Without Rest Pt.1

1

            Tap. Tap. I feel each flick of the tube as its contents slowly course their way through the hole in my arm and into my bloodstream. Some man with bleached blonde hair does a few final recordings, plants his hand upon my dad’s shoulder, says a few words, and walks out the door. I wonder if that man has a wife. Or kids. Will he tuck them in tonight?

            My dad wears his heart of his sleeve. He draws the blanket around my shoulders, sweeps my hair back, and kisses me on the forehead. Is there a better dad? Most girls starve for this sort of attention—this affection—but will get in a year what I get each night.

            He turns out the light, but he doesn’t walk out. Instead, he lies back in the recliner by my bed. Same thing each night. He never escapes to the bathroom without me noticing. I’ll pretend to be asleep so he doesn’t feel bad, but I know he’s leaving. How could I not? He leaves utter silence in his wake. The sound of death. I can feel his absence.

            I close my eyes. It is my way of giving Dad permission to sleep. Otherwise he would stare at me all night. I used to tell him to knock it off, but I have come to appreciate his gaze. It’s nice to be known, to be watched, even loved.

            Within minutes I hear the faint snores. I slowly turn my head and look at him. With his balding head turned back and his mouth fully ajar, he begins to look like a Muppet. All he would need is string-drawn arms, flailing wildly, to complete the look. In any case, I am grateful. I am now left to my thoughts.

            It might seem silly to you that I can only think when others are not looking. I used to think it was silly too. But you try loving someone whose eyes are upon you while also getting lost in thought. You can try it for a time—hell, you can even be looking in the person’s eyes—but they’ll see the vacancy. The blank whiteness of your eyes will overwhelm the pupils, and your callous heart will overwhelm your friend.

            But that’s a tangent. I cannot reason with the slow of heart or mind. No, I’m not exalting myself or insulting you. It’s just—you learn things—when you live without rest. When night becomes so familiar that the first morning’s light becomes painful. Yes, then you would not be so slow.

            Tonight, my mind dines upon love. Believe it or not, I first fell in love at the tender age of four. Clifford the Dog had just weaned her puppies (my parents did not ask enough questions of their neighbor when they bought the pup). I sprinted out the door to go visit my friend, Harry Watkins, up the street. He had the best fort on the block.

            As I ran, the barking of the puppies wasn’t receding. I turned to find one of them (awkwardly) chasing after me. When it finally reached my shoe, it started to claw and nibble at the toe. I picked him up (I checked to make sure it was a him) and held him against my chest. He rested his head against me and I was in love. His name was Baby.

            Some might wonder if this name foreshadowed a future obsession with having a baby of my own. Some would be right. I fell in love with Baby that day because he needed me. I could drop Baby and hurt him, but I wouldn’t. He trusted me to love him as he was, and I did. There is nothing like holding a living being to your heart and knowing he is yours. I want a baby.

            I was practically still a baby when my mom said that she was going away. She no longer loved my daddy, and he no longer loved her. But she made sure I knew that she still loved me and would write me often. I remember thinking then, if she loved me, why would she leave me?

            Well, she kept her word and wrote often. Once a month, in fact. Her letter would be mostly numbers and a quickly-scrawled signature. My daddy would let me hold the letters, but not keep them. He would always take them to the bank the next day and get money out. Those letters were alimony checks.

            Years later, I realized that Mom found something that she loved more than she loved Dad or I loved Baby. She loved success. The world was her oyster and nothing would stop her from taking the pearl at its heart—or mine. She was able to write plenty of checks as she pursued her dreams. Obviously a little child wasn’t her dream…just mine.

            I learned about the world from my mom. A thousand disappointments waited behind the original, each ready to deal me a new blow and extract their own tears. I couldn’t trust the world like Baby trusted me. The arms wouldn’t hold.

            But my dad’s arms would always hold tight. He lost his first love but he would not lose his last. At times I resented him for it. As children, we need freedom. Just like nights like these, though, his eyes would follow me. He would not close his eyes until I closed mine.

            You might think that this is ridiculous. In our modern world, what type of parent would be so backward and oppressive? I was once like you, but that is one area where us modern types are wrong. You think the world is your oyster like my Mom, but it’s more likely to snap on you. We need unconditional love, even if it’s messy.

            I know that now more than ever. Friends are surprisingly (or not so surprisingly) fickle when you need more than you can give. Early on, they would sit and chat. They would eye the tube nervously and avoid looking at the bandana on my head. They were nice enough, but it was obvious they were uncomfortable.

            I became a circus mirror to those friends. They would look at me and see their own disfigured forms. Why should they mourn their mortality when they could celebrate their vitality? I knew this. They knew this. I was relieved when they just left me alone and played football.

            Dad was a hero. He took me to appointments, talked with me about serious things, and took me for daddy-daughter dates. I felt a little like I was a wife and he was a devoted husband, but without the weirdness. He obviously missed my mom, but it simply made his affection for me more whole.

            My standard for a husband is virtually impossible as a result. He would need to love me like my dad loves me, and my dad doesn’t quit.  Dad works his butt off at the hardware store, does some home repair work in his spare time, and gives all the rest of his energy, time, knowledge, and love to me.

            I feel a tear work its way around my cheekbone as I look over at my Muppet-dad. He has fallen short in many ways, but not in his love. As everything I have ever taken for granted shifts around me like a sea of sand, he has been my rock. And I need him so much.

When Soldiers Come Home

I just had lunch with my buddy Steve and will soon join him at the motor pool to await a chopper that will begin his long journey home.

Steve expressed to me his surprise at some of the emotions during the past couple of days. His wife is excited to cuddle with him when he gets back. His immediate (unspoken) reaction? "So I'm leaving the real world of this deployment to cuddle?" The thought turns his stomach. He is also finding that a lot of people want to spend time with him upon his return. He has no desire to spend time with them. He is cynical, believing that these people don't really care about him, but only want to buddy up with the returning soldier to hear stories. He is already imagining himself sitting through long, tedious, meaningless conversations. His realization: "I don't want to go home."

There is nothing unusual about Steve's reactions (per the earlier post about the pervasive nature of PTSD). He has spent the better part of a year normalizing the abnormal. People want to kill you? Don't let them. Is the post receiving indirect fire (IDF)? Go inside. Did someone you know die? Or were they responsible for someone's death? This is war. Stuff happens.

For soldiers, the world often becomes inverted during and after a deployment. Chaos is normal. Normal life at home becomes chaos. It is important for soldiers to recognize this fact. When they display irrational anger or sadness at given circumstances or people, they must take responsibility for their irrational feelings and thought patterns. They must realize that their irrationality is normal for redeployed soldiers, but also can and must be changed. Thus, they also have the responsibility to argue with their feelings and begin to re-calibrate toward true normalcy.

At the same time, loved ones must adjust their expectations for the "new normal" that will accompany their soldier's arrival home. Here's some of what they can expect:

1) Seclusion. Even extroverts like me become incredibly burned out by a lifestyle that never allows for strategic retreats in order to socially and psychologically recharge. When I return, with the exception of worship services, I will initially avoid public places and large crowds. I will rarely leave the home, and when I leave with the wifey and boy on vacation, it will be to very low-key locations.

2) Mental fogginess. As much as I love ruminating and pontificating on theology, philosophy, politics, economics, psychology, etc, my mind will likely go on autopilot when I return. Loved ones must not expect profound responses to questions they ask, nor should they expect any measure of decisiveness (unless the soldier still thinks he is deployed and runs roughshod over the normal decision making processes). Expectations of profundity or decisiveness will often be met with frustration--i.e., What do you want for dinner? Don't know, don't care.

3) Cynicism. As exemplified by my friend, Steve, a deployment affects a soldier's worldview. He comes back to a society that often pays lip service to his service, but is largely detached from his service. America didn't go to war--the military did. None of the soldiers from my unit are coming back to a welcome home ceremony. They will be flown to the airport closest to their home. Someone will pick them up and take them home. They will expect social occasions to be superficial and will be more pessimistic in general.

4) Impatience and irritability. This accompanies the mental fogginess and cynicism. The soldier may react poorly to idle chatter, or what seems like pointless events or decisions. They might even display these traits against the heroes of their deployment--their spouses. The same things that kept their spouses going during a deployment--shopping excursions, home projects, etc--will be things that could particularly raise the ire of a soldier. "I don't care where you went shopping." "Who cares if the curtains are black or red?" This irritability is unfair, but it makes sense knowing where the soldiers has come from.

5) Yearning for anything but home. Nothing will keep the adrenaline going like a deployment. Soldiers will sit in a cubicle, thinking back upon the intensity of convoys and missions. They will motorcycles, hoping that going 100 mph on the highway will reproduce that same rush. Comfort will antagonize them, smiles and laughter will taunt them. "This is not the real world--it is all a mockery," their mind will tell them, when in truth, there life at home is as real as war.

When soldiers return home, rather than riding off into the sunset, a new battle must begin: A battle to reclaim the home, the family, and a normal life. It will be messy and awkward. They will have to fight to check their thoughts before they become attitudes and behaviors and invade the peace of the home. They will have to fight to respect normalcy and cherish the sacrifices of their families. And their families and friends must fight the temptation to say "You've changed," and instead, help soldiers ease back into a world where a loving wife awaits them in the next room, not a potential assassin.

And as God is just as gracious in sanctifying His people as He is in justifying them, we must trust that the heart that has been hardened in the fires of suffering will in the long run, be made that much more mature and malleable toward the plight of sin and the need for the grace of Christ.

Another Farewell

My good bud, Steve, will be leaving tomorrow after his one-year deployment was cut to six months. He will return to his wife, who is also active duty Air Force, and his dog, who is not active duty Air Force.

My weekly times of coffee and mentoring with Steve were some of the most valuable of this deployment. We often discussed the wonder of God's providence. Steve came to this country, expecting to engage in apologetic discussions with folks from a very different worldview. Instead, his most fruitful labors came in witnessing and discipling coalition soldiers. (This reminded me of my second trip to Malawi, where I spent much of my time in deep apologetic and evangelistic discussions with an atheist, Irish medical team.)

In the same way, I can marvel at God's providence in my mentoring of Steve. I was expecting front-line evangelism on front-line missions, but in God's providence, I operated in a (relatively) more secure environment and was used to mentor a future minister of the Gospel.

Steve began this deployment with an initial taste and love for Reformed theology and a hope to engage in para-church ministry upon his return. As we worked through Dangerous Calling, we also attacked a great number of theological issues: the importance of the pulpit ministry and a sound doctrine of the Church, Christ-centered preaching and teaching, presuppositional apologetics, baptism, the charismatic gifts, etc.

He is currently reading Christianity and Liberalism by Machen and God of Promise by Horton (alongside of Game of Thrones), as well as the Reformed confessions. He is listening to podcasts and CDs by The Gospel Coalition and White Horse Inn and reading Tabletalk and Modern Reformation magazine. He is hungry and growing in both knowledge and zeal for the Gospel, and hopefully avoiding many of the sins and mistakes that I made on my God-ordained journey to the precious truths of the Bible.

He is still planning to do para-church ministry (as a chaplain to college ROTC students), but with two added dimensions. First, he has decided to attend seminary at RTS-Charlotte. He is heeding Spurgeon's wisdom that if he had seven years for the ministry, he would spend six in preparation. Steve's next phase in life will be seminary, and his wife will likely take some counseling classes alongside of him. Second, he will plan to engage in his ministry under the auspices of the Church, likely the PCA and Reformed University Fellowship. He recognizes the importance of accountability and submission to Christ through His Church.

I anticipate that Steve and his wife will be good friends through the duration of this life. I rejoice that he has taken the providential plunge into the terrible, blessed realm of the public ministry of the Church. I rejoice that God would use me to mentor a brother to this course, much as He used certain, beloved pastors in the DC area to mentor me to my present course. I rejoice that I am reminded of how God uses me, not because of my strength, but in my weakness. I rejoice that, in God's providence, He used me in a way that I was not anticipating in the least.

Steve attended his last No BS BS this afternoon (with about half a dozen others). We prayed for his journey home and inevitably awkward reunion with his wife. We also prayed, in accordance with our study today, that his life and ministry, though marred by sin, would be used to magnify the glory of God. We prayed, that unlike the apostle John at the end of the great vision of Revelation, he would not bow the knee or direct others to bow the knee to the angel or any heavenly gift, but only before the the throne of grace--the throne of God and of the Lamb.

The Krud!

It's been a long day. I got up early to go with one of our teams to their site. We were almost stranded there for the night when the roads closed due to a VBIED attack elsewhere in the city earlier today. The worst part is that I'm experiencing a resurgence of the Kabul Krud, which is much like a cold, but with a more persistent, hacking cough.

On the bright side, I got to spend a good bit of time with my Aussie buds and tried both kangaroo and crocodile jerky for the first time. They enjoy playing to their stereotypes.

My little boy is going through one of his "wonder weeks" this week, where I bunch of knew skills quickly coalesce. He is able to stand up, either by propping himself against something or while having someone balance him. He is imitating noises. He is smiling a lot (oh wait, that's not a change!).

On occasion, if the wifey need to step away for a moment while we're on the phone, she'll set the iPad a little way from the boy so that I can see him but he can't hang up on me.

I realized that noises excite him much more than simply talking to him. He was playing with a toy when the wifey left. I started to make squeaky noises. I watched him turn his head toward me, catch his breath in that super-excited way that marks him out, and then start scrambling toward me lizard-like (he has gotten incredibly fast).

All of a sudden, everything was spinning around and I was looking at furniture, the ceiling, and flashes of red hair. I kept asking "Where are we going, buddy?" But he was more excited about the adventure with iDaddy than with engaging in serious, sober conversation.

When the wifey came back, she found our boy with iPad in hand, both very excited and very pleased with himself. I love experiences like that. It's like I'm playing with my boy in a way that is not staged, like so much else must be of necessity.

I know the wifey can't wait to have me home--not only for the sake of having her hubby, but also to have a large lizard to track the little lizard. I have a feeling that I will be needed often in the years to come to chase after this kid and burn his energy.

By the way, in honor or his incredibly pale skin and orange-red hair, I am now calling him "Seamus."

Superheroes and Self-Salvation

Have I always had a superhero complex?

Ok, maybe not the last one. And for the sake of transparency, that was not a real zebra upon which I lead my team into last place on Chaos Day at Calvin College.

I have always wanted to be a superhero. Some of my earliest elementary school memories are of leading my fellow boys into first grade recess battles against the aggressive, cooties-leaden female horde. In second grade, I would pretend to beat up tornadoes for the girl who came over to our house for daycare (apparently, tornadoes are vulnerable to sneak attacks and gut punches). For several of those years, what I most wanted for Christmas was a rocket pack. I imagined myself flying all around the heads of my classmates (likely so I could donkey-kick people in the head).

In later years, these desires likely translated into my quests for senior class vice president in high school and my identity as the simultaneously beloved and reviled "Shirtless Stevo" in college.

Some have labeled this desire a "martyrdom complex." One of the reasons I got a tattoo in college of a cross with a PH 1:21 (Phil. 1:21) above it was the assumption that, whether through mission work or Army work, I would one day be captured by extremists who would behead me on television. I would plead with them to please not remove my shirt because it would be such a grave insult to my culture, knowing that this would prompt them to remove my shirt. Thus, in my final moments, people would see a cross and potent Bible verse over my heart and know why and for Whom I died. Since I've gotten married, I've decided that I'd prefer to keep my head on...and my shirt.

At passing glance, such a dream might sound pious and zealous, but in many ways, it was just the same old idolatrous superhero complex rising to the fore.

And if I'm honest with myself, this desire to be a superhero was not a benevolent desire to valiantly serve God or man. It was a desire to finally be recognized and appreciated, even if it meant death. It was a desire to create a fantasy world of control during the frightening moments of my childhood. It was a desire to be noticed when everything--good and bad--seemed to happen over and around me, but never to me. At root, it was a desire to be my own Savior, sitting above a landscape of helplessness and suffering.

Satan need never tell me "Ye shall be as God," for I would have taken of the fruit long before he ever spoke such heinous words. The greatest enemy of my soul will always be me. I fear neither Satan or death. I fear that I will make a mockery of my God and that my weakness will bring reproach upon the Gospel. And, as much as I know and trust (somewhat) that God will sanctify me and bring me greater peace in the Gospel, I also know that this great spiritual thorn in the flesh will remain in my paw.

We all believe in self-salvation. Every religion but Christianity teaches this concept, and it finds a ready home in the human heart, which is inclined to whore itself out to such deceit. We all believe that we can compensate for sin with good works and rise above our circumstances to earn the vindication that should be bestowed upon us.

This is what makes the Gospel so offensive. As we desperately cling to this idolatrous concept, God condemns our every effort in this regard as futile and tells us that it is Jesus and His perfect righteousness and substitutionary death, or it is nothing but wrath and condemnation. There is no superhuman flight apart from Christ, only descent and destruction.

Even as I constantly reach for the idol of my own efforts, I can take comfort in the knowledge that His strength is made manifest in my weakness. I can rest in the knowledge that He chose me for this very reason--that in me, the worst of sinners, He might display His unlimited patience as an example for those who might believe and have eternal life.

Many ear-ticklers in the Church today will tell you that you must live the Gospel. You cannot. If you look to me as an example of someone whose good works testify to the Gospel, you will be utterly disappointed (and I may be momentarily broken again by a burden I cannot bear). 

My hope, my comfort, is that my ugliness testifies to the beauty of the Gospel. My assurance is that in my justification, my ugliness has been forever washed away and I have been cloaked in the beauty of Christ. In my sanctification, He is stripping off the ugly rags I still cling to and replacing them with linens washed white in the Lamb. In my glorification, the tree of bitter fruit that taunts my life will disappear once and for all. And all of this wrought through the true Hero of salvation, Jesus Christ.

A Relationship Is Never Static

It is easy to switch to autopilot in a relationship. This is a particular temptation for men, who are naturally not as attuned to others' feelings, sensitivities, or need to be understood. I think men are more likely to think of a relationship as river, always and unalterably progressing, while women are more likely to think of a relationship as a plant, in need of watering and care.

In these assertions are true (which I can vouch for, at least by anecdote), then this is another example of an issue in which a man must carefully heed a woman's superior "emotional intelligence." The cold, calculating logic and abstractions that men often employ might be useful for problem-solving, but not for maintaining relationships. It is women who are more in touch with the truth of things as it comes to relationships and how one relates to the world.

Take, for example, the death of a loved one. Men are much more likely to dismiss the brunt of the grief with logical assessments--"Well, he was going to die anyway," "It was his time," "Death is a part of life," etc. (By the way, the second statement is presumptuous and the third is just wrong.) But for most women, if something is cry-worthy, they shed tears. They don't rationalize something like death and other tragedies. They grieve.

Last night, I retreated to my room to read and try to recoup from my latest war on under-the-weatherism. I had just settled into my bed and Game of Thrones when I received a phone call from a soldier I counseled earlier in the day. He told me his wife was willing to talk with me, and as he was about to leave on a mission, he wanted to know if I could counsel them that night. So I put my uniform back on, went to the office, and engaged in a Skype-ology session with the couple.

We went through the usual introductory formalities and I specifically gave the fiancee the floor for most of our meeting. I made sure that her soldier was repeating what she was saying in his own words to show that he was listening to and comprehending what she was saying. And I would then return to her and ask if he was getting what she was saying. She believed he was, but had no faith that he truly took her or their relationship seriously.

She was incredibly cynical. Based on his previous behavior, including neglect and minor deceptions, she believed him to be inherently untrustworthy and unable to prioritize their relationship or appreciate/value her. As a result, his every behavior was evidence of these traits and his words were not reflective of the deeper reality. Unless he can prove his trustworthiness and appreciation and unless she can believe it, this engagement is over and their little boy is doomed to a life of house-trading and separate holidays.

If this soldier had understood that his relationship needed his constant attention, he would not be in this crisis state now. There would have been evidence imprinted upon his fiancee's heart regarding his character that would testify in her heart against his guilt and kept her open and soft to his overtures and declarations of change and renewal. The brutal reality is that there is often not a second chance in most relationships. Commitment is much more fickle in modern times than in bygone eras. Active care must compensate for this fact.

But he was oblivious to this fact, as he was to the fact that relationships are never static. They are not a river. They are a plant. They are either growing or dying. This is the same in the Christian life, where one is either a slave to sin or to righteousness (Rom. 6). He cannot have it both ways. There is always movement.

I have been disturbed by the number of women who have seemed to flee their families in the middle of night after 15-20 years of marriage. I am still disturbed by that fact. The recourse to exercise in the face of neglect or mistreatment is counseling, not divorce. Yet I am also disturbed by the lack of awareness that men have leading up to this crisis point. They have assumed that the river would always flow. Instead, they find a withered plant, flowers in the dust.

May God in His grace grant men the attentiveness they need and must show to their dear wives and may He in His grace grant women the wisdom to seek help rather than escape. May He impress upon both the knowledge that marriage is not static and that downward dynamism will inevitably occur, but that marriage is made for moments like these: To show forth the unconditional love of God for His people, demonstrated at just the right time in Christ's death for sinners.

And in the meantime, as He faithfully nurtures the faith of His people and sanctifies them for Christ's sake, may His people find refreshment and encouragement in the knowledge that His love is not so fickle.

When Ichabod Crane Gets Married

Most things were a blur when I was first notified that I would be deployed. I had been told definitively that I would not be going due to a lack of a slot for a chaplain. So the wifey and I got pregnant. We endured a great scary with her ovarian surgery. And we bought our first house.

Finally, with the wifey healed up and amidst preparations for our newborn, the phone call arrived. The plans were dashed and the wifey cried for several days. I could comfort her with the fact that I had no choice in the matter.

That was, until I finally understood the jarbled sounds of a voicemail from my commander, telling me that he'd added me to the mission and was excited to have me on board, but if for some reason I couldn't do it, he could find another chaplain. When I realized what he was saying, my heart turned to ice. He had just given me an out.

In my situation, many soldiers would simply not tell their wife. It is hard enough to deal with the separation and perceived abandonment, let alone adding the knowledge that such separation was intentional. I was also tempted not to tell my wife. It was hard enough for her. I also knew that it is easy to become a lightning rod for people in pain and didn't want to be blamed for leaving.

But I couldn't keep this from my wife. Even if it takes lots of time and tears, we have always made our decisions together. I may be the head of our marriage, but there is not a major life decision that we have made that my wife did not first own for herself. We've called these deliberations our "road trip discussions." Whenever we took a long road trip, we would hash out and conclude something substantial--our future denomination, which call to pursue, when to try for children, etc.

After seminary, when I began to be convicted about the importance of attending the Sunday evening service, I did not force the wifey to come to my point of view. She wrestled it out on her own. In each of these matters, patience (which doesn't come naturally to me) allowed my wife to own a decision without feeling coerced. She would then often adhere to positions and decisions much more conclusively than I would.

At times, she would be the stronger voice of conviction. After we moved to the OPC, we had one more substantial obstacle to overcome: ministry or politics. I loved both. We sought the wisdom of the pastors at Grace one morning over breakfast, and afterward, the wifey told me that she did not marry a politician, she married a pastor. She has always said she would follow me, but that doesn't mean that her input is not incredibly valuable in how I lead.

I bring all of this up because of a counseling case I had today. I preached at two services this morning--my normal traditional service as well as the Gospel service. (The former is more of my theological home; the latter is where personalities like mine more naturally belong.) In between these two services, a soldier didn't I know approached me and said he needed to talk. I walked him over to my office, and as soon as the door was cracked, he started to lose it.

He confessed that he failed in his first marriage and had committed adultery in precipitating its eventual breakup. But now he is engaged to the gal he truly loves. They also have a baby together.

But he made a big mistake. He pursued a deployment without her knowledge (like most soldiers who haven't previously deployed, he was desperate to get one under his belt before the war was over). To top it off, he told her that he had no choice in the matter. She later found out that this was a lie and told him recently that the engagement was off and the relationship irreparable.

He was astonished and heartbroken. He was astonished because he hadn't cheated on her, nor had he been an unloving fiance. But like a thunderclap, her sense of betrayal made him realize the folly of making a major life decision without her and they lying about it. Such a mistake communicates priorities higher than the well-being of one's wife/fiancee. He cared more about the deployment than about her thoughts on the matter. And by lying about it, he communicated a willingness to live a part of his life separate from her.

He is repentant. He will try to redeploy early if he has the chance and is even willing to discard his beloved Army life if it means he can keep the love of his life. But he may be too late. (I will counsel both of them over the phone in the weeks to come.) Whether or not he can salvage this relationship, the fact remains: These crisis moments can be prevented with proper care early on. And ultimatums like "me or the Army" that arise so often would likely never occur if time has been taken to build a cohesive "us and the Army" approach.

After I joined the Army, there was one time I offered to leave. I told my fiancee at the time (my wife now) that I would leave is she wanted me to. She told me that she had only known me a soldier and that she was marrying a soldier (what a wonderful, warrior wife!).

When I came to her with the new knowledge that I could escape this deployment, even after several days of heartache, she did not waver. She absolutely did not want me to go, but agreed with me that I should go. I signed up for an eventuality like this. And it was only an option for me because of my position as a chaplain. No other soldier could willingly back out. It was clear that God has called me to this and that my place was alongside my soldiers, despite the hardship.

This line of thought was largely vindicated a few days into our mobilization in Texas, when a soldier came to me and said that he didn't think he would be able to leave his daughter, but realizing I was doing the same with my little boy, he found the strength to go. We were in it together.

When I get home, my wife and I will be making a road trip, first to Massachusetts (her choice), then to Maine (my choice). The most substantial part of our trip will likely occur on the road, where we will spend hours talking over the past, present, and future. And in God's grace, we will not make Ichabod Crane decisions, with head held apart from body, but will do so together with the grace of God as our strength and the wise providence of God as our peace.