Operation Proper Exit and Ragnar Wishes

There is a program called "Operation Proper Exit" that takes soldiers who were wounded and rushed out of the country and brings them back to leave on their own terms. We had a ceremony for a number of them today (up in front, under the flags). We had a fairly sizable crowd, including members of each branch of our military and a number of coalition soldiers from other countries. In the last picture, you can see our chapel to the left of the big white screen.

The social media director for Ragnar Relay recently asked me which race I would choose to run if I could run any one in the country. There were a lot of wonderful options, but I told her that my top choice would be DC, running with friends, family, and fellow soldiers. Exotic locations don't have near the appeal as simply being with family. If I run Ragnar this coming year, I will be glad to trade the mud for the mountains!

Help Me, I'm Helpless!

As I mentally wrestled with my insubordinate soldier yesterday, desperately trying to keep him from throwing away his career in a pique of anger, I couldn't help but think of the book, Learned Optimism, that I read at the beginning of this deployment.

Sure, the soldier had many legitimate gripes with this unit. This unit has a very poor track record with soldier care over the years. Some of the fault could be found in the DC-area culture, which simultaneously breeds a class of ambitious, cut-throat, political networkers and a class of entitled, self-absorbed, ego monsters. Neither of these classes produce the type of leaders who would look out for and mentor soldiers.

Certain dynamics on this deployment also worked against general soldier-care. Much of our leadership was fairly new and not well-acquainted with the soldiers or their issues. Half of our unit was cross-leveled from other units around the country, meaning that there was not much in the way of unit chemistry or pre-existing bonds. Also, our unit was split into pieces and spread around the country.

All that granted, this soldier was not in a helpless situation. He believed he was, but there are always areas of our lives that we can control and even improve. This soldier had never finished memorizing the NCO Creed, which is required for his promotion. He had not bothered to ask if there were other reasons, related to behavior or work habits, that might have obstructed a potential promotion. He certainly could mouth off less and respect his NCOs more. The fact that other soldiers were getting promoted ahead of him might not have been as much about favoritism, as the fact that his NCO-caliber skill set was not matched by an NCO-caliber demeanor.

But we must take another step back in assessing this soldier. Why did this soldier believe that he had no ability to improve his state? This gets back to the concept of learned helplessness. Somewhere along the way, this soldier learned to interpret unfavorable circumstances, not as an exception to the norm and as something to overcome, but as the norm itself and without remedy. When bad things happen, they are part of a pre-conceived pattern that encompasses either history, the whole of the present, or one's identity (or perhaps all three).

While the last pattern is hardest to detect because it is the most painful and personal, the other two were clearly in evidence with this soldier. He has been stuck in his rank for a long time. He believes that he has been stuck in this rank because of the unit's history of malfeasance and because of the leadership surrounding him at the present.

We must not scoff at this soldier's self-deception--it is emblematic of the mentality of much of my generation. Many of our young adults were taught as children that they had angelic natures and were the center of the universe. They were not treated as sinners who need constant correction, nor were they given sources of meaning beyond themselves (i.e. faith, family, community, etc). Thus, when something goes wrong for young people, they are prone to think that it is beyond their control and that they are victims. They also have no hope of transcendent meaning in the circumstance because they are center of their world and meaning starts and ends with them.

This problem is compounded by the general fracture of the family in our society. When little Jack watches his single mom work tirelessly to barely put food on the table, he begins to think that the world is unfair and that there is not much you can do but try to survive. Because his parent is slaving away to put food on the table and there is no parent at home to help him take responsibility for his life and his choices, he is given no means with which to overcome obstacles. Of course, these are all generalities, but they tend to fit the pattern that has led to this generational disarray.

So what do you do with a person who struggles with learned helplessness, which in turn midwives depression and resentment? First, you recognize that there is a superficial, psychological, and spiritual component to the problem. The superficial assessment recognizes that this person is not taking responsibility for himself and is thus liable to whatever consequences his behavior has earned. Simple justice would make for simple solutions, but it doesn't dig to the heart of the problem.

Second, once past the superficial diagnosis, you must deal with the psychology of learned helplessness. The Sergeant Major stumbled upon one way of doing this yesterday. He didn't bust the soldier down a rank, which would've reinforced his faulty interpretive grid, but gave him two weeks to put himself back into position for a promotion, which encourages a sense of responsibility.

This was a great move by the Sergeant Major, but it only affects potential behavior and not the thoughts that underlie behavior. The soldier now has a promising and responsible path forward, but his pessimistic interpretive grid may kick in and tell him that because of the conspiracy of circumstances around him, it is a hopeless endeavor. As a result, he may quit before he ever starts. Ideally, this soldier will learn to dispute his thoughts (i.e., other soldiers are getting promoted) and begin to change his interpretive grid. Until he does this, others can help dispute his thoughts. That is why I will try to search him out and help him with the NCO Creed. If he tries to feed me the BS that he is feeding himself, I can quickly put it down.

Third, as thoughts lie behind behaviors, so beliefs lie behind thoughts. It is not enough to change thought patterns is the reference point is still me. This is a point I made with my activist friend. For him, society seemed to revolve around "civil rights" (i.e., so-called marriage "equality"), and his conversations would always come back to this issue. I finally asked him what his purpose in life would be in a country where such rights are in no way possible, where survival is perhaps the main goal of day-to-day living?

He couldn't fathom that possibility. We live in a world of realities, not ideals, and the reality is that if someone I love dies, even if I have altered my thought patterns to recognize that there is much more to life than death, that death will pierce me down to the very core of my basic beliefs. There is no making optimistic lemonade from death's lemons. If I am my own reference point for meaning, then the tragedy of a loved one's death will be devastating and total.

But if my life and my happiness is not ultimate, then such tragedies lose their full extent of their potency. If God's glory is ultimate, then I can pray that He be glorified in and through such tragedies. If His saving purposes for His people by grace through faith in Christ is ultimate, then I can grieve with hope. If His providence rule is ultimate over human affairs, I can entrust any circumstance to His holy, wise, and powerful plan as it unfolds in this world.

It is easy to see another's self-destructive lifestyle and read it merely as a behavior problem. But there is a complex psychology behind behavior that centers around our thoughts. It might then be easy to read those thoughts as the core barrier or enabler with regard to well-being. But thoughts always arise from beliefs, and if those beliefs are faulty, the whole psychology enterprise becomes a tower of cards, awaiting their fall. New behaviors need new thinking and new thinking requires a new heart. If anyone is in Christ, He is a new creation--the old has gone, the new has come.

ARCOMing Home

I was awarded an ARCOM (Army Commendation Medal) today for all the funerals I have done.

If I was tempted to let something like this go to my head, such a temptation was quickly dashed by rapid-fire counseling appointments. One soldier who I am counseling wanted to give me the latest update on progress made with his fiancee. He decided to drop by the office without prior morning, which means that I didn't have a chance to begin my day's work.

As soon as he left, I was approached by an officer buddy. We needed to go fish an enlisted soldier out of the barracks. He was tired of seeing other soldiers promoted and not being promoted himself and refused to heed lawful orders from several NCOs. It was a messy affair. Such disobedience warranted being busted down a rank. In a strong moment for our unit Sergeant Major, he not only declined to bust the soldier down a rank, but gave him the opportunity to get on the fast track toward promotion, should he show the proper initiative. Hopefully, this soldier has gone from disgruntled to ambitious as result. I'll try to help him memorize the NCO creed, which is one of the requirements for his promotion.

But I am not tempted to let my award go to my head. I don't like awards, especially as we suffer from the same inflation in the Army that we often witness in classrooms across America. Everybody is treated as special, and thus no one is special. Everyone, regardless of performance, will receive an ARCOM for this deployment. There is no incentive for success nor disincentive for failure. I long for a post-PC military.

But military awards, like college diplomas, though fairly worthless in themselves, are essential for professional advancement. So in as much as I get my array of medals and ribbons from this deployment, I will have opportunities to serve more soldiers in more places. I will also have more credibility with such soldiers, who value experience above most anything else.

I begin the trek home in a few short weeks. I will do alongside the commander that found a spot for me on this deployment roster and has given me good professional counsel. I will do so alongside the lower enlisted soldier who almost ruined his military career in a fit of pique, but will hopefully translate his new-found opportunity into unexpected success.

In my pride-saturated self-doubt, I often question my usefulness in the Lord's hands. A part of me will continually question whether I have squandered every God-given opportunity to placard His name before believing and unbelieving hearts alike. God could use dramatic means to confront this sinful tendency of mine, but instead, He so often employs His gentle providence to comfort me.

As the disgruntled soldier was telling the SGM today that no one up the chain of command cares for the lower enlisted soldiers in our unit, he stopped a second, pointed a thumb me and said "...except for the chaplain." A part of me will initially doubt this assertion. Another part will claim credit for it with a worldly explanation, like "my brother was a lower enlisted soldier, so I have a heart for these particular soldiers."

But the truth is, our God delights in using the useless. I wasn't born blind because of my sin or my parents' sin, I was born blind so that Christ might heal me and the works of God might be revealed (John 9). If I could truly grasp the height, depth, width, and breadth or God's love for me in Christ Jesus, I would not doubt His gracious providence in using a sinner such as me.

Imagine if we all could believe that simple truth down to the depths of our hearts. Imagine the boldness and graciousness with which we would go forth with the Gospel. We condemn ourselves in our sin, when God has already condemned our sin on the cross and made us alive in Christ.

Yet, even in these moments of doubt and despair, we must remember that God "works in us to will and work according to His good pleasure." We can allow ourselves to become rusty, but we are still tools utilized in the grace of God and for the glory of His name.

...And To Some a Goodnight

Let us take a moment to use our imaginations. I can imagine what you are likely doing right now: Hanging up wreaths, stringing lights on Christmas trees, cooking a few food items in advance, perhaps waiting for a knock on the door and the arrival of a relative you haven't seen in a while. Now I would like you to imagine something. As you're engaging in these activities, carols playing in the background, you hear a knock on the door and go to answer, but instead of a long-awaited relative, you seen two men in dress blues. 

"Mrs. Bohler," they ask. 

"Yes, that me. Is there something wrong?" 

"Ma'am, may we step inside?" Your breath catches.

"Um...I guess." 

As they're walking past you, you squeak out "Is Chris okay?"

"Mrs. Bohler, The Secretary of Defense regrets to inform you that..."

Everything falls apart.

As Deborah Bohler, mother of Chris Bohler, who just died in a chopper crash, wrote that her heart "shattered into a million pieces. Dear God gives us strength through this pain." (http://www.wral.com/soldier-killed-in-afghanistan-helicopter-crash-has-local-ties/13229052/)

Chris Bohler is one of two soldiers identified so far from the crash, alongside Jesse Lee Williams (http://chicago.cbslocal.com/2013/12/18/soldier-from-elkhart-ind-killed-in-helicopter-crash-in-afghanistan/).

I was pretty shocked two nights ago when family members started emailing me to ask if I was okay and if all my soldiers are okay. Apparently, news broke in the States about a helicopter going down, killing six soldiers.

I was shocked because my family knew about it before I did--it wasn't big news out here. I was also shocked because it was such big news in the States. It's not that it shouldn't be big news, but we lose close to ten soldiers a month out here (about half of what we lost last year). 

I didn't realize it, but there is some sort of threshold for reporting casualties back home. People never hear about the couple of soldiers who die by, say, an IED out here, but if there's a MASCAL (mass casualty) incident, then it makes the airwaves.

What about the marine who died a week or so ago from an IED? He deserved his two minutes in the sun, with a brief news report on where he grew up, a few comments from his family, and a moment of TAPS playing alongside the listing of his basic information.

And while many people hear about this crash, think it's sad, and change the channel, there will be six families who were hanging up Christmas wreaths and now must hang on for dear life as everything crumbles around them. Six families who just got that knock on the door--the one they feared the most--and who will find nothing but tears under the tree later this week.

This incident sunk deeply into my wife's tender heart. A handful of people unexpectedly asked her about me, which struck her as odd, and then she saw news footage about the crash. For a while, she was paralyzed with fear that it was me. When I realized that people were making a big deal about this, I emailed me family to tell them that me and my soldiers were fine. Her fear turned into heartache for the wives, mothers, and children whose fears were not alleviated, but realized.

My friends, we should feel this for every deceased soldier and his family! They are not just a statistic from the Army's war against terrorists, they are husbands, sons, and fathers with rich stories of life and love who were just tragically lost in America's war against her enemies. It is not just their blood that they shed for you, but the joy of their families that was just sacrificed on the altar of freedom.

We should not avoid these stories. We should cling to them. They should break our hearts. Their families should be in our prayers. And we should remember them amidst the pleasant festivities that we enjoy this time of year. We should thank God for a few of them by name as we pray before our Christmas Day mealtime.

The tragedy is not simply the loss of these soldiers and those we lose every week, it is the fact that come Christmas Day, as some families experience their first Christmas with an empty seat at the table, we will not remember them.

Without Rest Pt.5 (Final)

5

            It was once said that many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. I cling to those words and all they embody. The rain has stopped, but the waters are not receding. My breaths are more shallow and I must constantly fight off panic. My dad looks unconcerned, but he continually speaks in soft tones to soothe me.

            A decisive moment has come upon us. I see it fill my dad’s expression with determination. He pulls the cloth from my forehead, draws himself very close, and places both of his hands of my cheeks. His face draws so near me that I can feel his long breaths as they mirror my own gasps.

            “Kayla Joy, many people have asked me whether I regretted marrying your mother, knowing what I do now. Perhaps I could have had a different life, with a loving wife and a house full of kids. I would watch each one grow up, and enjoy my waning days with the wife of my youth.

            “Do you know what I tell them? I wouldn’t change a thing. Because of your mother, I have been given twenty years with the most precious daughter a father could ever ask for. Even if my next twenty were filled with loneliness, they would be more than compensated by my present wealth.

            “I thank God every day for you. I remember picking you up that first time at the hospital, holding you against my chest, and feeling our hearts beat together. For all the ups and downs, our hearts have not drawn apart since. My time with you will bring me joy until I join you.”

            With that he wraps his arms around me and goes silent. I can feel his heart against mine, providing long steady thumps alongside my sputtering. It feels as if my body is turning off. Various organs seem to rumble, then stop. My breath steadies to a faint wheezing, and stars begin to appear before my eyes. The pain is receding and everything is turning warm and numb. My dad’s face slips from view.

All is silent and hazy. My body feels whole, but unable to move. I suddenly feel swept up, as if my dad was carrying me, and I think I’m moving. The same arms that hold me grab hold of the surrounding haze and rend it apart and the mighty roar of great seas break upon my ears.

            The expanse around me is dark, except for millions of tiny stars. It sounds as though the water will soon engulf me, yet it cannot touch me. I notice the stars are moving. Their lights have bodies and they proceed steadily against bodies of darkness. I feel safe in these arms as the sounds of water and sights of darkness slowly recede.

            The world around me starts to flicker, like a television that loses its signal. Everything becomes like static. The world—a new world—suddenly snaps into view. The one who holds me now treads upon streets of gold. I watch lush hillsides roll by.

            I look up and recognize the face. My heart melts into a state of childlike trust and curiosity. I ask where we are going. “Little lamb, I must take you to see your father.” He speaks without his lips moving. The grass on the hillsides comes into sharper focus and I realize that each blade is a man, woman, or child, lying facedown upon the ground.

            Excuse me, I ask the man, but why are these people bowing? “You will see in a moment, little lamb, but it is quite a wonderful spectacle, isn’t it?” I nod my head and am captivated with everything around me.

            The path turns alongside a rushing river that seems to leap even as it flows. I find myself bedecked in the most beautiful white robe. I look up at the familiar face—did you do that? “Long ago, little lamb, long ago.”

            The river and road both pass under the largest tree I have ever seen. The fruit hanging from it allures me, but I dare not touch it. “It is alright, little lamb. You are safe now.” With that, the man picks a piece and gives it to me. I eat my fill, and it is very good.

            From the great multitude upon the hillsides, I hear the most beautiful music—like that of a great wedding. The ground pulsates, as if directing the choir with steady beats. It is the sound of love.

            Emerging at the end of this canopied path is a throne so large, that the ground beneath seems but a footstool. It is enshrouded by smoke and flame. I look up at the man with tears—I do not belong here. “But I brought you here, little lamb. I carried you from the portals, through the waves, and clothe you in my own clothes.” You belong, because you are my beloved.”

            My heart swells with joy and confidence that is not my own as the man sets me upon my feet before the throne. I want to draw near, but instead immediately fall to my face and press my chest as tightly as I can to the ground. The pulsating fills me. It is my father’s heart.

Random Tidbits

I sometimes tell people that I am a "menist." I believe that our society both ridicules and punishes men for being men. It seems like most popular sitcoms depict men as dunces who need to be persistent chastised by their wives (i.e., Simpsons, Everybody Loves Raymond, Family Guy, etc.). And I doubt we'll find a commercial where confusion besets the female and a resolution is brought about the male.

Likewise, our public school system punishes boys for displaying male behavior. Energy, aggression, competition, and tactile learning are punished rather than accommodated (see books/articles by Christina Hoff Sommers on this topic). And because we don't permit boys to be boys and propagate the myth that masculinity is chauvinism-in-disguise, we have created a culture of twenty five year old man-boys who take little responsibility for their lives or for the women in their lives (see books/articles by Kay Hymnowitz on this topic).

And there are few things that rile me up as much as the sexist, patronizing propaganda that claims that males "only think with one part of their body." This mentality robs men of their dignity, as expressed in their sense of morality and intellectual acumen. Men are not over-sexualized strawmen that may be beaten and dehumanized at will.

All that is a segue to a great article by a woman I often disagree with. Camille Paglia is a first-generation feminist who butts up against a lot of values I cherish, but is unwilling to make war on men or declare them obsolete (as Maureen Dowd at the NYT has): http://ideas.time.com/2013/12/16/its-a-mans-world-and-it-always-will-be/print/.

 I traveled out today with my predominantly-Australian team. They are always a delightful and witty bunch. Here are a few pictures from my excursion with them:

One of the mountains surrounding the work site and the city.

Our top-ranking officer on site meeting with several top Afghan officers.

An early-morning "selfie" I took once the convoy got rolling.

The name of this particular team, written on the turret gunner's weapon.

Several of our Turkish coalition partners.

One of our Aussie friends.

This isn't from the site. This is a proud papa enjoying early-Christmas festivities with his boy.

Without Rest Pt.4

4

            I miss my Baby. He died a year before I found out about my cancer. I think he knew—he always had such a sad expression on his droopy face. Those big black eyes bore into me. They knew the secrets of my heart. They grieved those secrets. Poor, loving dog.

            Another of life’s (or death’s) ironies: Baby died of cancer. The same faithful friend who could spring into my arms without a moment’s hesitation could not even stand up in his last days. At least Baby could still bark and move his head.

            I know Baby was just a dog, not a person. I understand that there’s a difference. But he was my Baby. We had chosen each other, were committed to each other. He would guard me from unknown dangers; I would cuddle him into the night. I would love him if he could not protect me. He would love me even if lacking the tender affection.

            I felt like I had betrayed him. I watched him like a hawk as the light of life slowly escaped his eyes. As, over the course of months, he drank suffering down to its deathly dregs. His eyes always had the look of pleading. Help me! You picked me up from the earth. Don’t let me descend back to it.

            Perhaps that’s how my dad feels when he looks at me. He cried very little before my cancer. Even less now. He never told me so, but I know he decided early on that he would have to be strong for both of us. I don’t know what to think of that. I have needed that cool wit and firm grasp, but should not some territory of the heart be ceded to authentic grief? There is a fine line between encouragement and empathy. He has tried.

            Yet I hear him in those rare times when he is not near. I hear his muffled cries and desperate prayers: Why God? Why her and not me? It reminds me a bit of that famous prayer from the cross, Why have you forsaken me? The old preacher used to say that Jesus was forsaken so that those he loved would join him in paradise. But why has God forsaken me?

            This is the question that gnaws at my dad. If he could, he too would bare the thorns and nails so that he could bend back the bars of death and allow me to pass through. But instead, he must watch the light of life pass from his baby’s eyes. He is a willing sacrifice without an altar to lie upon.

            I open my eyes and find the weary, bloodshot eyes of my dad gazing upon me. I watch him as he pours himself a rum and coke. That’s his favorite for nights like these. The caffeine vivifies the senses. The rum numbs the heart. He suddenly catches his breath and shoots a knowing look at me. My heart jumps. My body would also if it could.

            He quickly strolls from the room and I hear bumping and scraping extending from his bedroom, through the center hallway, out into the living room. He comes back a moment later with an armful of paintings. He knows how I fixate on those color-saturated landscapes.

            The first one he shows me is of a small lake. In the heart of the lake, a grove of trees rest upon a small island. Neither the leaves nor the water are disturbed by wind or rain. Between the island and shoreline, a small fishing boat with two indistinct passengers sits upon the still water. Those blurry figures are me and my dad.

            And I am transported to the scene. I feel the slight humidity in the air as I lean back upon the side of the boat. Dad? (I can talk!) Dad, do you ever wonder what life would have been like without the wind? He looks from the water to me. “I do. I have lived for these moments of serenity with you. I would have taken the storms myself.”

            The scene around me goes dark and I am back in my room. My dad is staring intently at me and whispering (praying?). He sees that I have emerged from that picture and shows me another. It is a small, lighted home amidst a dark, snowy night. Through the window, you can faintly see a smiling old man and a decorated tree.

            My feet crunch on the snow and I near the doorway and gently knock. My dad, rosy-cheeked and gleeful, turns the latch and welcomes me in. The room swims with warmth and the mingled smells of pine and turkey engulf me. I look over at the expansive tree and see a single ball hanging from its sturdiest branch. My throat constricts and I choke out “Daddy.”

            Dad, that tree will look naked and empty without that ball there. What will you do in coming years without it? “That ball is not coming down, my dear, nor will that tree ever be moved. You may fade from this picture, but my love for you will not fade. Love is strong as death.” And with that, the crackling fire in the hearth is snuffed out.

            I once again lock eyes with my dad, but his cheeks are drawn pale and thin, and there is not the least hint of laughter. He reads my return in my eyes and proceeds to show a final, very normal painting: Two people, holding hands upon a hillside, looking up at a starry sky. And I find myself upon a bed of lush grass.

            I whimper a little. Daddy, I’m scared. The millions of stars are breathtaking when I can feel your hand and hear you breathe. But what will happen when it’s just me and the darkness with no hand to hold onto? “Kayla Joy, I am not giving you up. I am giving you away. You will have another hand to take. Peace, little lamb.”

            I drifted off briefly. I awake and every point of my body is filled with pain and decay, but I have peace. I hear the steady din of rain upon the roof and wind upon the windows. My peace is invaded by a profound sense of loss. I miss the rain, wind, and natural elements as I miss Baby. I feel them slipping away too.

            My dad, on cue, seems to read my unspoken thoughts, walks over to the window and opens it. In a dramatic gesture, he also kicks out the screen. I feel small drops of rain as the breeze carries them upon me. I notice several small branches of a tree swinging back and forth according to nature’s music. A hundred small globes of water hang from the fingers of the branches, dropping and breaking in turn.

            “I bet you enjoy that,” Papa chuckled as he sat back down and dabbed a few drops from my eyes. I do not begrudge the world for its continued vitality as you might think. The living curse the world for its callousness toward the dead. The dead do no such thing. They cling to it, embrace it, love it.

            The old preacher once said that this world is not our home. We’re just passing through. But one day, when all is made right, it will be our home. I sure hope he is right.

Why I Love the OPC (Even When I Don't Like It)

I knew practically nothing about the OPC (Orthodox Presbyterian Church) when I packed up and went to seminary. By the time seminary was over, I knew enough about the OPC to know that I never wanted to be a part of it.

There were four primary reasons I didn't want to go near the OPC at that point:

1) Size. How in the world can a denomination in a country of over 300 million people have less than 30,000 members? Especially at a time when Reformed theology, broadly-speaking, is sweeping through virtually all denominations and capturing hearts and minds with the biblical view of God's sovereignty and mercy to sinners?

I would often spar with a URC (United Reformed Church) professor who would ask me why I was staying in an deteriorating denomination (EPC--Evangelical Presbyterian Church) and I would ask him why he preferred to cut and run rather than fight for the heart and soul of a denomination (the URC left the CRC--Christian Reformed Church, which is also quickly eroding).

Like my friends who were going back into the CRC after seminary, I planned to go back into the EPC and "reverse-Machenize" the EPC (Machen led the exodus from the P(resbyterian)C(hurch)USA after apostates who denied the core tenants of the Gospel took over most of the denominational bodies and seminaries). Of course, pride was a big part of this for me.

2) Attitude. In general, the most harsh and arrogant people I met in seminary were OPC-bound. These were often the classmates who would raise their hands to offer long discourses rather than ask the professors questions. They were the students who would smirk and offer snide remarks about other believers whose theology was askew. They were the students who would be most likely to cry "heresy" at their fellow students during the preaching practicums.

I have never been frightened of public speaking. In fact, I love it. But there were times in seminary when I dreaded our preaching classes. I was new to Reformed theology, was not raised on it, and did not make Calvin's Institutes my bathroom reading as was the custom of some of my classmates. I opened up about this fear to one of my PCA (Presbyterian Church in America) professors at one point, and he told me that my PCA brothers would always look out for me. And it was true. At seminary and at church (New Life PCA), I was safe to grow.

3) Accessibility. As I grew in my knowledge and love of Christ, I was better able to understand some of the rich terminology and theology of Reformed/biblical teaching. But that didn't mean that others, apart from a seminary education, would catch on as quickly. As I would sit under OPC teaching/preaching on occasion in seminary, struggling to get what was being said, I knew that such teaching would be an immediate barrier to unbelievers and the young at faith. I attended a church, by contrast, where clear, Christ-centered preaching fed the flock and confronted the lost.

4) Personality. According to Sir Meiers-Briggs, I am an ENFP (extroverted, intuitive, feeling, perceptive). Most folks I knew in the OPC were decidedly not. They tended to be the exact opposite--introverted, sensory, thinking, judgmental. In the words of one beloved OPC elder/brother, everybody in his church was "either an engineer, computer scientist, lawyer, or named Dan." I not only felt out of place in such an environment, but I felt looked down upon for being my personalty type.

All that said, when the wife and I found it time to abandon the sinking EPC ship, we spent hours wrestling over various considerations (on a road trip, of course), and surprisingly, decided on the OPC. Why?

1) Purity of the Gospel. For all the drawbacks of the stereotypical OPC personality, these engineers-turned-theologians were hardcore about maintaining fidelity to the Scriptures and the confessions and hardcore about precision in how biblical truth is expressed. This precision scared me, as my personality lends itself to processing thoughts externally until a reach a final product, which gets me in trouble with precise people. That said, I knew I needed the accountability of such people to restrain the sinful excesses of my personality. In addition, my name had become mud amongst some in my previous denomination because I dared to say that I was indifferent to issues like baptism, women's ordination, and biblical authority.

The wifey and I decided that if there were issues to be fought in a denomination, we would rather them be fights of piety (the necessity of growing in grace, loving the body of Christ, sharing the Gospel and showing hospitality, etc.) than fights over essential doctrines of the faith and biblical authority.

2) Unity of the Church. For all that most Christians say about the need for the Church to be unified, most of them truly care little for Church unity. Non-denominational churches tend to be remote tribes that are entirely disconnected from other tribes, tongues, peoples, and languages and from ages past. I came to faith and matured in a wonderful EPC church, but odds are, if I randomly attended another EPC church, I would be lucky to hear the Gospel preached. Even in the PCA (which, like the EPC, will always occupy a precious place in my heart), there were heterodox movements that seemed to grow unabated.

The wifey and I both figured that the Pacific Northwest would be our mostly likely destination eventually, and while the OPC was growing and church-planting in the region, the PCA was wracked by the Federal Vision, with its Romanist view of salvation through baptism and maintenance of salvation by good works. If we attend a random OPC church, odds are that we will hear Christ and Christ crucified preached, even if the church is a bit socially awkward. :)

3) Accountability. This is more personal than substantive, but I needed accountability. My personality type tends toward the Pentecostal and the PCA is a much more natural fit for me. Yet, while my God-given strengths would shine (and be appreciated more) in the PCA, my vast array of weakness and the sin that so easily entangles me would not find the same level of confrontation.

As long as I am in the OPC (hopefully, the rest of my life), I will have people who will not hear a word said from the pulpit except the word that they find objectionable. Yet, even as their criticism hurts, they push me toward greater precision and fidelity with my treatment of God's Word. Folks will likewise always be suspicious of my extroverted tendencies, but like my wife, these more-introverted types will help reign in my oft-reckless speech. I need the OPC for my sanctification.

The first week the wifey and I attended an OPC after our switch over, it was scary. Home school families occupied entire pews (reminding me of Children of the Corn). Some women wore ankle-length dresses and skirts that I had rarely seen before. But within that first week, three families had us over for a meal--one of the pastors, a Reformed Baptist evangelist-type, and an Air Force officer and his spunky wife. We were different from most of our brothers and sisters, but we were loved.

Now we are part of a different OPC body, but many of the dynamics are the same. My personality doesn't automatically click with many of my brothers and sisters, but there are deeper bonds than that of affinity--those of family. It is sometimes hard to mobilize folks to get deep with one another and to share the Gospel with friends and family, but what a more worthwhile battle than having to shore up the basics of the Gospel! The church grows, and with it, more people comes who are like me (with similar strengths and weaknesses). And with the greater diversity, our church is made a more comfortable places for folks from all walks of life. The greater offense proves to be the Gospel, with its attending conviction of sin and comfort in Christ. And that is just the way it should be.

Without Rest Pt. 3

(If you haven't noticed yet, this little story is not real and a pretty dramatic departure from the normal fare of this blog. Rather, it is a short story I once wrote, that I am tweaking as I put it forth on this blog. I will continue to intersperse this story with my regular posts. This is part three of five.)

3

            His thin lips and button ears look like mine. My dad’s, I mean. The ears look funnier on his 6’2 frame than my 5’6. They are too small for him. Perhaps that’s why he wears the glasses when he doesn’t need to. They distract from the ears. His eyes open for a second—scan the dark room—and flutter to a close.

            The eyes open wide a moment later when he hears the sound of coughing. I hear it too. It is me. I cannot feel the cause of the coughing—whether it is fluid in my lungs or a tickle in my throat. But I can see it. I watch my chest jump with each cough. My head jumps with it. Sparklets of spit fly from my mouth, only to disappear in the darkness. Two bony limbs roll back and forth helplessly at my sides.

            My dad is cradling me in his arms. He holds me tightly, rocking my frail torso back and forth. “Take deep breaths,” he says. But my coughing continues. Every so often, he dabs at the corners of my mouth and eyes with a moist cloth. I feel no pain, but am scared. Don’t let go, Daddy.

            One of the most terrifying and incredible nights of my life comes flooding into my mind, only dulled briefly by each cough. It was a night like this one, where fear reigned. I was in so much pain. It was like the worst case of cramps, but I knew it was something else. That’s what scared me.

            I had told my dad earlier that it was just cramps and to leave me alone. But when he walked into the room at 3am and I was pale and writhing in pain, he swept me up in his arms, put me in the car, and rushed me to the hospital. Thus began several weeks of testing that confirmed what we were beginning to suspect: cancer.

            That night, he stayed by my side as they medicated me for the pain and began the initial tests. I was terrified, but he kept stroking my hair and squeezing my hand. “Don’t worry, Kayla Joy, your daddy is here. And he won’t leave.”

            A week after I got the official prognosis, I graduated from high school. Already drained by weeks of testing and bad news, I feebly put on my gown. I still had the figure, but not the heart. I lost it at some point during the endless arrays of tests. The robe fit perfectly. It covered me.

            As soon as I took my seat, I began to cry. I cried during the stupid speeches, the songs, and the handing out of diplomas. Many people grieve the loss of their youth; I grieved that my youth had already spent me. I grieved the loss of my adulthood. Perhaps my life had already peaked.

            It seemed particularly ironic that the final words from the valedictorian’s mouth were “Now go and embrace the endless possibilities of your future.” With each passing day and new bit of news, another possibility was eclipsed by the shadow of death. The shadow crept further and further across the fertile expanse of my life.

            It’s not that I was giving in to my predicament. Many people give in to death because they are resigned to death. I was resigned to death because it was taking life from me. I would fight it for one, ten, or fifty years. But death would inevitably make the final move. It would win. It always does.

            Children are incredible for a number of reasons. I know because I always list those reasons off in my mind as I eagerly hope for one of my own. My own Baby. One reason that stands out to me is how carefree they are. Death is but a toothless abstraction to them. It barks from the grave of the occasional grandparent, but it doesn’t bite.

            That illusion reigns in the mind of a child, much like Santa Claus, superheroes, and fairytales. Parents allow the illusions to persist, knowing that children need them to grow, dream, and hope. They are too young to earn Santa’s toys—only grace can bring it to them. They are too young to protect themselves—they need superheroes who can survive the worst of nightmares. They need fairy tales so that utopia can drown the imagination, even as dystopia drowns the reality.

            Try sitting down and telling a four-year-old boy that his mommy and daddy will die soon after he has his own kids. Try it. Tell him that they are waiting for their own parents to die now, knowing that they will be next. Before long, he will be in the same position—waiting for them to die. He will be next.

            Sorry to be so depressing. I long for my superhero too. And my Santa. And fairytales. Who will protect me from this nightmare? And give me what I cannot possibly earn? Where is the land of peace for this body of sin and decay? I lift my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from?

            I look and I see my daddy. He can comfort, but he can’t save me. He has tears in his own eyes as my coughs continue. He continues to dab at my face. My eyes lock in on the tissue as he pulls it away, a string of blood and mucus connecting it to my lips. My heart stirs.

            “Don’t cry, baby, don’t cry,” he whispers to me. Though I don’t know it, my eyes apparently betray my heart. I don’t want him to see my tears, but I am powerless to stop them. I am powerless to do anything. But he is powerless too. I want to help him. I want to let him know that I am alright.

            You had that nightmare, I am sure. You are pursued and eventually cornered. All of your escape plans, weapons, and recourses have been exhausted. You are thoroughly helpless. All that is left is to scream. Scream to the heavens and hope that someone might hear. But nothing comes from your mouth.

            I sometimes wonder if in those nightmares, someone would come were they to hear your scream. Perhaps that is the true nightmare. Not the knowledge that you can’t call for help, but the realization that your call might be answered if only you could issue it forth. The terror is found in knowing that help might come, if only you could call for it. Your demise rests in your failure.

            Eventually, my coughing subsides. I still hear a faint rattle, but at least my body is still. My dad gently lays me back upon my pillow and adjusts the IV. He leans forward and kisses my forehead: “You’re so beautiful and sweet. I’m so blessed that you’re my daughter.”

            To be known. And loved. I am both. I envisage myself in a field in the dark of night. Lightning streaks across the sky; thunder claps; rain pours. I am not alone to face the fury of this storm. My dad clings to my hand, eyes locked onto something unknown in the distance. He will not leave me. 

The 82nd Has Landed

Portions of the famed 82nd Airborne will be replacing TF (Task Force) Guam throughout the country as our SecFor (Security Force).

I am thrilled to have the 82nd guys here. I have always been partial to the 82nd since my brother's time in the Army, so I naturally gravitate toward them.

There are some complaints of cockiness, which might be expected of a prestigious unit like the 82nd, but I also see the soldiers marked by competence as a result of their superb training.

Embedded in these impressions of this great unit is the natural divide that occurs between reservists and active duty soldiers. Active duty soldiers generally don't consider reservists to be real soldiers, and reservists can resent that impression.

The reality is that both components of the Army are vital. Especially with regards to combat, there is no comparison between AD soldiers and reservists. The job of units like the 82nd is to win battles and secure battle space. Since this is their full-time job, they excel in this role.

Reservists tend to consist more of white-collar professionals. They bring expertise from civilian jobs into the military and turn the vital supply/logistics portion of war into a finely-tuned enterprise.

The usage of the Reserves is also a signal to the American people that a given conflict will not be simple or short. Thus, we must draw upon our civilian workforce to complete the mission. This helps the American people weigh the necessity, validity, and long-term viability of a conflict.

The 82nd is also tends to be a training ground for Special Forces (SF). Thus, you will find a much higher percentage of hardcore soldiers, but with that comes the false measurement of manhood by hardcore accomplishments (Ranger tabs, SF school, etc).

The chaplain of the portion of the 82nd at my post is a young Anglican priest who has served at a church in DC over the last seven years. He used to have some aspirations for the SF, but was turned off by the some of the elitism associated with that pursuit, including by chaplains who seemingly forget that their primary call is to serve soldiers, regardless of unit, rather than to be amongst the most "hooah" of soldiers.

This is a good reminder to me as well to constantly due an "oil check" on my motivations. If I want to do SF in the future, it must be done fundamentally to bring glory to God by shepherding believers and reaching out to unbelievers and caring for soldiers in general. It must not be for pride. If I truly love this calling, I must be as joyful in serving the sustainment brigade as much as the Ranger battalion. Ultimately, this will always be an identity in Christ issue. If we don't find our identity in Christ, we will seek our identity elsewhere and never be satisfied with the results.

Without Rest Pt.2

2

            “Kayla Joy, I wouldn’t kiss you if you were the last girl on earth.” Petty, but painful nonetheless. That’s what Darren Thomas told me in first grade. Little did he know that I would be making out with Rand Allis by my junior Prom. Little kids don’t realize that much of the world is in flux and that the object of ridicule one day becomes the object of passion the next.

            I wouldn’t have married Rand for that exact reason. He had peaked. Every girl was crazy about him. He had everything going for him, which means that he didn’t have to work at anything. Puberty never stops where you want it to. Rand will one day probably look like Grawp from the Harry Potter books and he will be sorry for gaining my lips, but not my heart.

            Or will he? I peaked too. I had a great figure and could work it better than any other girl when walking down the center hallway of Oak High. I now have the figure of a third-world refugee and the hair of a newborn.

            I look down at my chest. Compared to the frailty of my body, it looks out of proportion. It could nurture life in a newborn, but not in me. No boy would be impressed if he came in here. My greatest asset now mocks me.

            My chest also mocked me in my childhood. No girl likes being the first one to develop in elementary school. The boys are too young to be impressed, but not to point and laugh. And they were merciless. My only friends were fellow female outcasts—from the donkey-faced to the gorilla-armed.

            Even so, I loved being young. You remember it, don’t you? You could jump down half a flight of stairs and keep running; bang your knee on a rail and shake it off; eat whatever you want and not worry about your weight. I knew that once too.

            Christmas was the favorite time for me in those awkward years. Dad would always dress up in an undersized Santa suit that would expose a bit of his chubby midriff. It always made me giggle. I would tell him that I knew he wasn’t Santa, but he would never give in. He’d tell me that there were certain things that only Santa could know, and not little girls.

            The first present he would always give me was something we called “Daddy’s Promise Ball.” It was an ordinary, cheap Christmas tree ornament with a special meaning. Each year, when he pulled it out, he would say that my dad gave it to him and asked me if I knew what it meant.

            I would then recite the words spoken over me each year when I was little: Daddy promises me that he will never leave me and always love me. If he ever breaks this promise, I can smash the ball to pieces and collect the pieces as evidence against him. Pretty serious stuff, but I knew my dad would never give me reason to break the ball.

            After he gave me a present or two, we would sit down for our Christmas dinner. He would fix his “green glop,” which was some sort of jello with nuts and fruit. The food, like the presents, wasn’t fancy, but it was good. We would go for a walk, hand-in-hand, during the afternoon and would whittle away the remaining time before supper.

            After we ate, would spend the night drinking hot chocolate and watching special Christmas episodes of my favorite cartoons. I loved the Peanuts episode because Charlie Brown loved the pathetic little Christmas tree when no else would. I also loved the Garfield episode because Garfield gave John’s grandmother the letters from her deceased husband, bringing light to a darkened old soul.

            On Christmas night, my dad tucked me in and kissed me like he did every night. In that way, he showed that while the day was unique, his love wasn’t uniquely for that day. I cherished that time. Before I fell asleep, Baby would crawl up on my stomach, circle several times, collapse, and fall asleep.

            Shortly before Christmas of my fourth grade year, Dad made a new lady friend. She seemed nice, but her attempts to “get to know” me were patronizing. She would give me little gifts and pet my head, always in view of my dad. Early on it was decided: Her or me.

            She could have never known her predicament, trapped between my mom’s rejection and my dad’s transparent, unconditional love. Everything short of my dad would equal my mom. I also had to protect my dad. One “I do” had already been shown to be an “I might” for him, and I wasn’t sure he could handle another woman breaking that bond.

            I can make excuses all I want. The final straw for this woman was her attendance at our Christmas day rituals. She violated the intimacy and beauty of that day. Instead of being able to enjoy my dad, I felt like I was on parade. Like dominoes, each ritual was falling down, making for a miserable day.

            When my dad handed me the ball, I knew what I had to do. He asked me what it meant. I didn’t answer. He asked a second time. (This woman’s eyes bore a hole in me.) Before I was forced to lock eyes with him, I threw the ball to the ground and shattered it into a dozen pieces. I was seething with rage and blinded by tears.

            I did, however, catch a long enough glimpse of my dad to see his reaction. His mighty Adam’s apple rose and fell and a tear fell from his chin. However justified I felt in smashing the ball, the pain on my dad’s face tore me up inside. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t take it back. I turned around and ran upstairs, crying the whole way.

            That lady never came back to our house. I can only assume that my dad, whether he thought it right or wrong, did what I wanted. That’s the difference between my dad and my mom. His dreams were never as important as his daughter. It was unfair to make him choose, but he still chose me.

            It’s funny in a sad sort of way, looking back on it now. That ball represented my dad’s promise to love me unconditionally, but that ball didn’t break because of his lack of love, but my own. He never asked for a ball from me. He could’ve broken it. Instead, my sin was his shame.

            One night he offered me the pieces of that ornament. I could see my reflection in the shattered fragments. I told him that I wished I had never broken it and to please throw the pieces away. He hugged me for a long time. The next Christmas, there was a new ball on the tree.