The Politics of Greatness

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

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

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

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

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

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 displays of superhumanity, such as when my heart continues beating 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, and 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 on 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 and/or moral foundation upon which to build their actions.

One of the things I do, and enjoy very much, is to muster with the soldiers as they gather in preparation for 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 wraparound 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. But 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, and weapon system to weapon system, and like a camo-clad prophet of old, pray for the safe return of my soldiers and the success of their mission. The sounds of clinking armors and snorting horses can almost 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 that kind of 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 fade 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 sincerely 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. So 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

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.