boot the pants stick to the legs, the leather boots begin to constrict ever so slightly, and madness begins. One can loose ones mind within minutes due to the drying itch. This is when, as a result of the clothing drying slowly, all skin begins to itch. Victims become irrational as they scratch and loose all modesty as they try to strip off all damp items. At least I do.

Once across the river, approximately 7 hours after it began at way-too-early o’clock, the exercise ended. We loaded busses strategically filled with sleep dust and tried desperately to stay awake for the long ride back over the Imjin River to Camp Bonifas. This was no easy task as the ride took approximately 15 minutes. I’m still not sure how we took 6 hours to go 15 minutes, but we managed swimmingly. Once back on Camp Bonifas the day was over…or so I thought (insert diabolical laughter and thunder clap here). The final part of the day was the ever-popular After Action Review. This is when all key leaders in the battalion sit around for about 12 hours and tell each other how well they did and what they thought of the exercise overall. This takes a very long time as each person complements every other person on what they saw during every phase of the operation from their perspective. It’s making me tired just thinking about it.

I need a cup of coffee.

The Heart and Seoul of Land Navigation

2003-08-04T09:18:00.000-04:00

There are certain skills in which every soldier, regardless of Military Occupational Specialty (MOS), must be competent. Skills such as marksmanship with the M-16 or M-4 rifle, hand to hand fighting techniques, and the proper use of Brasso®. These are skills that are indispensable in a time of war. One soldier skill in particular, however, is of utmost importance ... land navigation or land nav. It is the ability to make one's way across unfamiliar terrain using only the most rudimentary tools ... a map and a compass. Knowing how to do this simple task can save a lost soldiers life.

This weekend my assistant and I escorted 22 newly assigned soldiers into Seoul, Korea for what we call Chaplain's Land Nav. The intent is to orient new soldiers to the terrain and culture so that they can find their way around the subways and alleys of this huge city. Chaplains Land Nav also serves to get them out of the barracks for a day and gives me an opportunity to interact with them in a casual setting and begin to build relationships that may one day assist them in to the Kingdom.

Our day began at the subway station near Yongsan, the Army base in Seoul, where we divided the soldiers into 6-man teams, gave them a map, explained how to utilize the subway, gave them a list of places they were required to find and sent them off on something of an urban scavenger hunt. As my team set out, I quickly assessed the situation, conferred with my compatriots, and considered that it was 11am and I had not had a cup of coffee. So bringing all my leadership talents to bear, I decided that the first order of business was to find Starbucks®. This decision would prove to be the deciding factor in the success of our day for when we arrived we did not find just any coffee shop. Instead we found five floors of java joy. Five beautiful floors dedicated to the worship of the great bean god. Five floors of caffeinated bliss. It was an awesome and delightful sight. Quickly I checked my map and discovered that regardless of where we were, I needed some Joe. Once inside our newly discovered Den of Delight I ordered a cup of black gold and waited in line to pay. When the attendant pointed to the register (she spoke very little English) I wondered if maybe my brew of ecstasy was to be served in a solid gold chalice. I had to pay 2750! Come on man, it's just a cup of coffee! As it turns out I was in Korea at the time so the price equated to about $2.50. That's a bit more reasonable, thank you.

After leaving Shangri-Liquid we headed out once again into the mean streets of Seoul. Approximately 15 million people live there and a good percentage of them sell shoes. I know this because as we made our way to our next point of interest we passed through what I like to call, "The never ending expanse of shoe sales in every conceivable style and color where they sell at least 15 million pairs of shoes none of which are very tasteful or look extremely comfortable." Finally we succeeded in passing through shoeland, worked our way through goldfishandotherdomesticaedwatercreatures land, and arrived safely at the Wholesale Toy Section of Seoul. We looked around for a while finding cool toys we claimed to be looking at for our children back home, and then headed out to stop number three ... lunch. To find lunch one must get back on the subway, stand among every resident of Seoul inside a space the size of a small family sedan, and wait until the tide of people wish to get off, where you hope to be deposited at your desired destination. Fortunately, we made it and headed to "lunch".

Lunch was to be found in an area of town called the Something Unpronounceable By the Western Tongue Market. In the SUBWTM you don't have to look very far to find something newly dead or something else wishing it was. We walked slowly around trying not to participate in our mephitic surroundings saying such intelligent things as, "Oh man, what is THAT?" and "Dude! Oh my gosh is that a pigs face?" It was in this context that we found a small place to eat. When the host saw that there were 6 of us he motioned in Korean for us to use the dining area upstairs. This nearly upset the apple cart. The window was open, the air conditioner was off, and there was a large fan ostensibly circulating the air. Actually it was pulling "fresh" air in from the market below and forcing it into the upstairs dining oven. Our waiter arrived, turned on the AC, and asked to take our order. We had no idea what the menu said so we pointed to the lovely pictures on the wall. In this we discovered that marketing is a global conspiracy with similar tactics around the world such as making pictures that look appetizing when in reality the dish portrayed bears little resemblance to any thing edible. That's not all true. My dish kind of looked like my picture and in the end was not all bad. It consisted of half a bowl of the worlds hottest rice topped with fresh cut vegetables and a raw egg that cooked immediately upon being stirred into the molten rice. Stirred together it makes a very delicious and very filling meal. A couple of my fellow travelers were not so fortunate with their picture vs. reality combinations. One of them pointed a picture labeled "meat" and actually didn't eat until we found a Burger King® several hours later. The other pointed to a picture labeled "Welsh Pancake". This would prove to be a misnomer entirely as it was nothing like a pancake and I can't imagine anyone eating it, let alone the God-fearing and peace-loving Welsh. It consisted of what we believed to be crab meat and vegetables fried into an unidentified, discolored gelatinous substance and topped with some kind of tentacles. That's right ... tentacles ... suckers and all. His immediate response was, "I don't even do sea food." Being the leader, I assured him no one I know had ever died eating that stuff, whatever it was. And with that he dove right in and spent approximately 1 hour eating everything but the tentacles (which weren't all that bad). Once we finished lunch we wandered back into the Market of Ex-Life and off to our next stop.

This time it was a modern mall with all the creature comforts. For a moment I could have sworn I was home except that everyone was short and speaking a foreign language. Also, the streets outside had to be empty because brother that place was packed. Koreans are probably one of the most gracious and friendly peoples in the world. But when you cram them all into one huge mall ... well, does "cacophony" mean anything to you? Across the street from Decibel Mall was a Buddhist temple built over 700 years ago. While not a large place, it was quite impressive. Surrounded by the noise of one of the world's largest cities, it was strangely peaceful. My assistant and I had to nearly tackle one of our guys about to step up onto a platform the Koreans were bowing in front of. Now, I'm not all that impressed with praying to stones, but I'm less impressed with getting the daylights beat out of me by angry old people for desecrating their religious sites. So with an international incident averted, we got back on the subway and headed into Yongsan. And together, as a group, with the kind of comeraderie one finds only in the military, we ate dinner at Taco Bell®.

A Place Of History

2003-07-28T09:50:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while I find myself in a place or situation not of my design. Places like Germany when the iron curtain fell or western Louisiana when the Space Shuttle Columbia exploded. Yesterday was one of those places and situations.

Yesterday marked the 50th Anniversary of the Signing of the Armistice to end hostilities between North and South Korea and establish the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) that still divides the Korean peninsula. A ceremony was held in Pan Mun Jom, a "village" that straddles the border between the two Koreas and serves as a symbolic conference center for continuing peace talks.

The day began with an insanely early sounding of my alarm clock at 0430. An overcast, drizzly day greeted me as I emerged from my hooch. The gloomy atmosphere was exacerbated by very real possibility of trouble. On everyone's minds were the rumors of orders from Kim Jong Il, president of North Korea, to attempt to disrupt the Armistice Commemoration at the Joint Security Area (JSA) in Pan Mun Jom. I linked up with my South Korean Assistant, went to the arms room to get him his 9mm pistol and we headed north.

This was to be my first drive through the DMZ. I expected something out of a war movie. However, aside from the fence on the south boundary of the DMZ, I saw only plush hills and green rice paddies. Still, I could not shake the twinge of fear that the KPA (the North Korean Army) might try something. As we passed the entrance to TaeSong Dong (Liberty Village), the only village inside the DMZ on the south side of the border, the rain soaked guards saluted until we rounded the next turn in the road. A short while later we pulled into PMJ and the JSA.

Again, I was pleasantly surprised by the modernity of this place on the border between hostile nations. Here and there were various monuments to those who had given their lives in the years since the Armistice. Most visible on the compound is the Sunken Garden, where a young South Korean soldier was killed by his North Korean "brothers" as they attempted to retrieve a Soviet defector who had rushed across the border to freedom. The two main buildings on the south are called Freedom House (the larger of the two) and Peace House. The exterior seemed to be made mostly of glass. Inside, the walls and floors were of polished granite, the chandeliers were crystal, the candelabras were silver and the chairs were leather. It was like seeing a 4 star hotel in downtown Tonopah, NV. Freedom House sits approximately 50 feet from the Military Demarcation Line (MDL) which is the actual border. Three small United Nations blue buildings sit on the border and serve as conference rooms allowing negotiators to sit at the same table while staying in their respective countries. Three North Korean guard towers stand in a line parallel to the border and about 30 feet north of it. To the west of Freedom House, south of the border, stands a large and colorful pagoda.

For this occasion, a very large white tent had been erected between the two main buildings to hold the commemoration ceremony. In attendance were 2500 Korean War veterans from many different countries, their families, countless press, more generals than should be allowed in one place at one time, and dignitaries from around the world including Henry Kissenger and Helen Clark, the Prime Minister of New Zealand. Many countries were represented such as The United States, Great Britain, New Zealand, Australia, Canada, France, Germany, South Korea and others.

The soldiers and officers of my battalion were tasked with security for the event. Thus we arrived very early, set up and waited. Finally, bus after bus began to arrive loaded with some of the greatest people on earth. As these heroes of old made their way onto the compound their faces were alive with wonder. You could tell by their expressions that many of them could not believe where they were. I stood at one corner of Freedom House and watched them pass by. I heard more than one comment that the last time they saw that area it was anything but green. Every so often one would approach me, noticing the cross on my hat, and give a brief account of their chaplain during the war, or mention that they have a son or uncle or brother who is or was a chaplain. Everywhere conversations were taking place as these honored vets stopped to talk to their younger brothers in arms. All had stories to tell, and all told them readily. With so many countries represented there were accents to spare and much of what was said to me I could not understand. However, I could understand their gestures and expressions and even though they mumbled or squeaked or prattled on in a dialect I could not make out, there was no mistaking...these men had been a part of something awesome and terrible and they are to be respected, even revered for it. One very elderly Korean gentleman approached me with outstretched hand and began speaking very quickly. I could not understand him, but as he spoke, staring into my eyes, I knew I was listening to someone important. I nodded respectfully without saying a word and he departed. A young man quickly approached me and told me the old man was a retired Korean general and he wanted to shake my hand. He wanted to shake my hand. Later I overheard an elderly American Veteran with very clear speech speaking to a group of young soldiers. He said, "Thank you boys for what you are doing." He couldn't know what it meant to those around him to hear that. My young Korean Assistant, who is no more that 20 years old, said to me as we watched a sea of old warriors flowing by, "I am glad for them to have fought for our freedom."

As the ceremony commenced the crowd disappeared. This allowed me to move through Freedom House and stand in front of Conference Row. On the other side of the border, the North has it's own building roughly analogous to our Freedom House. It's called Pan Mun Gak. During the entire day a lone sentry in dress uniform stood at the top of the steps facing us. To his left a small window was slightly ajar with an observer just inside. He, too, stayed there all day watching us through binoculars or a camera or a scope. Just watching. We were being watched from each of the guard towers as well. Cameras were positioned in strategic locations to monitor the goings on on the south side. We too have several cameras trained on them. Each side suspicious of the other.

As the ceremony in the tent proceeded, the activity behind Freedom House increased. The plan was to allow the vets to come out and look at Pan Mun Gak across the border and even enter T-2, the center building on Conference Row where they could cross into North Korea inside the building. This meant much stress, tension, and security. Soldiers were placed at the south corners of the three conference buildings with two more outside the south entrance of T-2 and still two more at the north entrance inside the building. The guards at the corners stood stone still, staring at the lone guard at Pan Mun Gak with one eye exposed from behind the cover of T-2. It was not a little eerie! Once the ceremony concluded, 2500 guests made their way to conference row. Four soldiers appeared on the roof of PMG to take a look at the crowd and have a smoke. Just inside Freedom House, a buffet was set up with world-class food for our very deserving veterans. The soldiers on the North could only watch and wish. Again, with a plate of food and a desire to see the inside of T-2, conversation flowed. Stories came easy. Everyone remembered. Somehow, I became the unofficial photographer for several vets and their families wanting a picture of them with PMG and it's lone sentry in the background to prove they were so close to North Korea. One gentleman was being pushed through the crowd in a wheelchair proudly holding a picture of himself taken in Korea 52 years before. He was a favorite with the photographers from around the world.

Finally the busses returned and picked up their passengers to head back to Seoul for another banquet and commemoration. As the compound slowly emptied I watched from the high point in the pagoda. I watched as hundreds of old soldiers hobbled and limped to their busses. Their sacrifices had secured freedom for South Korea and the world. In stark contrast to the real efforts and accomplishments of these great men, in the distance I could see Kijong Dong, aptly nicknamed "Propaganda Village". It is the only village in the DMZ north of the border. It has many high rises and seems to be a small metropolis in the middle of nowhere. In reality, Kijong Dong is a facade, literally. Fake buildings made to portend prosperity but only a shell of a village.

The Joint Security Area, the Demilitarized Zone, and the 50th Anniversary of the Signing of the Armistice to end hostilities between North and South Korea and establish the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) that still divides the Korean peninsula. In the shadow of that place of history stood 2500 History Makers. Yesterday, I found myself in a place outside of my own design and I'm thankful.

Free Time

2003-07-18T21:18:00.000-04:00

It's called S'ha gu, (pronounced ts ha goo) which when translated means "four balls". It is at once terrifying and awesome to behold, especially for the westerner unaccustomed to such things. Four balls, is neither a genetic defect, nor a venereal disease. It is a game. The playing field is a standard looking pool table except that there are no pockets and it only has four balls, thus the name. Two of the balls are white and two are red. The two white balls are the cue balls. The goal is for each player to attempt to hit the two red balls with his cue ball while not hitting his opponents cue ball. While this may sound simple enough it is not, unless you happen to be Korean. Then it becomes as easy as breathing. I'm not sure why this is, but it is. I know this because I decided to play a round with my Korean assistant, Corporal Park, and in about 30 seconds he had scored the required 5 points whereas I has only agreed to play.

Another Korean game that bears mention is Jok Koo. In Korean it's called Jok Koo. Basically it consists of 2 five man teams on a tennis court kicking a soccer ball over the net in a sort of amalgamation of soccer, tennis, and volleyball. As far as I know it has no rules or points. However, I think victory belongs to the team that can most sound like a bevy of cats being hurled around an empty gymnasium.

The Koreans are not the only ones here who enjoy sports. Just the other day, the American soldiers enjoyed an all day volleyball tournament. For me this was good way to meet many of the soldiers and officers in an informal setting. This was a good plan at first. However, as the day dragged on and the beer began to slowly disappear, it turned from volleyball to something that should be called, "I got it" as that is what every player would shout whenever the ball was within 100 feet of them. They seemed to run around the court in one big mass, kind of like an amoeba moving around a petrie dish. In the end I think they were just trying to hold each other up and just happening to strike the ball occaisionally.

Sports are very important here, both as an outlet for bored young men and as a diversion from the situation that surrounds us. More often than not, there is television nearby with ESPN on and everyone cheering at the outcome of the Men's All World Checker Championships that they just knew, having memorized every statistic since the Eisenhower administration, would be won by the farmboy from Iowa.

The Korean soldiers don't watch ESPN. They would much rather participate in their favorite indoor pastime. They call it Karaoke. They should call it, "How much you wanna bet I can rape this next song at the top of my lungs?"

So that's what we do with our free time here...watch sports and play sports. And for one such as I this is about as fun as darning my socks.

The Trip

2003-07-16T18:45:00.000-04:00

Sunday the 13th was a most difficult day. Got up, tied up some loose ends, loaded the family in the van, and headed for the airport in Alexandria, LA. After checking in, we went to lunch and while things may have seemed normal to those looking on, it was anything but. I took turns staring at each of the kids knowing I couldn't touch them again for 6 months. I glanced constantly at Tina thinking the same. We finished and headed back to the airport to wait. I was horrible saying goodbye. I held each of the kids one at a time, told them I loved them and kissed their little faces. By the time I got to Tina we were the only ones in the terminal, the flight was fixing to leave, and the security people, I guess, needed one more stooge to meet their, "take off your shoes and let us scan your underarms" quota. I got to be that stooge. That done, I blew kisses to everyone through the glass and boarded my plane. I had a window seat and was straining to see our car one last time, but didn't. However, God is good. Having worked at Ft. Polk for 2 and 1/2 years I have seen arial photos of it many times. About 7 or 8 minutes into the flight I began to see a few familiar landmarks and was able to decipher where we were. I actually say my house and neighborhood. That was nice.

The Houston Airport was a sea of people so I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down to read "Tarzan of the Apes". I finished by the time we got to Osan Air Base. The next leg took us to Seattle where I met a chaplain friend of mine. I had a layover of several hours so we sat in the USO and drank coffee and talked shop. Finally I boarded and took off for Korea. The flight was about 10.5 hours and I couldn't sleep. I just kept reading. Whenever I stopped reading I couldn't help thinking about Tina and the kids and it was killing me so I just read alot and watched a couple of movies. Finally we landed on Tuesday the 15th having somehow bypassed Monday altogether.

I was met at the airport by a couple of captains from the JSA and they drove me to Seoul. That is one huge city! We spent most of the day inprocessing into the Korean theatre and finaly reached our hotel around 4pm. By that time I had been up for about 40 hours and things were either hysterical or frightening. I would say I wasn't hallucinating, but I may have been imagining it. The hotel was quite nice. It was a Korean hotel called the Itaewan Hotel which roughly translates, "Lodge of the Little People". The lobby seemed normal enough. Not so floors 2 and above. When I got off the elevator I almost hit my head on the ceiling. The elevator had more headspace than the actual ceiling in the hallway. I made my way to my room trying not to scalp myself, and found that the beds there were pretty close to the ground. In fact, they were on the ground. Also they were as hard as the ground. This does not make sleep very restful. I took a quick shower and my chest got a real good cleaning in what I believe was the hottest water known to mankind. Finally, I got to bed and slept like a baby for about an hour. Jet lag should be listed as a serious illness. The next morning I had pastries and coffee at the Dragon Hill Lodge on the post in Seoul. It it a beautiful 5 star hotel for military personnell and I think has high ceilings in the rooms. The day was spent doing paperwork and meeting people.

The Trip is finally over and now the work begins.

In The Beginning...

2003-07-09T22:26:00.000-04:00

This is the first of what I hope to be many entries. However, it will be the last for several days, even weeks. I will be leaving for Korea on Sunday and will be Stationed there for 1 year and am not sure when I will be able to begin adding other entries. This blog will be my account of what I experience there. I hope to include pictures and other media when possible to help others understand the life of a soldier on or near the DMZ.