Family Time

We’ve just returned from four wonderful days of family time.  It was wonderful to be together, but it was also in turn wonderfully messy, wonderfully confusing, wonderfully funny, wonderfully tense, and wonderfully diverse.  When you put sixteen people with different thoughts, opinions, desires, and expectations together under one roof for 96 hours, it’s bound to be messy.  The beautiful part of being in a family is that we get to be messy with each other and live to tell about it.  Maybe even learn to laugh about it.

In our family, we know what messy is.  We know what it is to go through an earthquake.  We felt the ground shake beneath us when Bo died.  For all of us, the past eighteen years have been in some part about getting over that earthquake, about dealing with the devastation of loss, about recovery, rebuilding, and renewal.  No mother wants to raise a family on her own.  No child wants to grow up without a dad. Earthquakes can rock your foundation, but that foundation can be rebuilt. 

We’re not that different from you and yours.  Each family goes through some form of tragedy or triumph that changes the complexion and complexity of their relationships.  The thing I love about God’s grace is that it’s sufficient for all of us;  it’s sufficient for the siblings who don’t always get along,  who don’t always agree, who don’t always see eye to eye.  It’s sufficient for the extended family members who have stepped into our web of friendships and relationships, all organisms with a life of their own.  I know His grace is sufficient because at the end of the day, we survived the wrecking ball.  We survived the shift of those tectonic plates that set our world off kilter.  We learned how to stand and live upright when sorrow made us crumble.  Not only that, we learned that God's grace is so sufficient He will give and give and give no matter what. 

We gathered this past weekend to celebrate…Christi finished her college degree, begun as a young teenager and put on hold for years of marriage and family building.  We celebrated Carlisle and Michelle’s tenth wedding anniversary, with its own seasons of marriage and family building.  We celebrated my sixtieth birthday, decades of marriage and family building and a whopping red letter day on my personal timeline.  But we also celebrated the fact that love built us and love sustains us.  Messy, imperfect love.   Grace-giving and grace-receiving love. 

No family is perfect.  There.is.no.such.thing.  We all struggle and strive to figure out how to get along, how to grow in love and forgiveness, how to accept and defend our personal and private and public decisions.  That’s the good stuff.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned in sixty years, it’s that bit of mathematics.  Start with a and b.  Multiply.  Divide and subtract.  Then add.  And keep adding and taking away until you get closer and closer to our Lord’s vision and version of who we are supposed to be, of who He’s created us to be.  This family is our temporary home.  He’s got a perfect mansion prepared for us.  But in the meantime, our job is to learn how to live and how to love each other like He loves us. It’s a messy process.

Messy and imperfect.  But we are loved.  Oh so loved.

Oh, Dad

Dear Dad,

It’s always hard to figure out what to do on Father’s Day now that you are gone.  When you were on this earth, I would call you from wherever we were stationed, and I’d have a nice long chat with you about your day, your life, your health.  You always turned the conversation back to my day, my life, your grandkids.  I used to try to find a book you’d like to read—it was a challenge beating my brothers to the next nonfiction bestseller, but we’d sometimes collude with mom about which one to get you.  The Hallmark card was part of the gift—sometimes it took a long time to find the one that said just what I wanted to say that year.  The message didn’t change much though…some variation of how happy I was to call you “dad.”  

On Father’s Day I usually wake up thinking of you.  It has always been so easy to love you. 

I wish I’d recorded your voice.  I miss the sound of you.  I hear your laugh when I talk to Steve.  I see your hands in his.  Stacy has your neck and chin;  Todd has your pensive gaze. 

I miss you, Dad. 

You were so important to my children.  When Bo died, you stepped up in such a big way.  You told me they’d never lack for anything, and they didn’t.  You told me you’d always be there for us, and you were.  When Bo died, there was a void in each of my kids’ hearts.  But you filled it as best you could, with love, devotion, and pride in their accomplishments.  It still fuels them as they pursue good, meaningful lives.

Thank you for doing that for us, Dad.

I see you in Lauren…she has your penchant for barbed wire, cattle, long and dusty roads.  I see you in Christi…the smile on her face when she was in your arms as a child still shows up.  I watch you in Carlisle…his work ethic is yours.  He still works to make you proud. Your sparkle is in Michelle’s eyes…you were her Shiny Top.  You were more father to Charlotte than any other man as Bo was gone when she was still so little.  Thank you for grandfathering our children so well.

I’m grateful for you, Dad.

I admit I get jealous sometimes when I see others with their dads.  I long for you.  I ache to walk beside you, holding your arm.  I wish for one more day, one more hour with you. 

I have no regrets.  Each time we were together, we shared our affection for each other.  I never left anything unspoken with you.  No unfinished business, no unforgiveness, no mess, no fuss.  Our slate is clean…pristine.  You simply loved me and I simply loved being your only daughter. 

Thank you for teaching me how to love like that, Dad. 

I know that at the end of my long, happy life, you’ll be there waiting for me.  Till then,  I love you sixty million ways.

Happy Father’s Day.

Moving Blues

Moving

I’ve moved all my life.

Augsburg, Germany at birth.

Fort Benning, Georgia as a baby.

Luverne, North Dakota as a toddler.

Back to Fort Benning, Georgia for pre-school.

A short stay in Oakland, California as we waited for my father to send for us.

Off to Okinawa, Japan for kindergarten, first, second, and third grades, but even on that little island we moved twice.

Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.

Fort Benning, Georgia for fifth and sixth grade;  I met my lifelong friend Pam here.

Columbus, Georgia while my father was deployed to Viet Nam.

Washington, D.C. for Pentagon duty.

Killeen, Texas for a year off-post, then a move on post to Fort Hood, then a move off post to Harker Heights.

Tallahassee, Florida for college, again, with my bff, Pam.

Fort Hood, Texas as a new bride, new teacher.

Off to Mannheim, Germany, and even overseas we moved three times.  We put our moving boxes into moving boxes, and brought little Lauren into the world in Heidelberg.   

Back to the continental US, to Fort Benning, Georgia.  Welcome Christi!

Off to Monterey, California, Fort Ord.

Back to Fort Hood, Texas within a few blocks of my folks.  Howdy Carlisle!

Fort Stewart, Georgia with a large battalion of other movers and shakers.

Fort Harrison, Indiana.  Hi Michelle! 

Carmel, Indiana.  Lebanon, Indiana.

Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.  Hello little Charlotte!

Mannheim, Germany once more;  then off to Hohenfels in Bavaria.

Back to the continental U.S. again, to MacDill AFB in Tampa, Florida.

Retirement to Brandon, Florida, followed by an earthquake as Bo and I split up;  I  stayed in Brandon;  he took to the trails.

Back to Harker Heights, Texas, to look after momma. 

A move to College Station, and another move in College Station.

Put down roots you say?   Do I know how?

Roots have never been a home, a backyard, or a neighborhood.  Roots for me have always been my lifeblood—my children, their spouses, my grandchildren. 

But when I moved to this town, this neighborhood-- I found the closest thing I've known as home in a very long time.  But, it’s coming to a close.  The guys who own my house, not my home, are moving back in.  It’s their house.  I get it.

But I don’t want to leave my home.  I want to stay.

I know I'll find a cottage, a pup tent, a fortress someplace nearby.  But moving is hard.  This is the place I love.  This is the place I want to stay. 

God’s will is perfect.  His ways are not my ways.  Each time I’ve moved, it’s because He’s picked me up and plopped me exactly where He wants me to be.  He’ll do it again.  I know.

But moving is hard. 

It's a Grand Old Flag...

So much to-do in the news about the American flag and proper procedures when it is displayed.

A Miami police chief is chastised for not saluting the flag.

A crowd does not fully respond with respect to the flag’s passing; some sitting, some standing, some chewing on hotdogs.

Stupid, stupid drunk boys urinate on the flag of their country. 

The President of the United States does not salute the flag during the national anthem; fodder for ridicule.

I decided to check with Emily Post about flag manners.  Seemed like as good a place as any.  I noticed some key points.

The flag is alive. As a material symbol of our commitment to every man’s freedom, it lives.   We know too well the lives lost in defending it.    

It never dips to any person or thing, despite how dippy they might be.

It must be raised briskly; lowered solemnly.

It can never be washed; but it can be dry-cleaned.  When damaged beyond repair, with something like, for instance, urine...it is ceremoniously burned.

In times of national tragedy it flies at half-mast at sea; at half-staff on land.

On a power boat, it’s called an ensign.  On an automobile, it’s called a standard.  On your lapel, it better be on the left.

It remains aloft from sunrise to sunset.

When it passes, we stand at attention with our right hands on our hearts.  If we’re wearing a hat, we hold the cover over our hearts.  Veterans salute.

How well we have all come to know the dark blue union at the head and resting over the left shoulder of the deceased, as burial ceremonies ensue.

I love our flag;  I always have. 

It was part of our family culture.  My father taught us early how to stand and salute the flag.  Family memories are full of such occasions.

As little boys and girls we stopped our games on the playground at the sound of retreat; jumping off the monkey bars to stand with our hands over our hearts or stiff palms at our brows, facing the nearest flagpole.

As teenagers, no amount of drink could have convinced us to relieve ourselves on the flag of our father. 

I really can't fathom frat boys being so inebriated they couldn't wet their pants before they'd wet our flag.

Our flag has been blown up, beat up--despite such weary battles, it thrives.

It deserves so much more from us.

I don’t really understand how a police chief or a President could choose not to salute the flag.

I’m not sure stupidity trumps patriotism.

I'm not sure our religion supersedes our nationality.  

An American reveres the flag.  An American salutes the flag.  

It’s pretty simple. 

The thing is, though…thousands of Americans have died for our freedom to argue these points.   

The flag of our nation draped each of their coffins.

The Iris

Forgiveness is the fragrance

of an iris

Upon the heel

that crushed it.

 

Mark Twain

It’s hard to tell the truth when you’re lying.  Great words for a country and western song.  Not such great words to say when you are trying to explain the incongruencies of your life.  Dreams and pretense create no backbone;  it’s the tough stories, trials, and mishaps of life that do that for us.  I have learned the most important lessons I’ve needed to learn in my life through hard choices, hard knocks, and hard questions.  

Real life requires a kind of consciousness that I have sometimes lacked because of an inherent self-consciousness.  I have asked God over and over to explain this to me; to help me understand who I am.  He has shown me too clearly what I am all about by summarizing the scope and sequence of my life with one word---unbelief. 

I have gone to church with my palms open, ready to receive.  It took me a long time to realize that I must go with my palms open, ready to give. Belief requires something of us;  trusting in the maker and creator of not only the universe, but our universe.  I have struggled with belief.  It confounds me to decode and decipher His will when my own is so strong.  He lives in me.  I have no unbelief about that.  But my obedience, my surrender, my trust are all put to the test pretty continuously.  

Unbelief has haunted my walk as a Christian woman. Is there grace in every moment?  Absolutely.  But grace requires appropriation; and I have missed the opportunity time and time again.  The vernacular of the community of faith gets so tangled up for a new believer:  appropriation, baptism, consecration, discipleship, evangelism, fellowship, grace….an alphabet soup of beliefs that must be digested quickly if we’re to grow as He intended.

I am a storyteller at heart, so I will try to make this a true tale.  In the telling, I hope that you will find some hint of wisdom, some whisper of jurisprudence, so that you may learn from my mistakes.  It is where the rubber meets the road, that place between understanding that God is who He says He is, and not the God we have created Him to be.  

My road’s had twists and turns; dead ends, divergencies, and exit strategies that I’ve ignored.  I’ve driven myself off a cliff and lived to tell about it.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

And so it goes:

Once upon a time…

For sale: Baby shoes, never worn

Hemingway wagered: Write a novel in six words.  He shared his own response on a cocktail napkin: For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.  Six words that can bring you to tears. Powerful stuff.  

I can't write a novel in six words, nor a memoir.  For a couple of years I've been recording a nonfiction piece I call Broken Heart: Fixing Your Heart in Christ's Home. But I haven't been able to finish it, because I've been working on other people's work and projects that are a little more pressing. It was born out of struggle, an internal wrestling match that I could not settle.  Full of essential questions each believer asks.  

      What if He really loves me?

      What does that mean, and how does that belief inform or transform my life?

As a new believer, I didn't understand why I needed to hide God's word in my heart.  

I didn't understand what to expect from my new pastor, or what he might expect from me.  

I didn't understand that I was meant to be a part of a church family, and that the community called "church" could be as complicated as my intimate circle of loved ones.  

I didn't understand that a church could wound, and a church could heal. 

I didn't understand that I could be trained, prepared, and equipped under the cross.  

New believers cannot and should not be ignorant for long.  Beneath the stepping stones of this spiritual journey, we must begin to understand the bedrock divinity of who we are as Christians, and who we are meant to be. 

Precious little conversion growth is happening in Western populations today. Experts estimate as little as 1-3%. We can traipse to Africa, send missionaries to Belize, reach the lost in Haiti, and these are all powerfully important.  But there are unbelievers in our midst, and I'm writing for them. And for me.

There is a huge demographic of believers who will not trust the church.  They make a conscious choice to stay away.  I believe this occurs because we may not understand our rights, but also our responsibilities as believers. 

While we understand that love wins,  it's an oversimplification to think that love is all there is, or that nothing is required of us.  God will welcome us with arms wide open, but can we live in such away that we are more deeply concerned about His opinion of us, than what the world thinks?  His expectations override our own.  

Some estimates tell us that 84% of Americans are not attending a conventional church, and 80% of the churches in North America have reached a plateau or are declining.  Churches experiencing rapid growth are, for the most part, growing due to "switchers", folks who get tired, turned off, or transplanted, and must find a new place to call home. Many churches focus on what the church must provide the switcher, the unchurched, the undiscipled.  

I want to speak my "give me Jesus truth" in a "gimme gimme world."  To receive Him is to love Him, and I believe I owe Him something in return.  

As I've marketed Broken Heart, I have been told over and over, "You've got to have a wider platform."  I don't have a platform per se, wide or otherwise.  I write, and I share what I write, and if it speaks to someone, I am happy.  The six words I'd offer Hemingway would be: I write because I can't not. I've decided to share Broken Heart.  In pieces and parcels. Over time. If it speaks to you, and I pray that it does, I am happy.  If not, I can't not do it anyway.  

I'll share two or three pieces a week...my prayer is that God will bless you richly along the way, but more than that, you will learn to richly bless Him with the sacred and sacramental love you offer, in everything you do. 

After all, He loved us first.  

No End in Sight

From the quiet enclave of my small office in College Station, the wizened yet tender-hearted staff sergeant sat beside me and shared his story, of what it was to endure a catastrophic IED explosion in an area once known as Babylon. 

He whispered words of instinct and survival,  despite partial and full thickness burns over most of his body, the loss of his ears, nose, and several digits, the vertebral fractures, the black lungs, the renal failure. 

In my heart, I could hear what he wanted to say that lay dormant between the place where reality is suspended and trauma threatens to suffocate memory or erupt in sorrow too deep, too wide. 

Yet I had the ears to listen and the heart to hear him, because I know something about sacrifice, having spent three-quarters of my life in a military household where service was benchmark and bedrock.

The term “PTSD” gets lobbed about quite frequently in communities across America reeling from devastating loss over the last dozen years, and I know something about that syndrome, that loss. 

While my father would never have used the acronym, he lived with combat every single day.  Having traded the wheat fields of North Dakota at age eighteen for the foxholes of Korea, he spoke rarely about his life underground.

With his vibrant sense of humor, he’d freely share the stories of shit-on-a-shingle served in a mess cup or his naivete as a teenager in battle, but the dark side of that war did not emerge in daylight. 

Loosened up with a few shots of bourbon and branch, he’d attempt to go there, but his inner censor would shut down most stories and he’d look upon a journey none but him could describe, unable to utter the horrific truths of what he saw, what he did, where a piece of him died. 

Try to call him a hero and he’d quickly defer to his older brother, Alan, who spent ruthless months interred by the Japanese at the end of the death march to Bataan.  That’s the hero, he’d say, and move the topic along, far away from the personal and precious details of his own sacrifice.

He would not use PTSD to describe the disconnect that came over him when he tried to recall the hidden battlefields of Laos or Cambodia as he donned his Green Beret and disappeared.  My brothers and I had vague clues of trauma when he tried to share—from airborne night drops onto the Ho Chi Minh Trail, to napalm and Montagnards, to bouncing betty’s and punji traps, and casualties too numerous to bear. 

It was the bombed and boiling river filled with thousands of NVA that woke him again and again from a dead sleep.

How deeply I loved my father, and love him still, but how badly I wish that he had understood the importance of treatment for trauma.  He kept it all inside. 

Today’s soldiers must not hold it in; this generation must be encouraged and supported as they speak aloud what seems impossible to say. 

The healing dialogue, the bridge of words across the deep crevasse between what we are able to process and what we cannot fathom, must be established. 

When I probed deeper into the psyche of my soldier friend, I understood that it was the telling, the retelling, the retelling, and the retelling, that was allowing him to decompress and come to terms with pink mist, the oily residue of blood and bone, the empty boot.  

Men, women, boys, girls, their families, caretakers, and support teams must learn how to listen, and how to hear the words that are so tough to utter, the stories that are so tainted by unspeakable tragedy.  

Unlike cancer, PTSD cannot be excised or radiated, but untreated it does metastasize.  The soldier who sits beside us in church on Sunday morning may take his life on Sunday night. 

We must reach out to him; we must listen to her. There is nothing unmanly or cowardly about speaking the truth.   Each of our veterans has a voice that deserves to be heard.