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.