Why I Became A Chaplain

     There have been several times when I have wondered why I ever decided to become a Chaplain.  Then there are others like tonight, when I remember why.  I have removed some names and places from this blog out of respect for families.

     SFC Ford told me tonight, “Chaplain did you hear we had several casualties and even a KIA?”  I had not.  “No!  Who was it?”  “CPT Terhart just came in and said she was at the hospital accompanying the detainee who is being treated when the call came in for a Mass Cal.  At first it was like 17, then 10, then 3.  Two wounded and 1 KIA.  She said she recognized them from Eagle Troop, the CAV guys.”  “Does the BN Commander know yet?”  “I’m not sure, she just came in and told me right before you got here.”  Together we made a direct route to the BN Commanders office.  As we opened the door SGM Breckinridge was completing a brief to LTC Nelson about the very event.  We added the details shared by CPT Terhart and I left with the SGM to get to the CSH to be with the Soldiers.

     When we arrived one Soldier was being wheeled past me into the CT scanner.  I placed my hand on his shoulder and said “My name is Chaplain Dicks, I just want you to know I’m praying for you.” He reached up and took my hand “Thank you Chaplain.” And then they took him through the doors into the scanner.  The second patient was an Iraqi Interpreter.  He had about 6 people around the bed getting his vitals, starting IVs and checking his pain level.  I put on a pair of gloves and took my position by his head where he could see and hear me without me getting in the way of the staff.  I felt like I was back in 2007 with the 28^th Combat Support Hospital when I did this every day.  “Hello, my name is Chaplain Dicks, I want you to know I will be praying for you.”  “Thank you Chaplain.”  “What is your name?” “J.”  “Are you married J?” “Divorced.  I have a daughter.” “What is her name?” “M.” The staff needed to take an X-Ray of his swollen right arm, so I helped to lift it so they could slide the plates under it.  “I saw the LT get blown in half.  They took him away in pieces.”  J began shaking with his tears.  I whispered, “We are happy you are still here J.” And I placed my hand on his head and silently prayed for Gods peace.  He stopped crying.  “Do you know if anyone else survived?”  I answered “four of you were brought here and the doctors just said all four of you are stable which is good.  Is there anything you would like me to tell them?” “That I am ok, and see if they are alright.”  The doctor asked if I could stabilize his head while they checked the rest of his body which I did, and then I allowed myself to be crowded out of the way as the second Soldier was being wheeled back in beside J.  I walked around the bed to get to his right ear where I could talk to him.

     “Hello again brother.”  I said as I placed my hand on his shoulder.  “What?” He yelled.  “I’m sorry Sir, they blew my ears to Sh**”  Louder I said “I am Chaplain Dicks, how are you doing?”  “Oh, Hello Chaplain.  I’m doing good I suppose.  I’m still alive.  Do you know how the LT is?  Is he here?”  “What we’re concerned about right now is how you are.” “I’m doing ok.  I’ve had better days.  Been in the Army 7 years and finally got deployed.  We were almost home then this happened.  Is the 1SG alright?” A doctor answered “Your 1SG is in the CT scanner right now, but he’s doing good and was wondering how you are.”  “Tell him I’m ok.”  I asked “Where are you from?” “------, Texas Sir.”  “I know it well.  Any wife or kiddos?” “No Sir, I’m single.”  “Well that’s why the nurses were winking at you.” He laughed.  As he did I saw a large hole in his right side, I whispered to the Doctor next to me “has that been seen?”  He said “Yes.”  As they asked him to turn his head from side to side I noticed a large hole in the back of his scalp.  I mentioned it to the Doctor and he said to the Soldier “Could you lift your head again please.”  When he did the Doctor said, “Well, thank you Chaplain, nurse could you get the stapler we need to close this up.” And they stapled his head closed.  The patient, J said “really?  Staples?” I told him “We would of used thread, but with the draw down all we have left is office supplies, it was staples or tacks, which would you have preferred?”  He laughed again and said staples were good.  I told him J was right beside him.  His face lit up and he turned to see J and he said “You made it!” And they talked together for a while.  I told them I would speak to them after a while, and excused myself.  SGM Breckinridge was outside and we discussed the findings that they were not Soldiers from our Eagle Troop, but a CAV Unit from Camp --- that was scheduled to be shut down tomorrow.  They had been in a tent preparing for the Camp Closure Ceremony when they had been attacked.

     We drove back to Camp Cropper to inform the Command that the patients were stable and were not from our CAV Unit.  They had heard before we had.  I walked back over to the S-2 office to let SFC Ford know that I was back.  We talked for a while and then together went to call it a night and head to the barracks.  As we were walking SGM Breckinridge rounded the corner and said “There you are Chaplain.  We need to go back.  The hospital just called and they are requesting you.”  I told SFC Ford goodnight and we headed back onto Sather to get to the CSH and speak with whoever was requesting me.

     When we arrived a nurse directed me back to a darkened room where the Interpreter J was lying in a hospital bed.  “He’s been asking for you.  You can pull up a chair and sit by him.”  I did just that.  “How are you doing brother?” I asked.  “I’m sorry I had to call you back.” I told him I was not sorry that I felt honored he had called for me.  “What is on your mind?”  “All night I have been seeing it.  The LT blown in half.  His name was --------------. That is his full name.  He was going to go back to the United States in just a few days and was so happy.  I was happy too because he asked me to visit him because I am going to the States too.  He was a good man.  So young.” Tears were streaming down his face. “I heard him screaming, but I couldn’t believe it because he was in two halves.  I swear to God I tried to get to him but I was under Styrofoam and concrete.  I had been by four t-walls.  When I woke up the t-walls were completely gone.  I could not get his picture out of my mind.  Tonight when you put your hand on my head, I felt peace for the first time and I didn’t see him anymore.  I had to tell you that.  I must tell you the truth, I have never believed in God.  If God exists, and He is real, why would he let these bad things happen?  Why He would let LT die like that?  He was a good man.  But tonight I felt peace when you prayed for me.  Is God real? Can you tell me why He would let these bad things happen?”

      I took a moment to consider his question and answered “I believe God is real.  And even though you have not believed in Him, He has always believed in you and loved you.  God did not create evil, and it breaks His heart.  It is His great compassion and mercy that holds back judgment for a time so that we may have the chance to receive His great forgiveness.  He died to pay for the penalty of our sins J.  He arose, conquering death to offer us life that we couldn’t earn on our own.”

     “This is so comforting.  It says on my birth certificate that I am Muslim.” He laughed while shaking his head.  “I am not Muslim.  I have never believed in Allah, or the God of Christianity.  I have a Masters degree and have been a professor at a University for many years.  I will receive my PHD in September.”  “Congratulations” I said, “What was your thesis?”  “It was ‘why was 19^th century Iraq not influenced by Europe at all?’”  I asked, “what was your conclusion?” He said “It is the three laws. In Iraq you have the Government law, the Tribal law, and the religious law.  If I walk down the street and want to spit.  By government law it is ok.  By religious law it is ok if no religious leader is near.  By tribal law it is only ok if there is no Shake.  We have so many laws that are so different but may see them as though only one law.  But it is so difficult there is no way we can keep it.”  I said “in the same way there is no way we as human beings can keep Gods law.  We are not good enough.  We are sinners.”  He shook his head and said “Then there is no hope for me.”  And I said “There is good news J.”  “What is the good news, you have said what I know, I cannot keep the law.”  I said “The Good news is that God has provided a way that we can be judged not by law, but by His grace.”  He asked “How is this possible?”  He had a bottle of water sitting on the tray in front of him.  I told him “Let us say this bottle of water cost 5 dollars.  You don’t have 5 dollars.  I pay the 5 dollars for you and offer the water to you as a free gift.  You could not afford it you didn’t have 5 dollars, but all you have to do for it to be yours is accept my free gift that I paid for on your behalf.  In the same way, we cannot keep all three laws, or 3 hundred laws, or even one law. We are not good enough.  God sent His Son Jesus to pay the penalty for our sins for us.  A free gift that we could not afford.  All we have to do is accept that He paid for it on our behalf.”  He placed his unbroken hand on his heart. “This God has done, for me?  It says this somewhere? Do not lie to me please.” 

     I took the Bible from my ACU Chest pocket and opened it to John 3:16 “For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son that whosoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.”  He whispered, “that is so wonderful.  Can you teach me to pray to God?”  I told him, I can teach you what Jesus taught His disciples when they asked Him that same question.  “Our Father…” He repeated after me every line of the Lord’s prayer while tears fell from his eyes.  When we finished he said “I want to be a Christian.  What do I have to do?  Do I need to wash myself before I pray?  Do I need to pray every day? Go to church? I want to do whatever the Bible says to do for God to love me.”  I said “J, you have a daughter don’t you?” He said “Yes.” I asked “What does she have to do for you to love her?” He said “Nothing, I will love her no matter wh….”He paused and then looked at me “Will God love me like this? No matter what? Like a child of His?” I opened the Bible to John 1 “He came to that which was His own, but His own did not receive Him.  But to all who received Him He gave the right to become children of God.  Children born not of natural descent or of a husbands will, but born of God.”  “I want to receive Him.” He said.  I said “Then ask Him to be your Father.” “Please, be my Father.  Oh God, I have not believed in You, but tonight You have shown me Your peace.  You have my life, I am Yours.” After his prayer he asked if he could borrow a Bible.  I took out my pen and wrote in the front cover of my Bible “To my brother J, may you always receive peace from the God who has always believed in you. “ And then I signed my name and the date and gave him the Bible as a gift.  Just then the 1SG was wheeled in “J!  You’re alive!  Thank God!”

     Thank You God… Thank You.

Me and the Swing

     Part of my personality is revealed in its swings and shifts in emotion.  On my down swing I am distant and lonely.   I wear my emotions close to the surface and on my sleeves.  I tend to create my best drawings and most memorable poetry and writings during this time, but I am also the most difficult to be around, constantly wounded, quiet, and self isolating.
     On my upswings I am loud and filled with laughter and wit, sarcasm and humor.  Again I can be difficult to be around but it is a lot more fun.  I am not bi-polar as that suggests an extreme of two opposites.  I am the Swing and experience life at every level of the sway.  The exhilaration in the pit of my stomach on the downward drop, smiling and contemplating as life sweeps farther away from my vision, the full height on the backward motion where I can see the lowest point of the ground I just dipped past.  The pause as inertia and gravity wrestle with each other.  It’s here I write, contemplate, compose poems, draw, and then gravity wins and I zip past where I was as I was in deep speculation about life, and then I am thrust upward towards that life, the wind rushing into my face, circumstances and events zooming towards me and I am plunging forward through them all, with a huge smile on my face, laughing, yelling out with all of my lungs “OWWW  OOOOU!” Let life hear my roar, and laughter, and see my heaven-turned gaze.  Then before I launch to the skies, inertia and gravity shake hands for their duel once again.  I ponder on the heights where I am suspended momentarily caught in history’s embrace.  I think of the wind and fun filled, adrenaline saturated life that I have just flown through, and the swing falls backwards again.  Just as exhilarating, just as fun, just as worthy of an experience as the counter-swing, and just as necessary to get me to be able to come forward even higher next time.
     It’s not a medically curable disease.  It’s life that is worth every single swing, wherever I am at in the sway, forward, back, up or down, laughing loud or ponderingly silent, fearful for the plunge or anticipating with childish grin the rush into the fray.  To stop the swing is to sit alone on the playground needing a push.  If I find myself in such a sad place, I pick up a pen, find some paper and before long my legs are pumping back and forth and momentum is gained, the swing is in motion and I’m happy again. 
     Please don’t be afraid by how fast or how high I’m swinging.  I’m not leaping off, the swing is too fun.  And guess what?  There’s an open one beside me.  Hop on and we’ll see who swings higher!  It’ll be fun!

The Fire

     My Bible was in my office as it burned down tonight in Iraq.  I have a lot of Bibles, I’m a Chaplain.  One Bible should be easily replaceable but not that one... 

     May 16^th 1999 I was standing in front of the Congregation of Valley View Baptist Church in El Paso, Texas with my wife  Jennifer,  and children, Ashley and Kaylee, (Tina and Stephen hadn’t been born yet).  The Pastor Brother Ron Fox had just presented us to the Church so that they could pray for us in our upcoming adventure.  I was applying to enter the Chaplaincy in the United States Army and one of the requirements was to be ordained as a minister of the Gospel by my Denominational Church.  Valley View Baptist Church had been praying for us, encouraging us, and giving me opportunities to preach for over 6 weeks since I first asked to be considered for ordination.  On May 16^th the ceremony had just completed, and Pastor Ron Fox handed me a brand new Black Bible.  It fit perfectly in my hand as he told me “Every Preacher needs a good Bible”.  On the first page was a hand written note from the Church reminding me that I was ordained to preach the Gospel. 

     I have carried that Bible with me ever since.  From my acceptance into the Chaplain Candidate Program, through years of Seminary, as a Youth Pastor, Assistant Pastor, and then as a Chaplain in the United States Army.  I had placed a picture of my family inside the front cover to remind me of the most precious things in my life.  My father in law, a Master Fisherman and who just recently went to be with the Lord took a fish hook and bent it over the front cover and told me “Son, go be a fisher of men.”  The 12 long years since the Bible was first placed in my hands have worn its cover, torn its spine,( which I have constantly taped back together), and loosened some of its pages that I have to make sure don’t fall out when I carry it.  It has weathered the hell of combat and brought care to the living, comfort to the dying, and honor to the dead.  It has had its leather wet from the tears of the grieving and been sandwiched between me and the joyful hugs of the newly married.  People who had lost hope found it rekindled in the pages of that beaten up black Bible that I carried with me everywhere.

     At half past midnight tonight there was a knock on my door.  Knocks on the Chaplains door in Iraq at this time seldom come from bearers of good news.  I opened the door and the 1SG said “Chaplain your office is burning down.  The fire department is trying to put it out right now.”  My office is one of three rooms in a long trailer beside the Veterans Memorial Chapel.  The two rooms next to my office are known affectionately to the Soldiers as the Troop Store.  Packages of every shape and size get sent from patriotic Americans who love Soldiers and they end up in the Troop Store.  Shaving crème, razors, chapstick, candy, cookies, letters, envelopes, coffee, and a host of other goodies are sorted out and placed on shelves for Soldiers to come through and use.  I ensure the doors are left unlocked 24hours a day so that Soldiers working shift work can come whenever they get off work to get snacks and toiletries at their leisure.  The fire started in the Troop Store.  The Fire Chief is still investigating to see if it was something electrical but it spread from the farthest Troop Store, to the Middle Troop Store, to my Office.

     My Bible was in my office that burned down tonight in Iraq.  I have a lot of Bibles, I’m a Chaplain.  One Bible should be easily replaceable, but not that one… The fireman exited out of the charred remains of the trailer covered in soot and said “There’s not much left in there.  In fact this was really all we saved.”  And he handed me a worn out Black Bible with a fishhook on the cover.  It was untouched, I wasn’t.

I've Seen Soldiers Cry

     I’ve seen Soldiers who have been shot, blown up and burned

Refuse to be treated until their buddies were seen to first.

     I’ve seen Soldiers punctured, tired, hungry, spent

Smile at the sight of a pretty nurse offering a cup of water.

  

     I’ve seen Soldiers roll up their dirty blood soaked sleeves

To give blood to slowly slipping away insurgents who shot at them hours before.

     I’ve seen Soldiers with fragmentation ball bearings protruding from their skin

Rotate in to give heart compressions to a fallen brother, and never miss a beat.

    

     I’ve seen half starved, beaten down, sleep deprived, over-burdened Soldiers

Come alive and sprint to vehicles to respond to a call for the fiercest of fights.

     I’ve seen Soldiers scream warning to an entire country that hell was coming

And am convinced that if only one went,

      They would have won convincingly against any odds.

     I have seen Soldiers who could not break, would not fall,

Who did not know or even begin to think of staying down.

     I have seen Soldiers in a way the world has never seen them.

I have seen Soldiers cry.

     Not because of the enemy, but for them.

Not because of their wounds, but because of the wounds of their fellow Soldiers.

     Not because of their pain, but because of the pain to their children and spouses back home

For having to face birthdays, anniversaries and even deaths without them.

     I have heard mortars explode to the sounds of Soldiers laughter.

But I have heard tears that shattered my heart far worse

     Fall from the eyes of Soldiers.

Because they don’t fall for themselves

     So mine must fall for them.

Nebuchadnezzared

     I have an iron constitution when it comes to eating food.  This isn’t meant to be a boast although I pride myself in the statement and boast about it often… ok, it’s a boast, I can eat just about anything and survive pretty much unscathed in the aftermath.  That’s why when several members of my unit went to eat at a local Iraqi restaurant with me about a week ago and then complained of getting violently sick shortly afterwards I relished in the glory of my intestinal fortitude and ability to digest any harmful parasites as a bonus to the meal.  Conversations arose at the dining facility as these fellow Soldiers finally began resurrecting from the dead about how miserable the experience had been for them.  I lovingly invited them all to come back and eat at the restaurant with me again.  Apparently God wasn’t amused. 

     This upcoming week’s sermon happens to be in Daniel Chapter 4 when King Nebuchadnezzar looked out over Babylon and gloried at all he had accomplished, and then was suddenly driven insane forced away from civilization to eat grass like an animal, and have his body wet with dew and start growing hair like feathers, and his nails grow like the talons of an eagle, until he would acknowledge God as being the Most High.  I bring this up because something eerily similar happened to me two days ago. 

     I had left the dining facility having sufficiently teased the weaker stomachs around me and I went home to bed a happy, healthy man.  I awoke the next morning seemingly underwater.  My head was swimming, all heat had been sucked out of my room and every inch of my body ached at the very thought of moving it.  That’s when I heard the strangest sound.  Do you know the sound the water dispensers make?  The ones that have the big jug of water upside down with a spicket to pour into the little paper cones?  It occasionally filters and a big bubble rises up in it and it makes a “Blublublubloop” noise.  Well, I heard that exact sound emanate from my stomach and I knew the timer had just begun and I had roughly 30-45 seconds to dress, sprint down the hall and locate an empty stall before Armageddon was upon me.  I made it in 15 because I by-passed dressing, (It shaved off seconds on both ends) and I definitely needed the seconds for the back end.

     I spent quality time thinking of the errors of my ways in a little stall in the middle of the desert in Baghdad, Iraq, just a few short miles from where Nebuchadnezzar would have spent time thinking the same thoughts.  3 courtesy flushes later I looked at a shell of a face in the bathroom mirror and realized what dehydrated fruit must feel like.  I made a valiant effort to dress and get out to do the daily routines of a Chaplain but it turned into a tourist visit of every port-a-john on Camp Cropper in a big circle arcing back to the barracks where I gave up and lay in the fetal position on my bed shaking and burning up with fever for several hours. 

     At last I came up with a solution to my sickness, a way to be delivered from all my distress.  It is an age old remedy that has never failed me in 15 years.  I struggled into an upright position on the side of my bed, took a moment or two to convince myself of the necessity of going through with this.  Swayed to my feet, shuffled in the dark to my computer, ripped it away from its cords instead of trying to individually undo them all, fell backwards onto the bed, covered up with whatever cover was nearest to the position where I landed, turned on Skype and told my wife I was sick and she needed to make it better.     

     She asked if I had taken any medication and I said of course not (this isn’t because I’m tough, it’s because I’m hopelessly dependent and she wasn’t here to give it to me. Sad I know, but this is reality folks).  After a rightly earned scolding she demanded I ask for Ibuprofen or at least aspirin from someone.  Fearing she would offer no further sympathy unless I agreed I capitulated to her demands.  2 hours later when I could bear the pain in my kidneys no longer I made myself get up and stagger to the bathroom again.  While there I looked over to my neighboring urinal user and asked casually if he had any medications he was willing to part with.   2 Ibuprofens and 1 hour later found my fever broken and me sweating like I’d just finished a marathon.  I checked myself for feathers.  Weird, but fever induced, I’m pretty sure.

     The next morning at the dining facility several fully recovered fellow Soldiers asked me if I was feeling ok as I was looking pretty pale.  I knew I had to man up and say something to them since I had teased them all so much during their infirmary’s, so I said “I’m fine, it’s just been so long since we’ve eaten at the Iraqi restaurant that I’m weak from hunger, do ya’ll want to go today?” 

     Despite this seeming relapse, when I prayed over my crackers (the only thing I could hold down) I acknowledged God a lot, so He wouldn’t feel the need to re-Nebuchadnezzar me again.

The Tourist

     I got my tourist opportunity in today.  I went with some fellow Soldiers onto Victory Base to tour the never completed but very bombed to pieces “Victory over America Palace” that Saddam was building in anticipation of whupping the world’s largest super-power.  Back in 2003 the palace wasn’t completed, or even occupied but had to be bombed on sheer principle alone because of its incredibly presumptuous name. 

     I walked through four levels of rubble that once was marble and carved stone.  An elaborate testament to the state one finds themselves in when they fight against U.S. Soldiers.  From one of the top balconies I took pictures of “The Flintstone Village” That Saddam had built for his grandchildren to play in after he had killed their fathers.  I suppose his thinking was “Dads will be missed, but a good playground is forever”. 

     So in the very halls built to celebrate my demise I took pictures of myself smiling amidst the debris and enjoying such classical pieces of U.S. art on the walls as “I love you mom.” And “Suga-Nuff was here.”  Shock and Awe people, shock and awe.

A Food Coma

    

     What a fun day!  The sermon I preached on this morning came from the Book of Daniel chapter one, and was all about how to be people of integrity and praise God even when life doesn't work out the way we want it to.  With this sermon ready things began giving me opportunity to practice what I was about to preach as the proxima for the songs that we had spent a lot of time on refused to work.  It was turned on but no matter what I did (even those things that had worked previously) the computers screen would not show on the proxima.  The Colonel sat waiting, my Rater and Senior Raters sat occasionally checking their watches for the start time when I made the decision for no slides.  I walked up to the choir director to whisper discreetly that he just teach us the words as we sang, and he stood up, walked to the back where the computer was and pushed the same buttons I had been pushing and the songs appeared like magic on the big screen...The first song "How Great is Our God."  Unfortunately somehow the W had disappeared mysteriously and in great big bold font on every slide was "Ho  Great is Our God."  The Ugandans sang it loudly just as they read it.  I prayed God would let me keep my internal monologue internal.  After the service a Soldier shook my hand as she was leaving and said "The choir is so good, I felt like they were singing right to me." I couldn't shake anymore hands and excused my smiling self for lunch.

     Lunch was at an Iraqi restaurant and it was delicious!  I ate Hummus, and beef kabob, and pork kabob, and two different kinds of soup, and multiple forms of rice, pita bread, veggies, jalapenos...I wobbled away from the table with blurry vision and was just a breath mint away from slipping entirely into a food coma. We drove back to Camp Cropper around 3 O’clock and SFC Ford said at 5:30 we would meet back up to go to dinner at the local Iraqi Generals house.  I laid down on my bed and was instantly awakened by a tapping on my door.  Struggling into an upright position I cracked the door open to see SPC Nelson as he said, "Are you ready to go Sir, its 5:30."  I had indeed suffered a two hour food coma from which I was not entirely recovered. 

    We drove onto the Iraqi compound as the last rays of light from the sunset began fading to darkness, and the first thing I saw was three men around a burn barrel made out of what looked like an old sink and I knew we were in the wrong neighborhood.  On one side of us the grass was as tall as our vehicle, and I was told by MAJ Johnson that this used to be a wildlife preserve.  As we pulled in front of a mini palace I saw a horse tethered to a tree and wondered if it was scheduled to be up-armored at some point.  Off to our right was a large cage filled with monkeys and I began wondering what dinner was actually going to consist of.  Inside was a mixture of US Soldiers, Italian Special Forces, and every uniform in the Iraqi inventory. Small glasses on saucers were filled with piping hot sweet Chai Tea and we were quickly given ours. In the center of the room was a circular drop-off into a body of water that flowed in from somewhere below the building.  I was told that crocodiles used to help interrogate people there at one point in history.  Alongside the railing of this drop-off to the water ran a massive banquet table filled with every kind of Iraqi food imaginable as well as drinks, and plates...but no chairs.  The table was of normal height so eating while sitting was out of the question.  One of the Iraqi interpreters from Camp Cropper saw us and came over to explain.  He said the General had been serving this great Banquet for everyone each Sunday for the past four years.  He took us near the table and had us stand near a plate.  He said when you hear the bell ring, rush to the plate and start filling it with food before it is gone.  The first ones there get the best things.  I guess Iraqi dinners aren’t that different from my house after all. 

     Dinner was magnificent!  I ignored my stomach screaming that I had lost my mind and cleaned my plate then downed several more glasses of Chai as I walked around like a happy tourist and took pictures with every group of Iraqi Soldiers I could see.  We returned to base around 9PM and after spending some quality time thinking about the consequences of my gluttonous ways in the latrine I decided to share my fun day with whoever wanted to read.

Unseen Badges

                                    "Even in Laughter the heart may be sad." (Prov 14:13)

     I laugh a lot.  Most Soldiers I know laugh a lot.  Dave Roever, a motivational Christian speaker who was horribly wounded serving as a Navy Seal in Vietnam once said "I beat back depression one laugh at a time."  I spend a lot of my time laughing with Soldiers, drinking coffee, talking about extremely insignificant things often in inappropriate ways as they decelerate and defuse from unseen pressures that would crush softer souls yet they seem to bear up under the weight with the strange help of the many callouses Military life has earned them.  The harder the pressure the more necessary the laughter.  The times I sit and laugh about nothing unjudgementally, undemanding, tends invariably to somehow earn me the right to later sit on sacred ground with those same Soldiers and hear stories that wrench all laughter away from me.

      I have noticed a pattern among the warriors of our time.  Broken relationships laughed at hours before wept over in private conversation.  Nightmares that are held at bay only by the body refusing to go to sleep.  Barely contained to uncontrollable anger at the slightest provocation, usually dealing with mundane issues that were once easily overlooked.  Addictions from sleep aides, to smoking, to drinking, to a host of others drowning out reality at all cost.  Struggling with every bit of fight within them to avoid becoming zombies inside living but dead with each day being nothing but a gray haze of survival.  Young men and women on their third, fourth, even fifth deployments to the only life that still has any color in it left for them, and yet they serve with pride. 

     These scars they bear are unseen badges earned by sacrifice to a Country that loves them but is filled with people that don’t understand them.  How does one explain for instance that feeling alone while in a crowd is the saddest feeling that I wouldn’t trade for anything? I wouldn't lose its awkwardness because it was purchased by huddling together in instantly over crowded bunkers with other wide eyed ridiculously grinning Soldiers while being attacked at 2 in the morning.  And now that crowd of Soldiers with the same shared terror of mine are lost to the pages of yesterday’s war and I find myself lonely in crowds yet unwilling to have the unseen badge taken from me at any price. But how do you say that? 

     So we laugh...I found myself tonight at Camp Liberty at a sister Cigar Club to Camp Cropper’s as a host of Soldiers I had never met laughed at relationship pains and failed coping mechanisms, and shared badges that each of us could see plainly and felt a camaraderie from the shared knowledge that we were the only ones who could, and that was ok.

A Fathers Protection

     I am addicted to Spice Chai Lattes from Green Beans.  They taste like melted Pumpkin Pie. I was impatiently waiting for my fix to be fixed this morning when SGT Smith who I wrote about earlier walked in to get his daily dose of liquid sunshine, (which was necessary today as the rain has been relentless.  I believe it is dutifully watering the desert so that the sand can grow big and strong this summer).  As soon as he saw me he broke into a big smile and said he had been looking for me. 
     Apparently after I had finished our game of chess and prayed for him, his family and his unit's protection SGT Smiths group was called out on a mission.  Someone had been spotted digging a hole near the Camp.  As a side note, if you are a treasure hunter and decide to dig in the cradle of civilization for some of the oldest treasures on Earth, I would recommend doing it somewhere far away from the watchful eyes of a US Military installation as it will quickly summon a large group of well-armed Soldiers hopped up on caffeine and a little disgruntled at having been called away from their Spice Chai Lattes.  Anyway, when they reached the location no one was in sight and they proceeded to do a dismounted reconnaissance of the area.  Just then from some unseen location our aforementioned treasure hunter detonated his buried IED.
     A few hours later SGT Smiths wife received a phone call on the Anniversary of her son's death in Iraq...  It was from her husband telling her that he loved her.  Due to some miscalculation, or perhaps hasty plant, not a single Soldier or vehicle was harmed by the detonation. The Spice Chai Latte sat forgotten on the counter as SPC Nelson, CPT Murragurah, SGT Smith and myself huddled in a circle in the middle of Green Beans on a rainy day in Iraq and thanked God for a Fathers protection. 

Like Son, Like Father

     Soldiers will always be my heros.  As a child I used to see my father come home from work in his Army uniform and help pull off his boots in the hopes of getting a quarter that he stuffed in the sides of one of them.  As I grew I watched my two older brothers, invincible heroes in my eyes each don an Army uniform and I wanted to be just like them.  I remember seeing my eldest brother Robert in full gear beside one of the trucks he drove and I thought he was a green camoflauged Storm Trooper from StarWars.  My brother Larry wore desert tans (DCUs)  and Battle Dress greens (BDUs) and Digitized Pattern grays (ACUs), moving up the ranks from E-1 to E-8 a constant True North to set my compass by.  I will always look up to my father and my big brothers for their valiant service to our Great Country as I know our children will look up to us for ours. 
     I met someone today that reminded me that fathers can look up to sons just as much as sons can look up to fathers.  Sitting around a small well worn chess set with several chess pieces that had been reglued together on a wooden bench in front of fully Up Armored Tactical vehicles as the sun was beginning to set on Camp Cropper, Iraq I asked the gentleman sitting across the board from me a question.  "How long have you been in the Military SGT Smith?" SGT Smith looked about 65years old but was just in his mid fifties.  The effect was enhanced by the fact that he had just come off of a mission and his deep seated facial creases were lined with dark dried dirt.  "15 years now, Sir. I was going to get out but my son changed my mind."  "You're son changed your mind?" "Yes Sir.  I had done my time, and my son convinced me to re-enlist.  I wasn't going to but then he got killed while fighting in Kirkuk and I signed back on in honor of his service.  He died fighting 2 years ago today."  I saw a wet streak of grime run down his face without embarrassment.  I asked if I could pray for him and his family on this the anniversary of his sons sacrifice.  16 hats flew off dirty bowed heads and I prayed my heart out.  When I finished I reached my finger over to my King and slowly set it on its side...Soldiers will always be my heros.

The Sounds of the Guns

     I have been overwhelmed by the sound of silence thus far in this tour.  I know I have only been here a short while, but I am in Baghdad, Iraq less than a mile from Route Irish that was the flashpoint of hundreds upon hundreds of bombs, attacks, and forever changed lives.  It should be named Patriots Path, because it has been washed with the blood of heroes.  Weeks and I have not heard any of the sounds that haunt my dreams, and steal in front of my eyes when I'm present but still far away.  No prayer calls, no mortars, no crackle of gunfire and wail of sirens. No blaring radio, urgently calling for my aid, no purple hearts laid on patriot chest, no smells that evoke instant tears of sorrow.  I'm not complaining nor am I wishing for these things, I am off guard, teetering unsure of which way to lean, towards belief, or towards fear that the lightning is about to strike and wars thunder any moment will breach the errie silence.  Somewhere in the middle is what Im attempting with a modicum of success outwardly.  Inwardly I wait, and feel lost without a purpose, and at the same time guilty for the sensation.  Silence isnt sadness, its always been the preceptor of the chaos.  Yet minutes have crept to hours, hours to days, days to weeks and the chaos only has shape in the echoes of my dreams, familiar nightmares like welcome friends, comforting in their presence.  Unseen Medals for the privilege of serving next to legends in a time quickly being forgotten by hands rushing to turn the page.  Trying to put this strange feeling into words, I wrote a poem to help express my thoughts.

The Sounds of the Guns

     Where are the sounds of the guns?

How have the mighty gone silent?

     Heroes walk as tourists now

taking pictures of ghosts from not so long ago.

     When the sounds of the guns were the music that filled the night

Blackhawks like predators in the darkness swooping, screaming, gone.

     Haunting prayer call piercing silence,

Whistle heralding mortars approach.

     Feel the reverberation before sound deafens

Belated warning prepares for more.

     Echoes now, only echoes of a war that defined yesterday,

wounded today and scarred tomorrow

     with glassy-eyed zombies telling tales to non-believers

of the sounds of the guns whose terror now diminished

     is longed for by those whose hearts and souls were shaped

by their sounding, ever sounding, now silenced.

     How can they keep rhythm anymore?

     How have the mighty gone silent

Now that the streets are filled with dusty silence

     And the guns are gone in all but stories told

By veterans who were made to age too soon

     To wide-eyed Soldiers who seem far too young

Too young, too young to hear the echoes

     Of the sounds of the guns.

Transitioning

     Its been a week full of walking around, shaking hands, cups of coffee, powerpoint presentations, staff call meetings, arranging offices, moving offices, Skyping family, playing pool, ping-pong, basketball, karaoke, and cluelessly roaming about during an Indirect Fire Attack. All in all, a whirlwind of events cascading about me whose only distinguishable sense of order has come from each events relative occurances being either before or after breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
     As far as Chaplain services that I am responsible for there are currently three ongoing events.  A Wednesday Night Bible Study, Sunday Morning Protestant Service, and a Sunday Evening Ugandan Service.  Wednesday went well, and I look forward to my first lesson in the drivers seat this upcoming Wednesday.  It will be like my Friday Night Bible Studies that I looked forward to all week back at home. (Minus some awesome cooking by my wife, which is why everyone else who attended it looked forward to it all week.)  Sunday morning service had around 50 people in it, and could have fooled me into thinking I was back home on American soil in the Post Chapel (except there everyone conceals the weapons they've brought to Church, here you have to say "Excuse me Sir/Ma'am but I think your gun is digging into my hip.")
     Sunday night has a lot of potential.  When I heard I would be leading a Ugandan Service (the Ugandans pull most of our outer perimeter security these days.) I expected it to be just that, Ugandan in flavor.  It turned out to be 20-25 Ugandans trying to mirror the morning service.  The Chaplain preached in English to glassy eyed seemingly non-comprehending congregants (which I suppose kind of mirrors most Churches back in the States as well) and then when the choir was asked to come sing, they had sheet music trying to pronounce the words to the same choruses that were sang in the morning service and with pained smiles they beat the lyrics out, and with barely contained winces we endured because it was obvious their hearts were in it.  After the final line grated to a reverberating halt and my neck muscles began to untense the Chaplain said "Do ya'll have one more you might could do for us?" Apparently they had not planned for another, so they thankfully set the sheet music aside and in perfect barbershop harmony sang the most hauntingly beautiful hymn in Zwahili that I have ever heard.  Tears came to my eyes quicker than if I was told a fresh pot of coffee had just been brewed.
     I quickly gathered together all of the Ugandan choir members and asked if anyone felt confident enough in the English language to be able to translate next weeks sermon into Swahili, and everyone immediatly pointed their fingers at one person (probably their equivalent to the lowest ranking private) and he said "I would be happy to Sir."  I asked if they thought it would help to translate the sermon and every head bobbed in unison, as they said many more Ugandans would come who could not understand  English as well.  I told them it was settled, the sermons would be translated each Sunday evening.  Then I added "And from this point on, only sing in Swahili."  All faces broke into big smiles.  Then the gentleman who got peer chosen as a translator asked "But Sir, did you understand the praise we just sang to God?" And I said "No, but I understood the Spirit, and I worshipped with you."  Next Sunday should be awesome.

Shrunk To A NUB

     In 2006 when I deployed to Iraq I had made the acquaintance of a gentleman in the United States that I called “Battle Buddy Bob.” Battle Buddy Bob and his company send thousands of boxes of goodies a year to Soldiers deployed in theaters of war and they are filled with all sorts of morale boosting items, such as soap, toothpaste, chips, candy, and even humidors filled with expensive cigars.  Upon receiving the call to return to Iraq this year I re-contacted my old Battle Buddy and true to form he sent an initial set of boxes even while the Unit was in the States preparing to deploy and among other things it contained a humidor filled with cigars. 

     SFC Ford loves cigars.  In fact he is the closest thing I have ever met to a cigar connoisseur.  Discovering he liked cigars I turned over the humidor and cigar collection sent by Battle Buddy Bob to SFC Ford’s tender care and discretion in distribution.  As a side note I discovered in Ft. Bliss, Texas while our Unit was doing its training exercise for Iraq while sitting outside my tent one night with SFC Ford while he was smoking a cigar that he and I had actually met each other in Mosul, Iraq in 2007 on a sad day for his Unit (which is when I unfortunately met most Soldiers over there being a hospital Chaplain.) What a small war. Anyway… As soon as SFC Ford arrived in country he was very quickly knighted in ceremony as the President of the Camp Cropper Cigar Club.  This in and of itself is not surprising, I mean while attending one of the smoky meetings of this club SFC Ford was asked why cigars have paper bands on them and without pausing he gave an informative lecture on how Mary Queen of Scotts loved cigars but as royalty would not let her hand touch tobacco. Since she was uncomfortable using only one glove to handle the cigar, her advisors wrapped a small band of paper around it so she could grasp the cigar bare fingered without sullying her royal digits.  I say that to say, he is Cigar Club President worthy.  What was surprising to me is that SFC Ford has told me he wants to see about having me knighted as the Vice- President of the Camp Cropper Cigar Club.  (I think it’s because I’ve pledged to be a supplier of Cigars through the generosity of Battle Buddy Bob, not because I know anything about cigars, but hey Vice President sounds pretty cool, and no Vice President ever gets too much media attention unless they shoot someone on a hunting trip which is not my present plan.)

      Last night I was headed back to my room after a rigorous workout and a hasty dinner when I noticed a gathering of said Cigar Club around a community table outside and I decided to walk over and join them.  SFC Ford was regaling the crowd with several cigar related adventures from previous deployments (the man truly is the most interesting man in the world and will have his own commercials one day).  When he saw me his face lit up like his bright cigar and he asked “Chaplain! What kind of Cigar would you like?” As a potential candidate for Vice Presidency I didn’t want to say “I have no idea what brands of cigars exist” so instead I diplomatically asked “What kinds do you have?” He rattled off several to the “Ooos” and “Ahhs” of the listening group.  After he had listed the Baskin Robbins 31 flavors and all eyes turned expectantly to me I was in no better shape than I was before afraid that I was at a fancy French restaurant trying to impress my French friends by ordering from a French Menu and not knowing what the waiter had just spouted off as choices.  So I answered as smoothly as possible, “Why doesn’t the President let me try his favorite?” All smiles and nods from the group for a decision well made.  I’m a shoo in for the Office.  Proof that idiots sometimes get hired to political positions I suppose.

     You see Cigars have not only different names, but different levels of strength, or death-like effect producing potency in Non/Very Rarely Smoking individuals such as myself, and I had unwisely just asked a smoking expert who had spent years building up an immunity to iocane powder to give me his favorite dosage of the stuff.  He reached into his treasure box and gingerly lifted with two tenderly cradling  hands his cigar of choice.  I am certain a light emanated from the humidor as he did so and an un-seen cigar choir began singing as he reverently handed me his version of the Holy Grail.  “This… is a NUB Chaplain.”  He waited expectantly so I quickly changed my face to a look of awe, which I assumed to be appropriate for the situation.  For the sake of the other less informed members of the Cigar Club he explained the NUB (I listened in a non-interested manner as though this was common knowledge).  He said in Cigar shops people will smoke their cigars so that the Queen of Scotts Cigar Band Label can be seen by all.  If I am smoking a “K-Mart” equivalent Banded cigar I shall be shunned while if I am smoking a “Rolex” Equivalent Banded cigar people will gravitate towards me just for the privilege of getting cancer in my presence.  He said with a NUB, everyone would be looking at me as though King Arthur had returned.  All eyes turned back to me now, wide as though I was King Arthur suddenly made manifest, after all it was I who held aloft the Excalibur of cigars… the fabled NUB.

     In order to light said Cigar SFC Ford lit a long match and I had to draw vigorously several times to make sure the flame took.  It was then I had realized my fatal mistake.  I had just drawn into my mouth Riot Control Strength C.S. Gas and had to look at my adoring fans (or at least the cigars adoring fans) and let out a convincing “Ahhh.” I wanted to cough and scream out “AHHH SH<<<!!!!” run into the barracks and inhale the fire extinguisher which I’m sure would have been an improvement to my lungs.  However as this would not have been appropriate for a potential Vice President of the Cigar Club (let alone for a Chaplain) I smiled and wheezed slowly out “Ahhh” and left the rest hanging in the air like a dangling modifier for my upcoming nightmares.  The next hour saw us slowly drawing down the cigars length.  It was taking as long as the Troop draw down in Iraq.  The Club policy is no one leaves the table until everyone has finished their cigars.  SFC Ford announced to 1LT Acred as she started to leave for the bathroom 30 minutes in that “I know you’re not leaving yet, Chaplain and I still have cigars left.” I knew then I was doomed to my fate.  I made witty banter while the world began to spin. Casually wiped away beads of sweat in the 30 degree winter air, and thanked the Lord for the cover of night so that my greenish pallor could be hidden. 

     Finally we excused ourselves and I stumbled gracefully to my room turned off the lights, collapsed on my bed and held on with two hands so I didn’t fall off the spinning world.  At two O’Clock in the morning I finally woke up with the taste of NUB fresh on my breath and the realization that I was still fully clothed…and an idiot.  I could almost hear God smile and say “Want another one son?”     

There

Got the hardest part of the deployment over: Kneeling down, hugging my crying children, and telling them how much I love them and will miss them.  Kissing my brave and wonderful wife and then trying not to look behind me as I set my jaw towards the path that would lead me on a grand adventure in a land far far away.  Loaded up into the Delta Airlines plane that would take me to Germany and then on to Kuwait and was surprised when I was told that a First Class Seat had been set aside specifically for me!  I have never ridden in First Class in my life, and I felt a twinge of guilt right up to the point that I sat down in the most comfortable fully reclining lazyboy chair in the world. It had lumbar adjustments, individual Television set, reclining and adjustable legs, computer outlet plugs...wow.  While in flight a stewardess asked if I would like to come sit with the pilots and my first thought was "Oh Lord if the pilots are asking for a Chaplain we are in serious trouble."  They just wanted to say hello and let me take pictures.  I was expecting a two handled steering device like in the movies.  It wasn't there. They had an Atari joystick that they only used on takeoff and landing. The rest was automatic. I was allowed to come and go as I pleased in the cockpit.  The coolest time came when we were flying over Turkey and the pilots had me come take a photo of the mountains of Ararat as we glided over them, flying past clouds like we had road-rage.  I'll check the footage later for any Ark sightings.  Made it to Kuwait and am working on getting over jetlag.  I think its a combination of the flight and the fact that I'm trying to go cold turkey on all sodas that has me so physically zombied-out.  Hello everyone, my name is Stephen and I am three days clean from sodas.  Coffee has been affixed to me permanently via IV however.  Did rollover training today.  I discovered that when a vehicle rolls over and I'm inside, I have the capacity to roll over as well. Fun times!