My emotions are in a state of flux. At times, I am practically giddy with joy, knowing that I am coming home to my wife and boy. Within moments of that giddiness, I am practically in tears, thinking of those who will not come home. The latest two: SGT Jacob Hess and SFC William Lacey, both killed by hostile fire in the last ten days in the south. (http://icasualties.org/OEF/Fatalities.aspx)
It is not particularly hard for the U.S. to win a war nowadays. It is much harder, of course, to rebuild and stabilize a country. Yet, none of these compare to those moments, years after the war is over, when a widow or mother looks upon a pair of old shoes or a favorite photo and remembers that "the savior comes not home tonight." That tragedy alone, above all tragedies of war, is the one least fit for words.
I got a Certificate of Appreciation today from the unit that controls Camp Phoenix, thanking me for my work as Run Master:
I'm glad I could bring a little more joy in an environment that tends to only waver between a tension-marked monotony and a carefully-suppressed sorrow.
I am coming home, but I barely remember home. Is it within the close confines of Camp Eggers? In the desert outposts of Camp Stone in the west or Camp Spann in the north? Is it in the brightly-lit, windowless room in back of Camp Phoenix where I sleep?
I think back to life before Camp Phoenix and I think of Camp Eggers. I think back to life before Camp Eggers and I think of Ft. Hood. I think back before Ft. Hood and I can barely remember life beforehand--like I was mentally concussed in order the say "goodbye" that final time and to prepare for the times ahead.
I remember teary car rides across northern Virginia, praying that God would take me rather than my wife or baby. I remember a sleepless night, holding my wife's hand until our little boy entered the light of the world and changed our world forever. And then, just as quickly, I was torn from all of this and taken from one desert to another, seeking to infuse bleak environments and broken people with any sort of hope and joy that might sustain them until they too come home.
Pretty soon, I start my journey home, to see a wife who just endured her first adventure apart from her best friend and a baby who has grown through most of his short life apart from his daddy. I will feel incredibly lost, but by God's grace, will look to Christ as my North Star.
All will come full circle and I will return to my wife and baby, though all will be different. We will all be changed. The only constants will be our love for each other and the love of God in Christ that equipped us for and guided us through this adventure in joy and sorrow.
God-willing, I will have opportunities to write more posts on my journey home. Now I can say, no longer with bated breath or as wistful, wishful thinking, that I am coming home. Not just now, but my whole life is a long journey toward home. And Home will always be waiting for me.
