...is a harder virtue to attain than humility. It's one thing to beat the junk out of yourself, but quite another to swallow your pride while another beats the junk out of you!
Every so often, I have to learn that lesson the hard way. During my second visit to Malawi, I let several teenagers from the village into my room to hang out and drink Sobo (the local sugar water). There were strict rules (set by Malawian workers at this guest house) against allowing locals into the rooms due to security concerns. The overseer of the house, Metrine, ordered the teenagers our and gave them a good chewing out. In a moment of supposed nobility, I accepted the blame, which in turn got me chewed out.
Afterward, I was a bit angry. Doesn't she know why I'm out here? Doesn't she know who I am? Doesn't she know what my motivations were? (This all sounds a bit like Reese Witherspoon, doesn't it?) My pride had been wounded by another and my initial impulses were all defensive, rather than contrite. On occasion, I need a good dressing down, even if I feel that the circumstances make it unwarranted.
Yesterday, I received my first "counseling statement" in the Army for having my rental car on post past the ordered deadline. Waves of excuses angrily flooded through my mind. There was no clear guidance on the matter (as evidenced by the number of high-ranking soldiers who also got statements). Clear guidance would have easily been accommodated. The large group of soldiers who got statements were the honest ones who acknowledged that they still had cars, while many others remained silent. I had no opportunity to explain the situation or defend myself. Ultimately, I got dressed down by my immediate supervisor, who happens to be our brigade commander--a man who I respect and who I don't want to let down.
Kept in various classes and meetings for hours afterward, I was unable to slow down and process and pray over these things. Instead, I was crabby, irritable, and distracted. At one point during a meeting, I made a list of "Things to lay before the LORD," and wrote down twelve grievances, a few of them self-directed, and then wrote out the "Bottom line": "This action was just. This is not who I am. This does not seriously affect my future. It was an accident. There is a purpose to all of this."
And all of that is true. In the face of confusing and convoluted circumstances, I needed to pursue answers from the people who most likely had the right ones (others told me the wrong ones). It didn't matter that I was on my pass and didn't want to be bothered with such annoying Army realities. I made assumptions in the absence of fact, and those assumptions were wrong. This action was not only just, but it also revealed a deeper spiritual issue as shown by the nerve that it struck. It wounded my pride.
A few of my soldier buddies thought it was funny that I was wrestling so much with my first counseling statement, but I knew I needed to wrestle with myself. It is easy to simply grow bitter or gossip or complain. I kept feeling those tendencies yesterday, and instead of simply indulging, I fought against myself, realizing that my pride needed a whooping. If the issue was truly the counseling statement, I might have felt warranted in making a defense. But from the spiritual side, my issue was pride, and that requires meekness.
If I was fully innocent, I could have counted my blessings as following in the footsteps of Christ, who bore the unjust reproach of others and blessed them in turn. But I was not fully innocent. The Christ I strive to follow is also the Christ I desperately need. Yesterday was my reminder.
6.7.13
4.7.13
The One-Third of July
It was an oppressively lonely drive back to the post this afternoon.
A few hours ago, the car was full of life. Now, silence. I looked down at a bottle of tangerine-flavored water and would occasionally shake it, confirming each time that there was a few sips left in my wife's bottle. I could have thrown in out, but I didn't. I imagine Lindsey felt the same way when she decided to bring her flowers home with her, rather than throw them out. No more goodbyes, especially to tokens of our companionship.
Every so often, I would venture a look back toward the back seat, but that was even more painful. A baby's cries can grate on your nerves. The silence left in the wake of his departure can grate on your soul.
I could hear the echoes of the day before. The normal half full-half empty banter with my sweet wife: "We only have a day left." "Yes, but each of these days is a gift." Our light-hearted musings and playful banter occasionally interrupted by the plaintive cries of a baby who didn't like being sweaty in the Texas heat. "I hear ya, buddy," I would tell him (as if he could understand). "We'll get you out of here soon." I wish the reality of those remarks was not so encompassing. I wish "soon" had been later.
And finally the fog that has descended over many of my soldiers' hearts has descended over my own. My normal defense mechanisms and emotional deflections cannot keep this pain at bay, and that it good. I must feel the loss and strive eagerly for the gain that will come with my return. I can thank the Lord that such great love can dreg the depths of such great pain, revealing to me what I have in my best friend and precious boy.
I have often thought that the soldier's greatest sacrifice is putting himself in harm's way, but through my own experience and others, I no longer believe this to be the case. The greatest sacrifice is being put out of the way of those you love. I will not sit on a balcony and hold my wife's hand while we talk for a while, nor will I be able to prop my smiling baby upon my knees and play daddy-son games with him. But I will.
Do I regret, then, this great calling that God has placed upon my life? Can I share the hope of Jesus Christ with soldiers while walking through the shadow of death, even as I miss precious moments with my beloved family? To the very depth of my being, I am learning this simple truth: A baby's smile is worth protecting more than it is worth having.
The cannons have been emptied of their powder. The conductor's baton has been laid down. The orchestra stands silent. Together, they will unleash their fury in the days to come.
Today, I celebrate the One-Third of July. Today I take a holiday from the sweet embrace of my family and embrace a more uncertain future, known only to the sovereign and merciful mind of my God. With baited breath and constricted voice, I cry from the depths "In God I trust" and reach for the heights. I set my eyes on high, knowing that Christ reigns, and my life, together with my wife and boy, are hidden in Him forever.
A few hours ago, the car was full of life. Now, silence. I looked down at a bottle of tangerine-flavored water and would occasionally shake it, confirming each time that there was a few sips left in my wife's bottle. I could have thrown in out, but I didn't. I imagine Lindsey felt the same way when she decided to bring her flowers home with her, rather than throw them out. No more goodbyes, especially to tokens of our companionship.
Every so often, I would venture a look back toward the back seat, but that was even more painful. A baby's cries can grate on your nerves. The silence left in the wake of his departure can grate on your soul.
I could hear the echoes of the day before. The normal half full-half empty banter with my sweet wife: "We only have a day left." "Yes, but each of these days is a gift." Our light-hearted musings and playful banter occasionally interrupted by the plaintive cries of a baby who didn't like being sweaty in the Texas heat. "I hear ya, buddy," I would tell him (as if he could understand). "We'll get you out of here soon." I wish the reality of those remarks was not so encompassing. I wish "soon" had been later.
And finally the fog that has descended over many of my soldiers' hearts has descended over my own. My normal defense mechanisms and emotional deflections cannot keep this pain at bay, and that it good. I must feel the loss and strive eagerly for the gain that will come with my return. I can thank the Lord that such great love can dreg the depths of such great pain, revealing to me what I have in my best friend and precious boy.
I have often thought that the soldier's greatest sacrifice is putting himself in harm's way, but through my own experience and others, I no longer believe this to be the case. The greatest sacrifice is being put out of the way of those you love. I will not sit on a balcony and hold my wife's hand while we talk for a while, nor will I be able to prop my smiling baby upon my knees and play daddy-son games with him. But I will.
Do I regret, then, this great calling that God has placed upon my life? Can I share the hope of Jesus Christ with soldiers while walking through the shadow of death, even as I miss precious moments with my beloved family? To the very depth of my being, I am learning this simple truth: A baby's smile is worth protecting more than it is worth having.
The cannons have been emptied of their powder. The conductor's baton has been laid down. The orchestra stands silent. Together, they will unleash their fury in the days to come.
Today, I celebrate the One-Third of July. Today I take a holiday from the sweet embrace of my family and embrace a more uncertain future, known only to the sovereign and merciful mind of my God. With baited breath and constricted voice, I cry from the depths "In God I trust" and reach for the heights. I set my eyes on high, knowing that Christ reigns, and my life, together with my wife and boy, are hidden in Him forever.
3.7.13
A Few Days of Surreal Reality
At the present time, I am enjoying a few days away with wife and baby. We are set up at a resort overlooking a beautiful lake and spend most of our time on the balcony, enjoying the warm gusts of the Texas summer.
Baby and I are enjoying a lot of good quality time. I tend to smile unconsciously, and Baby loves to smile in response to other people smiling, so there is a lot of smiling going on. While I'm sure he's still partial to Mommy, Baby still loves time with his daddy.
And Wifey and I still enjoy the same, wonderful God-nourished friendship that has always formed the heart of our marriage. Our "balcony time" is a staple of our life together, wherever we reside. In the morning, our conversations are accompanied by coffee. In the evening, by wine, fruits, and a sunset.
What do I need in this life beyond what God has already given? I have Christ, and with Him, all things.
30.6.13
A Wedding's Wake
I conducted an informal, unofficial wedding ceremony today for a soldier who will be officially married by the justice of the peace tomorrow morning. It was a joyous affair for the third or so of our unit who attended amid their last minute preparations for family time.
I spoke of life and love as our rebellion against the realities of war, and today we all reveled in this unified rebellion.
In talking with some of the soldiers today, I noticed a growing sense of the surreal. There is an odd feeling--and I'm guessing it's typical of those in our situation--that our lives are about to change forever.
One soldier has experienced a rough couple of days. This experience was triggered by our mock memorial ceremony a few days ago. We ran through the Star Spangled Banner, the various individual tributes, the roll call with the eerie repetition of a soldier's name that will never receive a response, the firing of rifle volleys, the playing of TAPS, and the farewells.
The aforementioned soldier is well acquainted with death. She lost both of her parents as a baby. Death has followed her like a shadow her entire life. And now she prepares to enter a theater of war with soldiers who are largely unfamiliar with shadow of death, and fears that her own shadow will become their own. I feel her pain. May her fears prove unfounded.
But today we celebrated life and love. We can only truly celebrate these things if we are acquainted with death and know its power to rob men and women of life and love.
Love is strong as death. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. It's very flame is the flame of the LORD.
God grants us but a moment in this sin-wrecked, grace-maintained world. And He grants us life in His eternal love through pouring His just judgment upon His Son rather than us. This love makes our lives untouchable in Christ Jesus. It scatters the shadow with a thousand pinpricks of light. It empowers us to shout into the night "Where O death is thy sting? Where O grave is thy victory?" It grants us eternal comfort, knowing that we belong body and soul, in life and death, to Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior.
I spoke of life and love as our rebellion against the realities of war, and today we all reveled in this unified rebellion.
In talking with some of the soldiers today, I noticed a growing sense of the surreal. There is an odd feeling--and I'm guessing it's typical of those in our situation--that our lives are about to change forever.
One soldier has experienced a rough couple of days. This experience was triggered by our mock memorial ceremony a few days ago. We ran through the Star Spangled Banner, the various individual tributes, the roll call with the eerie repetition of a soldier's name that will never receive a response, the firing of rifle volleys, the playing of TAPS, and the farewells.
The aforementioned soldier is well acquainted with death. She lost both of her parents as a baby. Death has followed her like a shadow her entire life. And now she prepares to enter a theater of war with soldiers who are largely unfamiliar with shadow of death, and fears that her own shadow will become their own. I feel her pain. May her fears prove unfounded.
But today we celebrated life and love. We can only truly celebrate these things if we are acquainted with death and know its power to rob men and women of life and love.
Love is strong as death. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. It's very flame is the flame of the LORD.
God grants us but a moment in this sin-wrecked, grace-maintained world. And He grants us life in His eternal love through pouring His just judgment upon His Son rather than us. This love makes our lives untouchable in Christ Jesus. It scatters the shadow with a thousand pinpricks of light. It empowers us to shout into the night "Where O death is thy sting? Where O grave is thy victory?" It grants us eternal comfort, knowing that we belong body and soul, in life and death, to Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior.
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