The Cross in Camouflage-- An Army Chaplain's Weblog

Reintegration and Epilogue

2007-05-29T14:30:00.000-07:00

While the 92nd Military Police Battalion was busy putting new coats of paint on the walls of the plywood buildings which held headquarters and other company offices, SGT James and I were making several trips to the post office. The central one was always busy and seemed to be picky about what could and could not be mailed. The post office on the periphery was less busy but they would take every item out of the package. I had to throw away tooth paste and lotion. Then I in my guilt not to waste, I retrieved it out of the trash and decided to carry it home with me. The new chaplain was busy posting up his scriptural thought for the day and doing everything that I should have done to make the chapel more “churchy” and more like a coffee shop including free cookies. (Too bad, I was busy traveling around theater and visiting troops and doing counseling sessions.) In my jaded state I would think to myself, “He’ll learn.” There is nothing like baptism by fire. And although I would not wish hardship on anyone, it seemed to me that the new chaplain was going to learn the hard way the difference between ministries in a war zone versus in the comforts of the garrison environment. Luckily his chaplain assistant had been deployed to Iraq before.

We had the usual ceremonies to transfer authority. The colonel was an articulate man who didn’t sugar coat the language of his speech. He praised the 372nd as being highly important in the fight to secure Baghdad. We had been the largest MP BN to date with many valuable missions. Our Commander, LTC Aaron Dean, a light skinned African-American with a firm yet conversational manner was recognized as a leader who could be counted on. The weather was brighter and warmer for the December day—it didn’t just seem that way, either. The speeches were short. The respective SGM's for the 372nd and the 92nd furled and unfurled flags and we were done.

On the last week when most of the 372nd was housed in a tent behind our original pad, there was a knock on my door by MSG Abraham, who informed me that one of our female SGT’s sister had died back home. Our company commander, 1LT Bridges, MSG Abraham, SGT James, and a battle buddy awakened SGT B from her slumber. She was very calm in receiving the news and indicated that she had the feeling that this was the case when she spoke with her mother on the telephone earlier that day. Her mother was very sad but did not say why. SGT B’s homecoming became sadder as we had to deliver bad news a second time just as we were approaching Washington, DC on the bus. Her grandmother who was in her 90’s didn’t live to see her return.

The one frustration that had become my constant harp was taken away from me at the Baghdad International Airport. No longer would I be one of the only two 1LT chaplains in all of Iraq. Major Fulford had arranged that I would be promoted at the airport on Iraqi soil where I had given most of my service. Many of us were napping in the big quansit hut when we were called to formation. MAJ F found a spot in an open area out of view of the phone center and the latrines so that some good pictures could be taken. About 30 or so soldiers of the 372nd gathered in formation. We were facing west toward Camp Liberty and Baghdad.

When I was called out of formation and to post by MAJ Fulford and CPT Bolen, MAJ Fulford pinned his old captain’s bars on my chest. I saluted and was offered an opportunity to speak. I mostly spoke about how my life was not a “straight line” and that I had many people around me that supported me. These were persons who encouraged me to keep my eye on relationships. I told the soldiers that I knew that they mostly did not go through life in a straight line. I mentioned how proud I was to belong to a predominantly African-American unit and how welcomed they made me feel. I also mentioned that even though I considered myself a progressive man, they allowed me to live out that commitment in reality by working side by side during tough times. I also joked that I now had “Peeps” and that I was probably the only white chaplain in the whole U.S. Army that could say that!

The next few days in Kuwait seemed like limbo. Soldiers spent a lot of time on the internet and telephones. I kept stopping by the “free books” cart in front of the Camp VA library and adding to my already “too many to read in camp” collection. One was about Jewish comedians. One evening, I stepped inside and listened to a classical music CD and read articles from two ethics and religion type magazines. I commented to the librarian on how amazing I thought this little library was. It turns out that he was a retired Roman Catholic chaplain. He invited me to a Mass for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. I gently declined.

As our bus sat outside the airstrip we were allowed to briefly get off and take a break. One of the security guards started speaking Greek into his radio, so I answered him back. I had to ask what a pair of Greeks were doing pulling security for the U.S. military. Obviously, they had signed on with some security company. We chatted about Greece and I mentioned that I had spent my leave there.

Spirits among the soldiers were high as we ascended in the chartered commercial jet-liner. Most cheered when the plane left the ground. And cheers came again when the stewardess mentioned that there would be one free alcoholic beverage for each of us. Since no alcohol had been allowed in theater, this was a big deal. I chose a red wine. After dinner was served, I was continued to read my book on Jewish comedians. I began to feel nauseated and had the urge to go to the restroom. When I went into the small cabin, I slumped backward and passed out for a moment. As I pulled myself from the floor I had become very sweaty and my pulse was rapid.

As I walked forward through the aisle pulling my uniform together, no one seemed to know which seat our medic was in. As luck would have it, he was located on the other end near the front of the plane. Our medic was an islander from Jamaica. He was wearing earphones and taking a nap. There were no IV’s on board so it was a matter of getting some hydration and taking my vitals. I had people concerned, but felt a little sheepish for the attention. But I hadn’t remembered ever fainting before and I’ve always flown well.

Our next stop was in Germany. An ambulance was waiting for me and a female specialist who had a reputation as a problem child. She was loveable, but exasperating for most. I think she complained of a severe headache and nausea. A doctor and the ambulance crew ran an EKG on me. Normal. The doctor said that just because I was showing normal at that moment didn’t mean that I hadn’t had a heart related event. They wanted to take me to the hospital to run some further tests. I declined and signed some papers releasing them of any responsibility.

We had a 4AM stop at a small NH airport where we were greeted by dozens of local veterans and members of other groups. They lined the hallways on either side in various outfits of red, white and blue. They let us use free phones and offered all sorts of snacks. It was impressive that a large group (about 40 or more) would get up on an early Sunday morning to come and welcome us home. They gathered us in an atrium gave a few remarks, took our picture, offered a prayer and let us return to the plane. The man who gave the prayer was a veteran who was wearing a chaplain’s cross. I took him to be a chaplain, but it turned out that he was a “chaplain” to his VFW unit. He offered the general prayer in Jesus’ name… I didn’t have time to get into it with him about the First Amendment rights of the soldiers who weren’t Christian. Some things you just let roll. And the soldiers didn’t seem to mind anyway. The “Amen” was loud. They were just grateful to be home. Praise Jesus, the Buddha, Allah and Vishnu!

We landed at Fort Dix early on a sunny December morning. The unit lived in a barracks built in the 1950’s. I shared a room with our Intelligence Officer who was looking forward to seeing his fiancee. Most of our time was consumed with medical and Veterans Affairs briefings. I used down time to go over to the Community Center and use the free computers to get a fix for my internet addiction. A day or two later we hosted family members there. I roamed freely among the soldiers and guests admiring all the family resemblances and saying good things about the soldier with whom they were reunited. It was easy and very pleasant. Since the battalion was mostly African-American, our gathering had the feel of a Baptist social, complete with aunties, nieces and nephews.

On the morning of our bus ride back to D.C., we packed faster than I had ever seen us pack before. Aside from having to break bad news to Sgt B. about her grandmother, our trip went quickly. It was a bright December day. We arrived at the D.C. armory to a dozen or so officers and soldiers who shook our hands and welcomed us home. After about an hour of unloading and practicing our march into the armory, we got the signal to go in. LTC Dean was strutting and beaming as he led us into the cavernous armory. In the one corner played a band and the bleachers were full of at least a couple hundred people. A few speeches were given including Congresswoman Eleanor Holmes Norton. I don’t recall anything of what she said other than “Welcome Home” and her warm demeanor. I, too, was called upon to mention those whom we lost. I did and added a few words about our brotherhood with all soldiers who have been killed.

Reunion was sweet. While in formation, I could not see my father and sister. If someone had planned that my view be blocked, they couldn’t have done it any better. I quickly found them after we were released. Dad wore an Air Force windbreaker that I bought for him. My sister was a little grayer, but her face was as warm as ever. CH Kenworthy was there with his family. I made all the proper introductions. SGT James’ family was there, too. We mixed and mingled briefly before looking for the parking lot and driving back to PA. Dad was tired, so he slept in the back seat. He looked older, but still healthy and crusty. I was still in my uniform, but had no duty other than reacquainting myself with my family and dogs.

EPILOGUE

My days include cleaning out closets, taking dogs to vet appointments, going to the Lebanon VA Hospital for follow up, filing two years worth of taxes, substitute teaching, pulpit supply and projects around the house. I’ve given a few talks and presentations to community faith groups. I’m visiting friends and relatives. I’ve enrolled in some dog training classes. Life seems more “normal” than before I left. It’s orderly and I don’t expect too much from myself.

There have been some sleepless nights. There were a few nightmares that have since gone away. There has been sadness and high degree of free floating irritation. I hate television news reports about Iraq. I read it instead and take it in by small doses. Some people ask me, “How was it?” Usually I answer that it was “tough” but that I was inspired by the resiliency of our soldiers. I explain that my first duty was the care of the soldiers and that is what keeps me from any bitterness. I get regular calls and emails from SGT James and SPC Hargrave. I've talked at length with a chaplain buddy of mine who came home to some tough marital issues. I’ve even met up for dinner with a soldier who visited my office often in Baghdad. It got uglier for him after I left. I don’t say anything about how grateful I am that he is alive given the missions he ran and the losses his unit took. He is young and optimistic. As I sit across from him over fried chicken and Yuengling, I am confident that his eyes will dart less from side to side after he puts in his last year stateside. He will go to college. He will be so different than most. This too will require resiliency. He deserves success and joy.

Sometime in the middle of the winter I had some business to conduct at Fort Indiantown Gap. As I drove down a small hill past the Joint Headquarters, there is a now an old air bomber to my left. I really didn’t notice it, though. On the other side of the road stands the metal obelisk with crazed glass and dog tags on chains hanging inside. It had been made in Rhamadi. I saw it shortly after it had been dedicated over there. I knew that it was going to be sent home, but I really didn’t know where it would end up. The brass plaques with soldiers’ names and units are displayed at the base. I recognize many of the names. I stand there at the foot of the memorial for what seems like an eternity. The sun is bright. It is cold outside with a slight breeze. The dog tags inside the structure tinkle like a wind chime. It was designed this way. It’s a dynamic, not static memorial. There are “blast holes,” broken glass, twisted metal all worked into a familiar shape. It is both one of the most ugly and most beautiful things I have ever seen. I weep and return to my car and go home where I have wept even more.

What I Would Have Said (Had I Known What I Now Know)

2006-12-24T09:54:00.000-08:00

During the summer of 2003, my unit had its annual training at FT Pickett, VA. I was still rather fresh in my uniform and felt rather gawkish and unsure of what to do and how to fit in. Most of the time I was there I spent it following up on Red Cross messages for soldiers, listening to stories from some of our Vietnam era aviators, and performing worship services in the field.

The most emotional intensity I had during this Annual Training came from a soldier who told the story of placing the Bronze Star that he had earned in Vietnam into his son's casket. He obviously needed to tell me this for reasons I only attribute the the title of "Chaplain." A Vietnamese pilot told me the story of how he flew one of the very last Huey's off the mainland out toward the sea until he ran out fuel and was rescued off shore by the U.S. Navy. I caught glimpses of the relationship between the chaplain and the enlisted assistant who was a "Joe"but embodied the wisdom and loyalty of all Joes. I attempted to get used to being saluted and returning salute.

As I was there I was told that an infantry platoon of young soldiers whose company was just mobilized to be deployed to Iraq. I was asked to perform a worship service for them. It was an opportunity to practice in-the-field ministry. I went by the camp while it rained lightly. The young soldiers in their woodland camouflage were huddled under a short lean-to. I attempted to lead them in a traditional hymn, but there were few takers. This is a generation that is less exposed to some of these idioms and are searching for their own manner of worship. I forget what text I used and remember that I awkwardly attempted to address their situation. I failed to connect probably because I was a bit nervous and knew little of where they'd been or what they were now facing.

When we drove away from the camp I expressed my doubts to the female soldier who was accompanying me that morning. She said not to pay it any mind and keep moving forward. So I did. Later that week, I was one of the very last soldiers to leave the tarmac as I watched about a dozen of our helicopters, both attack and transport. I had entered a world I knew little about, but trusted that all that was necessary to be part of it was to keep moving forward.

The first request to deploy to Kosovo stressed me. I was still working with a difficult congregation and this seemed like a difficult jump for me at the time. It would have required that I drop everything and go directly to school and from there to Kosovo. I declined and felt guilty for it.When the time came and I was asked to consider a deployment to Iraq I immediately responded, "Yes."Partly, I was now very ready spiritually, emotionally and physically. The other part was a matter of deciding to do it--move forward.

Forward I went for two years through tough training, boring classrooms, navigating the good-ol' boy system, chemical suits, mortars, sand storms, trauma, praying, memorializing, convoying and living out "Groundhog's Day." Why did I do it? I believed that I had a responsibility to my self and to those whom I served. I think of myself as somewhat insecure. Yes, I needed the mission for my own development. But that wasn't the primary focus. Whatever gene or nexus of personal experience that makes for "responsible types" -- I've got it. So I met would be brothers, sisters, fathers and uncles and did my best to take care of them and work with them as a chaplain. In a few instances,I failed. But for the lion's share, I among and beside many in the midst of confusion and pain and the many idiosyncratic relationships that the military has. I wouldn't trade it for anything. I am not a Hawk. I am Pro-people and I believe that we all have a responsibility to serve our country in a manner that is best fitting to our character. As far as I am concerned, there will always be individuals who are called to soldiering and the profession of arms. Their experiences are among the most trying and dramatic in the human experience. Is it often sad and seemingly pointless?Yes. And all the more reason for prayer, companionship and the much needed grace of God.

I discovered that I love soldiers and that soldiers come in all shapes, sizes, color, gender and stations in life. In my last unit there was a wide hipped black woman mother of a teenager who had an infectious laugh and wore cloying perfume.She was a legal assistant who took her job very seriously and had processed many actions for discipline. She was a soldier. And there was the young man from PA who was a PV2 for far too long in an MP unit that handled many frightening situations and helped to remove the dead from the streets.Sometimes bodies were booby trapped. He was very bright, but like many bright persons, he was indecisive because he didn't let himself be governed by his superiors or the unit. I met endless regular "Joes" who were"on" and ready to do almost anything asked of them because it was a job that needed to be done. Nothing more. Even though I was close to many of the effects of fear, terror and pain I was not there when the IED went off or the sniper's bullet landed. I am a witness and minister.

What might I have said to those young soldiers sitting under the tarp, had I had this experience prior to meeting them? I would have told them that some of what they are facing is too big of a mystery to understand. That by their own choice, chance, and the needs of the nation (whether some agree or not),they are heading to war. They will not come back the same. Some will lose arms and legs. A few will return under the draped flag. To many they will remain nameless and your experience not understood.They have great dignity because they have chosen to face ugliness, mayhem and pain so others might be spared of it. I would remind them that being a soldier is a spiritual calling, yet that calling is founded on primarily their humanness. Being human in an inhumane world is the greatest weapon against savagery of all. And that God's power, strength, grace and love and always and everywhere available to them. And that in the darkness of any evil, God's light can still be seen.

This is what I might have said, had I known what I know now.

Not Toy Soldiers

2006-11-16T12:29:00.000-08:00

In the early afternoon of 9 November a squad from the 410th MP company was on patrol in their humvees along Route Vernon at the overpass of Route Irish when an Explosively Formed Projectile tore through the first vehicle in the convoy. Apparently the insurgents took advantage of the fact that this was the only in and out of sector. The projectile came through the passenger’s side and was catastrophic. Those in the vehicle behind couldn’t see through the smoke, but notice on the ground near them PFC Howard Zachary, the gunner who was blown out of the turret. The turret and gunner separated in the air. Members of Stryker unit came and supplied force protection as medics tended to the broken bodies of SGT Gregory McCoy and SPC Courtland Kennard.

I wasn’t aware of what had happened until I return from an office visit at personnel affairs to have my ID card updated. SGT James had gone ahead to the Combat Surgical Hospital (CSH) to follow up on the survivor and help support the unit in its crisis. I stayed behind and called to find out when other soldiers from the unit would be returning so I could be present if they wished to talk. SGT James returned a bit earlier than what I expected and we proceeded to Camp Stryker.

No sooner than we had arrived, CPT Whittenberger, Commander of the 410th MP Company “Bravo Spirit” arrived. CPT W, a broad and somewhat stoic man accepted as I offered my condolences. We met and sat with a young LT and SFC who were part of the convoy that underwent the attack. They were emotionally bruised and saddened. CPT W. advice to them was to stay inside the wire and take care of them selves a while. He stated that all the soldiers would handle the loss differently. One thing he said that struck me as genuine was “I don’t believe in toy soldiers.” I took this to mean that he values soldiers as individuals and this loss was very real to him. I later discovered that at one time he was an enlisted soldier in Field Artillery (Cannon Crewmember), was given an Honorable Discharge, went to college where he earned a BS, and is now completing a Master’s degree.

We had the company members gather in the chapel after dinner so to formally announce the loss and talk about what would happen next. I briefly offered my sympathies and explained that I was there to help them through this time of grief. I told them that one thing that I believe is helpful is to gather as friends and informally share the stories that might not be told publicly, so that they won’t feel “short changed” at the formal memorial ceremony. As the soldiers were ushering out, a tall SPC asked to speak to me alone. He stated that this loss reminded him how much he had strayed and that he felt that he was in danger of losing his faith. Part of what I was able to understand was that he was raised in fundamentalist environment that made him feel guilty for not believing the way his family did. He saw much evil in the world. We talked about different ideas of what faith is. I tried to lighten his load as best as I could. I walked out into the night. Melancholy and weariness were about me. The next morning I told myself that I was definitely ready to go home for a while.

My memorial message for SSG Gregory McCoy and SGT Kennard (promoted posthumously):

Grace and peace to you my fellow soldiers and friends. As we take time to honor and remember SSG Gregory W. McCoy and SGT Courtland A. Kennard, I hope that you know that you are not alone in your grief and that the prayers of fellow enlisted, officers, friends and family are with you here in this very place. They are offered fervently and with great care that you may find solace and strength in the midst of this tragedy. As far as I am concerned, all soldiers lives are spiritual quests—some parts more difficult than others. SSG McCoy’s and SGT Kennard’s quests have ended, but yours members of the 410th continues.

The other night when I visited with you, I repeated what your commander CTP Whittenberger had said, “That everyone will react in their own way to this loss.” Some will be brokenhearted, others will be angry and some will feel numb or somehow unconnected to this loss. Others of you will simply be relieved that it wasn’t you. All of us have been created uniquely and each of us have different life experiences to help us cope with what you face. You have full permission to go through this in your way, but for your own sake and the sake of those around you, don’t go it alone. There is no need to. You have put so much work into bonding with each other as a unit. Stay connected with each other and walk forward as best as you know how.

When asked what scripture would be meaningful for you to hear at this ceremony, the friends of SSG McCoy and SGT Kennard chose the 23rd Psalm. Some of you may know it very well while others of you may have heard it only once or twice. In the 23rd Psalm, which SPC Nicholas read for us, the psalmist gives us the image of God as a shepherd—someone who guards, tends, and guides. In the face of how fearful our existence can sometimes be, the image of the good shepherd is most comforting. The fears that we all face at one point or another is the Valley of the Shadow of Death. You as soldiers of the 410th and countless others do not need to be told that what you face day in and day out is being in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. You deal with mortality regularly. Your courage is seen every day as you put on your boots, body armor and kevlars go out there and face what there is to face.

I believe that Harold Kushner, rabbi and author of When Bad Things Happen to Good People, is right when he says that the idea that we are going to die one day is NOT what scares us. It is the anticipation of death, the sense that our time is limited that gives us fear. It is death’s shadow, not death itself that is fearful. Out of all creatures, we are the only ones that know that there will be a day when we will not be here. Frightening, but when we consider it closely, we can frame our minds and ask ourselves about how we choose to use this time.

No one can take away your memories of the good that SSG McCoy and SGT Kennard did. No one can take away the effect of their identity, their values, their sense of humor. No one can take away their service and commitment in the face of dicey prospects. No one can take away the honor that they placed in the uniform. No one can take away the sense of camaraderie or even the frustrations that you had with one another. These belong to SSG McCoy and SGT Kennard and to you all forever and death has no power over it.

One thing we may feel is that God isn’t with us in the darkness of the valley. But, the psalmist speaks of drawing comfort from God’s presence and his rod and staff. I believe most, if anything, we more often struggle with the absence of God. It is OK to ask “Where are you Lord when I most need you?” “Show your face, lend me your rod and staff that I might not walk without something to protect me and something to lean on.” If this God is worth anything, he must be a God big enough to handle our doubts, fears, tears, grief, anger and our feelings of being orphaned. He must equip us somehow to face the valley. Otherwise, he would not be a good shepherd at all. He would be neglectful of his creation and our efforts to make meaning out our lives—the good and the tragic—would be in vain.

One last thing I need to share with you is the depth to which CPT Whittenberger took this loss. I have seen his grief. He has shown great concern for you all. I have seen the dignity with which he has sought to bring to all the details surrounding this tragedy. This is true of all the leaders of the 410th that I have met.

Friends, find hope in whatever good SSG McCoy and SGT Kennard were and did. Determine what good you want to pass on in this life and do it. Don’t put it off for tomorrow. Tell the ones you love that you love them. Put your heart on the line. For today is a gift and tomorrow is not promised to us. Amen

Please stand with me in silent tribute to SSG Gregory McCoy and SGT Courtland Kennard.

----SILENCE----
Lord, we thank you for the life SSG Gregory McCoy and the life of SGT Courtland Kennard of and we lift up all that they were to your mercies. Amen.

A couple days later, I once again saw the 410th. There spirits were high as the unit and CPT Whittenberger was being honored in Change of Command Ceremony where I delivered the invocation. There is something about the resiliency and camaraderie of soldiers that is truly amazing. There were smiles and laughter as they were standing tall in a magnificently bright Iraqi morning with a cool breeze that lifted their guidon and brought life to Old Glory. I can only pray that my part has been sufficient for these men and women as I begin to leave this place. There is so much that I will never forget.

Hearts Abound

2006-10-24T09:17:00.000-07:00

I’ve now been witness and taken part in several award ceremonies that included the presentation of the Purple Heart. The best of these are “Return to Duty” with the soldier who has been injured and recovered standing in the company of others. At the other end of the presentation spectrum is the Purple Heart presented posthumously laid upon a presentation table along with a photograph of the soldier. Recently, I was called to the CSH (Combat Support Hospital) when one of our subordinate units reported having been attacked. We had five soldiers there. Two soldiers had minor injuries; one had smoke inhalation and was slated for observation for a couple of days. Two soldiers needed surgery. A small group that included the company commander, our XO and a couple of unit NCO’s and fellow squad members came and visited with the first soldier who had come out of surgery. SPC S, was like many soldiers—lanky and earnest. What struck me most about our visit with him was how immediate our access was and how quickly the unit wished to conduct honors for him.

A piece of surgical tape was affixed to the Purple Heart. As the XO reached forward to give the medal to him, a ripple of emotion crossed the face of SPC S. I could see the apprehension in his eyes. This is not an award anyone seeks to receive. SPC S. is lucky. The shrapnel in his leg was easily removed. It was given for him to keep. His buddies will eventually welcome him back to the fold.

It was SPC B who was on everybody’s mind, however. He was in surgery when we arrived. He sustained extensive damage to his legs from shrapnel wounds. The surgeons were hopeful that they would be able to save both his legs. Unit members as well as we from the battalion waited a couple of hours before he was brought down. We all gathered in the ICU. This was so different from a civilian hospital. We were all gathered near his bed while doctors and nurses worked on him. He was in a semi-conscious state and I was able to pray with him. SPC B. was encouraged by his buddies as well. As nurses used ultrasonic devices to help blood flow to his extremities, we helplessly listened as SPC B. from time to time would cry out in pain. Morphine was on hand.

Eventually we were told that SPC B. would have to go back in for surgery due to a possible blood clot. I took it as a poor sign whether he would get to keep the affected leg.
All along I had been holding the Purple Heart with another piece of surgical tape attached to it. (Later I would discover that in the early history of the U.S. Army there were no medals. They were considered too reminiscent of continental nobles who were given medals for just being who they are instead of earning them. George Washington cut some purple cloth into heart shapes and gave them to his most courageous men.) We left the Purple Heart with SPC B.'s unit NCO's and fellow soldiers. A couple weeks later I learned that SPC had lost his leg and sent to Walter Reed. His life, like many of our soldiers, will be radically different than how it was before they came to Iraq.

I have seen bravery up close. It is a quality of the heart. It bleeds and the cost is great. Nothing can be traded for it. The next times I would see a Purple Heart was at both of the memorial services in which I had part as soon as I returned from leave in October. One soldier was 20 years old, the other was 21. I barely can remember what was in my heart at their age.

Bats in Flight II

2006-09-23T11:09:00.000-07:00

Military chaplains often refer soldiers to Combat Stress Control (mental health). Fortunately, the CSC CPT, CPT C is a very versatile man. He was educated at Boston University, is an ordained minister in the Methodist tradition and a licensed Social Worker. He has a keen and broad mind, an absurd sense of humor and the gift of Zen in basketball lay up shots. He wears BCG’s (ugly army issue eyeglass frames called “birth control glasses”) that give him that intellectual look ala Henry Kissinger. He helps to run the Warrior Restoration Program where soldiers spend a few days in group sessions at a retreat called Freedom Rest. The previous chaplain called it a “white collar prison,” but it is a good respite for the right persons. There is a pool and private rooms where soldiers can decompress a bit so they can get some distance from their issues.

CPT C is astute and asked some good questions regarding the dynamics some of the companies that I serve. For example, there was a company of MP’s from the VAANG who had some friction with the post command on the FOB where they were. There also had been some drinking and soldiers reduced in rank. Upon visiting, the Co. commander, a competent man who graduated from UVA told me about some negligent discharges when soldiers were reentering the FOB. He also told me about some of his own personal frustrations as well as the perception that the BN commander was keeping them from doing more complex missions. CPT C recommended that I share the unit issues with the BN commander. When I did, I learned more about how discharges point to lack of discipline at the non-commissioned officer level and that the unit has a mindset that they are fully trained because they were schooled by the Navy SEALS. The BN commander told me that, yes, they are well trained for a particular kind of mission, but if they wanted broader responsibilities in the fight, they would have to train more.

Soon after our return to Camp Liberty, we had an incident with one of our newest and youngest companies. While on convoy a soldier lost control of his vehicle and ran through a small building killing a local national. It is most likely that he was using excessive speed. The company’s 1SG sent the driver and trip commander to come see me shortly after the accident. The young soldier who was driving was obviously distraught. All that I could really say to them is that what happened was about as serious as it gets (in terms of the value of another’s life) and that there would, of course, be an investigation. The tragedy of all was that this was part of the unintended—but always present—consequence of war. What is to be done here? Give absolution? Try to press the soldier to realize the depth of his guilt? Leave it to others? What is this compared to the hundreds of tortured bodies found each day? I can feel the awkward expression on my face as I try to remind them of the gravity, the upcoming investigation, and some platitudes about not being too harsh with one’s self. God grant me wisdom, I pray.

The next couple of days include a visit from a black female soldier who is trying to get out of the Army because the recruiter lied about her eligibility for a signing bonus. Her unit has tried to help her, but keeps getting stone walled. She has begun to be disaffected to the point where I later learn she has decided not to come out of her room. Now she faces disciplinary action. I spend time with a SGT who has just been relieved of his duty in the TOC (Tactical Operations Center). He sobs in realizing he must now let go. He feels shamed. I embrace the large man as I sit next to him on a bench. Another soldier comes to me seeking “Compassionate Reassignment” to a duty station in West Texas as he is the only child of a woman dying of cancer. He needs to go home and take care of her. I meet a Major who worked with my previous brigade who tells me of a sad episode of a higher ranking officer who regularly dispensed intimidation and humiliation. This man is the son of a Vietnam vet who told him not come to war and leave his family. I attempt to offer consolation in the fact that he took his own path and faced what he had to face here.

Another trip to a subordinate unit includes an invitation to go to visit Iraqi Police stations outside the wire. SGT J was not fully prepared for this and neither was I. He gets nervous and reminds me that we aren’t required. I explain that the commander said that these places had not seen any activity for a couple weeks and can ensure our safety. He reluctantly agrees to come out with me. I have probably acted to hastily, but since these soldiers have not seen a chaplain in months, let alone a chaplain who is willing to meet them where they cover for 24 hours at a time, I go. The conditions are tough and the stations are barely decent. And SGT J. comes with me. We have very good visits with the soldiers (many want to talk) and tours of IP stations that include photo ops. As we are waiting for a chopper to return us to Camp Liberty, SGT J. brings up his discomfort about not being totally prepared. He is mostly right, but I’m not hearing it. We table the discussion for the next day. We skip a day and meet together with a Master SGT. We get it out on the table and our relationship grows stronger out of this minor conflict. Thank God we are both mature and reasonable enough to come to terms. The last thing either of us need is unnecessary friction between us. He offers prayer at my modest service. I attend the huge Gospel service with him. He is full of infectious praise. I feel stilted and white.

One more visit on a FOB south of Baghdad takes us near the place where an alleged rape occurred of an Iraqi teenager by an American soldier. We initially get off at the wrong stop. It is far too “tip of the spear” country. We were told the 5th stop. When we finally reach our proper destination (Falcon), the 1SG is among the most hospitable I have yet to meet. We are given plenty of free access, briefing time, prayer time, and private time with soldiers. I meet some tough looking soldiers as they are cleaning their weapons and speak to them of God’s love and how chaplains can be helpful if they are devoid of it. I feel like the Pillsbury Dough Boy who is about to be turned into a well baked dinner roll. They listen attentively. One even challenges me on my interpretation of the Pope’s “clumsy attempt at dialog.” “Wasn’t he just quoting someone, chaplain?” “Yes, but…” My enlightened liberalism doesn’t fly in light of their day to day experiences with the tactics of the “Muslim Extremists.” Considering the world in shades of gray here is a luxury that will get a soldier killed here and is best left to non-combatants, like the chaplain. They are respectful. I see spiritual hunger in their eyes and some wariness. I feel privileged to be able to walk into so many worlds and carry symbols that I sometimes forget—community, family, morality, faith, forgiveness, and hope. I can only pray to be worthy of this responsibility.

Pressing the flesh is now a bigger part of this chaplaincy. This is primarily because this battalion is about the size of a brigade and we are spread about. We even have Airmen (Security Forces) attached to us in our mission. I was given the opportunity to address a squadron during an awards ceremony. I gave them my standard talk that gives credit to a Navy chaplain I once heard on TV. “What can a chaplain do for you? A chaplain can help you answer three questions: Is it ok with God to be a warrior? Am I ok with God? And is it ok to be afraid? I also add my four points of how to survive a deployment. 1. Find something to grow into (courses, books, etc). 2. Look for goodness and beauty. It exists even in an ugly situation like this. 3. Stay in touch with family. But don’t try to control your home life from a distance. 4. Form positive friendships. With a chaplain, you can always have 100% confidentiality (the only profession in the military that can say this) unless you intend to harm someone or yourself.” I always try to be succinct, knowing that this is not my pulpit.

I often eat alone, but allow the possibility of conversations by sitting with a variety of soldiers inside and outside of our unit. Recently, I had dinner with two field grade officers. They spoke of how quick and impressive our Stryker Brigades are in terms of a conventional battlefield. We talked about the frustration of allowing enemies sanctuary under the umbrella of religion. We dissected the current state of the government and its ties to Sadr and his militia. We argued about our own naïve optimism and the depth of hatred this enemy has for us. It was good to speak with knowledgeable and engaging men. Most of their business was war planning. Some of their speech reflected the specialized nature of military professions: data, tactics and strategy. Everything is compartmentalized. It helps us stay sane when we focus on “our lane.” After the dinner one remained behind a bit. “I am tired, chaplain…” He looked at me as if seeking someone to trust.

I leave the chow hall before sunset and a little too early for the masses of bats. I try to scope a few out and I succeed in finding some just beginning to come out and do their sky dances. This evening I walk along the man made “Z” lake, called “Z” lake due to its form. The sun reflects off the waters and turns some of the tall grasses along the edges into silhouettes. I walk under a few date palms along the dirt (!) path. A bird swoops by me from behind and I recognize it as a white crane as it spreads its wings and lands near the adjacent edge. I say to myself, “Thank you. Show me more beauty, Lord.” Show us all more beauty, more peace, dear God.

Bats In Flight I

2006-09-21T12:02:00.000-07:00

Most evenings around the time of sunset, I am now usually walking to or from our chow hall. It is the better of a ten minute walk complete with dust, rocks, and various military vehicles noisily rolling by. The air is usually warm, dry and pleasant. A certain stillness envelopes all but it is broken by the activity of hundreds of bats flying every which way. I really love this meditative time watching the weird and wonderful activity of these creatures. I think about how scattered they seem, yet nature has given them a keen sense of location.

So many experiences lately, they seem to fly about me like bats. I get little time to really integrate it, but I do pray. I respond to what comes my way and then march on. I can only guess that it is even more difficult for the warriors from whom much is demanded. A steady stream of soldiers seeking counseling passes through my door. Some have issues for which I can only provide a listening ear. Others need some sort of intervention whether it is for an emergency leave, or a tough situation.

Like watching bats in flight, there are so many issues and going in many different directions. In most situations, I believe that most of my job is simply watching and acknowledging what is happening and not necessarily try to “fix things.” Yet, there come the moments where intervention is needed.

One incident where it was clear to me that I needed to intervene was an evening when a female SGT from our headquarters brought over a female specialist whom she found sitting on a stoop crying. Apparently she had run away from a SGT who had put her on extra duty and was now demanding after some “corrective training” (jumping jacks while wearing Kevlar vest) to fill sand bags. She balked, said “No,” walked off toward a darkened shipping container. Apparently, her SGT tried to pull her out. Touching is a big no-no.

I took the soldier over to the CSM (Command Sergeant Major) and had her tearfully recount the story. Although the CSM avoids getting into company business, he highly regards the chaplaincy, so he took time to listen. Eventually we ended up visiting a 1SG whose company filled with many young soldiers recently hit the ground. We got our message across and I was probably heavy handed when I told the 1SG that I already had several “odd” situations coming out of his company and that I was “going to keep an eye on them.” He took this as a threat and the next day I had a visit from the company commander. He made it clear that he wasn’t going to let some chaplain throw his weight around in his area. I made it clear that my concern was the welfare of soldiers (like himself) and that I was “eyes and ears of the BN commander.” A few days later while visiting the motor pool, I saw the young specialist. She told me she was put on a new team. I thought that was a good idea—a fresh start for her. After a couple more positive and neutral interactions with the commander and 1SG, we all settled into a more cordial relationship.

A couple nights later, one of our more mature companies dealt with some ugliness that reflects the baseness to which conflict can bring people. Our MP’s frequently most accompany the IP’s (Iraqi Police) when they are recovering bodies off the streets. In this case one of the dead bodies was booby trapped with an IED. The after math was some decontamination for the squad. It could have been much worse, because a vehicle nearby sustained some damage while the soldiers were unscathed. I was called to the medic station by the 1SG. The soldiers had yet to arrive when I got there. I waited outside the clinic with the Co. Commander, 1SG, and one other SGT. Quiet was all about so I took the opportunity to ask CPT A. how things were going in general. Soon three vehicles arrived and soldiers were ordered to drop their gear so it could be cleaned and to not mix what didn’t need cleaning with what did. I hung around in the clinic as two soldiers who took the brunt of the blast were being examined. Both seemed fine and I was amazed at how resilient many of these soldiers are. Sometimes it takes a little while for the effects of trauma to be revealed. But, in this case I think we were generally lucky.

I am now nominally responsible for the spiritual well-being of at least eleven companies of soldiers. So, I now have to travel to various FOBs in order to visit with some of these companies. One visit took me to the IZ (what often is referred to as the “Green Zone”). I met with a Field Artillery unit from Kansas that is serving as MP’s. Their 1SGT was a crusty sort. He actually had been in the Vietnam War. He was highly effective in maintaining order and safety in the unit. “Top” was amazed at the fact that the unit was put in housing where four soldiers shared a trailer with shower, internet, a refrigerator, and a telephone. The Co. Commander, Major G. was an educator and easy going. He took us through one of Saddam’s palaces and current site of the American Embassy. Being here amidst the State Department personnel, big brass, pool, alcohol and even an orchestra of woodwinds was a little disorienting. Add two huge sculptured metal heads of Saddam facing down in the back yard and it was surreal.

One of the highlights of my ministry among our soldiers in Iraq occurred unit members took me to their training site at the “Crossed Swords.” This was a military reviewing stage most famous for its huge Crossed Sword sculptures at each end of the field. Saddam was tapped here on many occasions including once on a white horse and another time prior to the war wearing a fedora and shooting a shotgun. At one end was the Iraqi memorial of the Unknown Soldier. After some training maneuvers, the 30+ soldiers were called together to have me address them. I invited them to stay for a worship service. We were joined by about a dozen Fijian security forces. I set up a communion table on top of a HMMWV (hummer). My homily was a reflection on the Beatitudes and how Saddam was once “King of the Hill” but now they are. I told the soldiers that given what the Beatitudes say, there is no evidence in this world that “Blessed are the peacemakers.” Jesus was not setting up a new civil code; he was blessing those who walk in faith despite the ugliness of the world. I reminded them that they have an awesome responsibility wherever they fall in the ranks. The Fijians sang a beautiful hymn for all of us. We even held hands in prayer as we dismissed.

Later the Co. Commander, Major G. took us to the top of the memorial. We were escorted by an Iraqi soldier. Under what can only be described as a huge metal clamshell, was the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The raised coffin was visible through colored glass. From there we were led into the base of the structure. It was dark. We used our flashlights to seek out the empty glass sarcophagi that the Baathists had set aside for the expected dead.

Hand Holding, Things Held, and Being Held

2006-08-23T06:37:00.000-07:00

It’s been ten years since I entered ordained ministry. One day when I served as a chaplain on campus I remember expressing resentment about “having to hold people’s hands.” My resentment came from what seemed to me to be simple matters of decision making. Never mind the fact that I often sought out counsel from mentors, professors, and pastors to help me through my tough times. I sometimes felt entitled because I had “difficult” or “special” issues—things that were very real to me. I deserved hand holding…

I remember serving in a congregation where a fuss was made about Passing the Peace. Some thought it was unsanitary and a way that could pass germs. I thought it had more to do with how uncomfortable people were with each other. So, I became adamant that acknowledging each other by Passing the Peace in the liturgy was all the more important. I was going to have the congregation do it kicking and screaming. I didn’t care. Passing the Peace was for their own good I told myself.

Over the years, I have held many persons hands figuratively and in prayer. I have held the hands of strong persons falling apart and weak persons becoming stronger. I have held the hands of the dying and the new born. I have held the hands of the lonely and I have clasped hands with others in the joy of a wedding ceremony. I have held the hands of nervous persons and individuals who have been confused. I have held the hand of homeless persons, psych patients, the morbidly obese, drunkards, and sex addicts. My hand has grasped, pulled, and sometimes rested in the hand of a lover. When with others, I sometimes ask to hold hands and other times I simply reach out trusting my intuition that a person is seeking this form of touch.

As a chaplain to soldiers, I have held hands with men who are physically much stronger than me, with my slender and soft fingers pressed together in thicker skin that is much more used to hard work. Several times, I have had soldiers gather in a circle holding each other arm in arm so that they could pray before a mission. A couple of years ago at a National Guard Annual Training, a Vietnam era soldier, held hands with me as he told me that he laid his Bronze Star in the casket of his young son.

As a soldier, I haven shaken the hands of persons who if I saw walking down the street in my civilian life, I would walk on the opposite side. And also, I have shaken the hands of persons who I ask myself, “Why?” In my time in theater, I have shaken the hands of PV1’s to Generals. As a humanitarian, I have held the hands of Iraqi citizens and poor children. As a minister, I have held the hand of those who grieve tremendous losses and who will never be the same. As "one on the scene" I have held up I.V.'s with my one hand while manually pumping blood through a warming device attached to a critically injured soldier. I have held weapons and fired them finding the power in them frightening and alluring. I have held up bread and wine with the same hands. I have held a salute for higher officers, the flag and in memorials.

While running a course a 0430 in the morning, as I led in a run my hands held sweat and warm air. There was a young woman for whom the run was a struggle. When she arrived at the finish line she collapsed. We held her so she could stand. I patted her eyes with cool water and held her head feeling the neatly tied corn rows. I have held the phone in my hands as I helped other soldiers make a morale call and when I have called home to hear my mother's voice.

In the service, hands are everywhere. They belong to black soldiers, Hispanic soldiers, “Redneck” soldiers, Samoan, soldiers of Asian decent, Woman soldiers, gay and lesbian soldiers, married soldiers, divorced and remarried soldiers, single soldiers, white soldiers, the "ate up" and the "squared away." And on and on. Hands are everywhere. They’ve been trained to handle weapons, repair tanks, move supplies, write orders, create memos, transcribe awards, hoist "Old Glory," and perform surgery. They are active hands and sometimes they are hands that are utterly still in the all too few hours of sleep. Sometimes these hands have harmed unjustly, or have reached out in courage. Too often in war these hands become injured, severed or remain attached to a body forever drained of life.

I often have thought of myself as a weakling in life—afraid of risks, too easily bullied, afraid to step out in the field of life or the field of contest for fear of ridicule or that my body is not as coordinated or my will not as aggressive as others. It is truly a mystery. A soldier walked into my office who is probably best described as a cultural, non-practicing and seeking Jew. He was dealing with being humiliated. And in the midst of all of it, he retained his earthy humor and his struggle before God. I identified with him and realized that I was becoming angry. I made a fist with my hand. Then I let myself realize that his struggle is not my struggle, but I could hold him. And in this case I asked if I could hug him. I hugged him as a friend. After all this time, I feel most human and most whole when I have the privilege to hold another. In these times, weakness is transcended. It does not exist. Neither does strength nor the power to harm or to be harmed. When I reflect on these moments, I feel as if I have held a familiar hand one that Always Has Been There.

Ways of Exiting

2006-08-14T23:50:00.000-07:00

I ended up remaining in Rustamiyah a week longer than intended. Just as my days there were coming to a close, a young soldier from another unit committed suicide. From what I heard he was a soldier who was looking forward to a future. He showed no signs of wanting to leave this world. What we do know is that he just gotten off the phone with a girlfriend back home that broke up with him. The military folks speak of suicide as “the permanent solution to a temporary problem.” Late teens, early twenty-somethings don’t have the perspective of time and experience. So much for them is all or nothing. This is one of the reasons that they can be combat soldiers. They can more easily face being in the position of risking everything.

I decided to attend the memorial service because I felt it was my duty. I felt it was my duty as a chaplain and as another human who has known the demon that draws the mind and soul toward “the easy fix.” It was a sad occasion. In situations as these, command does not want “full military honors” given. Nor do they invite higher ranking to attend. It is mostly a closed affair for the unit. The memorial was attended by forty or more soldiers. During his reflection, a brave soldier said the words that I had wished I had heard for the memorial of SPC Carlson—“I loved him.” The sermon included the Army’s mantra…”we will continue the mission.”

Instead of the usual flags and symbols of a fallen soldier, the front stage of the room was bare except for a recently painted portrait. Local Iraqi artists will paint portraits from photographs. These seem to be popular as mementos, sending to sweethearts and families. What made this scene hard was the fact that when the service ended, soldiers didn’t know what to do. (Usually military honors are given at the end of the service and the soldiers will march out after saluting the helmet upon the upright M-16 with boots in front.) Some soldiers stood and simply walked out. Others sat on the bench for a long while stunned and consoling each other. Some stood in front of the portrait. And a few saluted the portrait. We grope in the face of such losses. Some military folks find these to be “dishonorable” deaths. I don’t agree. The soldier was overcome by an enemy.

The day that CH Keough was to return from RR, a team of soldiers had a couple of missions in the city including going to the airport to pick CH K and the CSM up. On their way, one of the vehicles was hit by a devastating “platter charge” which blew a hole the size of a basketball in the side of the up-armored vehicle. The projectile instantaneously killed SSG Contreras the TC (trip commander) seated in the front passenger’s seat. All others in the vehicle were fine. The female gunner was hit in the leg by some blunt object; very likely the TC’s Kevlar helmet. She seemed fine other than some bruising and emotional trauma. CH K’s Chaplain’s Assistant, SPC Miller was seated right behind the TC. He caught a tiny piece of shrapnel to the hand.

CH W, CH K and I decided that my remaining in Rustamiyah another week through the memorial service made sense. The Ramp Ceremony was a solemn event. Soldiers gathered in ranks and waited for a helicopter to arrive. Once SSG C’s remains were unloaded from an ambulance all soldiers stood at attention and gave a salute. We remained in this position until the helicopter was loaded and flew off.

SSG Contreras was a no-nonsense mission focused soldier who was beloved by many. He was warm hearted and loved to nap. He was about to go on leave to see his mother and daughter. He was a few days away from a birthday. (In fact, the July birthdays were celebrated a couple days before the memorial service.) SSG Contreras’ memorial service included full military honors and was attended by many visiting officers and unit representatives. A slide show played on a loop prior to the service showing SGT Contreras “doing his thing” among his soldiers. At the close of the service all in attendance in the filled-beyond-capacity chapel gave a final salute. Many laid small tokens (coins and other items) at the place where SSG Contreras’ empty boots stood. To either side were the posthumous awards of Purple Heart and Bronze Star.

Because of the unforeseen circumstances, my goodbyes to the 519 MP’s got prolonged. No sooner had the commander presented me with a desk plaque in thanks, the meeting was interrupted by the news of the attack. The plaque sat on a chair for a couple of days before I could pick it up again. Right before the memorial service, several of the MP’s were socializing in CH K’s office. One of the Sergeant Majors asked me if I got my coin. He instructed a soldier to get one from his desk. The Viper coin is by far one of the most impressive military coins that I have seen. The individually registered coins are shaped like a Viper’s head about to strike. CH K gave me a t-shirt with a silly looking snake on the front. I was honored. What did I do that no other person in my place wouldn’t have done? The draw to belong is very powerful in the military, especially during wartime.

The ministry allows me to belong more than what I feel I deserve and yet allows me to say goodbye as best as I can when the time has come.

A mentor once said to me that two of the most important things one will ever do is say “hello” and say “goodbye.” She said that how we do these things says a great deal of who we are as people. Every time I do either one of these two, I remember that I am still learning how until the day when--whether I am ready or not--I will do it for the final time. We are always saying “hello” and “goodbye”, “goodbye” and “hello.”

Changing Scenery

2006-08-02T22:52:00.000-07:00

It was the truly the “eleventh hour” when my orders arrived. The 228th FSB was at Camp Arafjan spending the last few days before redeploying. I kept checking my email to find out if my extension was a “go” or not. The dust storms were cinematic at times with wild hot winds beating sand on us as soldiers went from tent to tent or tent to chow hall. During the evenings the winds would often completely die down and the sky would clear. Soldiers would come out and play volleyball under mercury lights into the early morning hours. I had the chance to attend worship with some of my soldiers and sit in the pews near with them. I sat with one couple who had been reprimanded for being together on off hours. They welcomed me as we sat and listened to an Korean preacher who was difficult to understand.

Just as a reminder of how small the Army is the brigade Captain handling my transition turned out to be an officer that shared the same barracks back at Camp Shelby the year before. When my orders arrived, CPT Martin told me that I could make the drive with him to Ar Aseleem in my PT uniform. I didn’t realize we were just going up the road. It was truly a ghost ride. We drove by “Death Highway” where in the first Gulf War; many were killed here while sitting in their vehicles along the highway near the boarder with Kuwait. There were dozens of burnt out hulks of vehicles front to back-partly covered in sand. Signs along the highway instructed that photography was forbidden. It was as if I were looking at hell frozen in time.

Once again I was in an in-between time as I waited for my flight. From being among the many, now I would be among the very few wearing the Keystone patch upon my sleeve. Once again, I carried the weight of duffle bags and books with which I couldn’t part. And the laptop, of course. The flight was short, and the scenery was new. I was now on the outskirts of Baghdad where there were more soldiers and far more civilian contractors than I had ever seen before. CH (MAJ) Kenworthy, a tall thin Episcopal priest picked me up with his Chaplain Assistant, SGT Jones. We drove by a couple of lakes and a bunch of trees. The next day, after meeting the BDE Chaplain, CH (MAJ) Williamson I got a more complete picture of the base(s).

“Here” was actually (at least) a couple of distinct bases: Camp Liberty and Camp Victory. Camp Liberty was mostly flat with some small hills, trees and lakes. And miles of trailers! This area was once one of Saddam’s game preserves where he and his fellow Baathists would come to hunt. (I believe they kept the area stocked.) Camp Victory has a complex of faux palaces around a lake. One is now the Multi National Head Quarters. All of these were Baathist retreats.

CH Williamson keeps his office in one of the Division “palaces” on the waterfront. He is a squat talkative man from Louisiana. When I stepped inside his office, I noticed from floor to ceiling dozens of bags and cans of coffee. He explains that this is part of his ministry. But at first glance it looks like he is running an import-export business. Later, in conversation with other chaplains, I refer to him as Chaplain (Juan) Valdez. CH Williamson gives me his rules of operation talk and then shows me what he does to de-stress. He tosses me a couple of single packs of Apple-Jacks cereal and we walk outside on to the concrete platform next to the lake. There is a sculpture of three dauphins about 50 feet out. He starts tossing some of the cereal into the water. Dozens of large carp come near the surface of the water and gobble up the cereal. I join in. It is a joyful moment. So much abundance! CH Williamson explains that the fish used to eat a special grass that grows in the pond. But now, due to the fact that soldiers have been generously feeding the fish the grass must be harvested because the fish have stopped eating it.

On a regular basis one can see a couple of Iraqis in a boat tearing out the grasses. Many of them choose to fish here as well. Once in a while an American soldier will tell them that fishing really isn’t allowed. Iraqis have replied that it is their birthright since they endured under Saddam’s regime. What could anyone possibly reply to such a statement?

I didn’t get too comfortable in my new surroundings. A few days after meeting the staff members of the 372nd MP BN from Washington, DC I was off again. The 372nd is 90% African American. They are in charge of several companies of MP’s. The companies are “add-on” and sometimes get handed off to other BN’s. Right now we are in the process of adding more companies to our BN in order to “secure Baghdad.” I was “asked” by the brigade chaplain if I would be willing to “cover down” for a chaplain who was going on leave.

So, I was off to Rustamiyah--by convoy. Camp Rustamiyah is in Southern Baghdad behind a garbage dump and next to a sewage plant. The flies were relentless. But the 519 MP BN was among the warmest units that I have come across. They were lead by a no-nonsense LTC, whose name was Bazzonotti. He was from Boston and looked like Alfonse D’Mato, but had a much better sense of humor as far as I could tell. He enjoyed giving awards to the troops but didn’t hold back his criticism either. I knew that we were going to get along fine when he asked me during a large meeting if I had any thoughts on suicide prevention. I told him “Just say no.” “Just say no.” he replied dryly. “Is that it, chaplain? Just say no?” And then I gave a few more words on how those considering suicide don’t always give the classic indicators. A couple weeks later a young specialist, who had all sorts of plans for the future and who was known as a happy and capable person, shot himself on being jilted by his girlfriend. (I will write more on this in a later piece.)

The chaplain, CH Keough was an energetic former Roman Catholic turned Southern Baptist. He was a surfer dad and injected his sermons with hang-loose hand signals. The sermons, of course, were held after long “sing in the dark in front of the projection screen hymns. Attendance was very good at these Wednesday night as Sunday worship services. (In the chaplaincy, every day is Sunday because of the missions and various schedules of the troops.) This was an active duty unit from FT Hood. They were thoroughly soldiers and loved what they were doing (for the most part). CH Keough was amazingly relaxed and warm with me. He is an active chaplain. In other words, he goes out on missions regularly. He had in a previous life been an enlisted soldier and he knows the ways and wants of soldiers. I was to simply stand-in for him while he was away. For some reason, the BDE chaplain, Williamson wanted to keep coming down and do CH Keough’s service even though it involved a potentially dangerous drive over. I just couldn’t see sitting around and being passive, so I spoke with him and we agreed that I would lead one service. He still emailed back to CH Keough to see if it was OK… I think there is a little suspicion of a “liberal” chaplain. I have my biases as well, but I try project Christian tolerance and trust, by letting go to serve practicality and to serve the whole. I doubt if a couple of sermons from a conservative preacher in a liberal congregation would “change” people, just as it is on the other side of the coin.

So, Rustamiyah with its mortar attacks, smell of fish heads mixed with the aroma of fabric softener from the large laundry facility, latrines at 150 degrees, and occasional fires due to Iraqi wiring and overworked air conditioners became my temporary home. And I loved it…because of the soldiers.

Need a steeple? Send for the Marines!

2006-07-08T09:51:00.000-07:00

As the 228th FSB approached the end of the deployment cycle, nearly all of the projects that we had set out to accomplish had been completed. Hoping to go on another humanitarian mission, we even put out the word for more stuffed animals, colored pencils, and pens and other school supplies. While all the ducks were lined up, the unit that was to accompany us outside the wire ended up getting pressed into higher priority missions. In the end, we didn’t have the chance to go out among the villagers again, but we were able to pass on the supplies before we left to the other unit for a future mission.

I had put on my “wish list” a steeple for the chapel. During one meeting when I had a slide up indicating my desired project, a field grade officer said, “Don’t count on getting your steeple, Chaplain.” I responded that it was OK to wish. Enter SPC T. SPC T is truly one of a kind. I mentioned him in a previous blog as a soldier from Tennessee whose talents included singing and bug extermination. He is the consummate southerner with amazingly funny turns of phrases and the gift of gab. Think of John Goodman in O Brother Where Art Thou? SPC T’s way of getting out of work and getting what he wanted earned him the nickname "General T" This was not necessarily a complement.

For instance, when he decided that he just couldn’t deal with working in the mess hall (even though he was a cook); SPC T decided that he would build a deck around it instead. SPC T. did not lack motivation. According to the CO, this deck rivaled the Atlantic City boardwalk. He cut deals for supplies with unknown individuals. SPC T worked the angles. And chances were that you were getting worked over as well. He rubbed more than few people the wrong way, but aside from this personality trait, he was often warm and generous to me. And he could laugh at himself.

When I mentioned to him that I wished for a steeple, SPC T, produced two young Marines who were orphaned from their unit due to lack of responsibilities. Their unit was off in the hinterlands of the post, so they and their supervisor welcomed the opportunity to come help build. SPC T. made himself foreman, of course. Within two days the framing was nearly completed. A couple days later the Marines came with a steeple that they had constructed back at their unit. The steeple added that extra something that gave a sense of normalcy to our camp. The chapel looked like a chapel. Eventually, SGT M, a sweet but sometimes brooding (had been a boxer for some time) medic from Massachusetts who befriended me offered to paint the steeple provided that I understood that it was his gift to me.

One of the Marines had a grandfather who was a UCC Minister. The other wanted to go live in Japan after he completed his service and become an apprentice wood carver. These were fine young men who genuinely had smarts, skills and the desire to contribute. I was enamored of them and wished that I could find a way to keep them working for me. They even offered to come out to Baghdad to build more steeples for me. I told them that I first needed to have a chapel!

Hargrave and I spent a visit with our two Marines in their normal surroundings one day. They were technicians with the Predator and other drones. These oversized hobby planes took pictures and gathered all sorts of other intelligence in order to lessen the danger for our troops. It was a fun and impressive visit. When I asked them about reliability, they mentioned an excellent track record but did have a plane on hand that had crashed and was being investigated. Before I left, the Marines presented me with a balsa propeller. Unfortunately, I chose not to keep it as I was hurriedly packing. It was a nice memento. But I do have pictures of the steeple. After the outside was painted, I took a torch and burned letters into the inside frame so soldiers could see “In Honor of All Who Serve” as they walked into the chapel. The legacy was set with so little effort and great joy. All it took was one "General", two Marines and a medic.

Just Like You

2006-06-22T11:33:00.000-07:00

“When I grow up, SGT Cliff, I want to be just like you.” The stocky southern man gave me a full toothed grin when I said that to him as he left to return back to his infantry unit. SGT Cliff had been visiting me every time his unit passed through since he made the introduction of his Roman Catholic chaplain to me. Cliff proudly stated that he served as a Protestant minister to his men. He told me that he was Southern Baptist. "You have my condolences." I said with a smile. Always earnest and warm, I could see how Cliff’s unaffected down-home style could put anyone at ease. He showed me pictures of the church picnic in GA. The “church” was all present in the photograph—not more than a dozen or so! SGT Cliff by body type and just plain friendliness exudes a manner which inspires confidence. It was easy to be a little envious of his gifts. And it was natural for me to say that when I grow up I want to be like him.

I didn’t realize how much more my words meant when SGT Cliff came through again for a visit. As we sat and talked, before me was a more saddened and weary person than I had known up to now. SGT Cliff explained that the unit had lost several men as they continued to make pushes near Ramadi. And from what he knew, the mission was to continue indefinitely. He blessed me with his uncertainty, confusion and tears. This is a “man in full” who is worthy of emulating. “How can I minister to these men when I have so many doubts?!” he asks. I reply that it is OK to share those doubts and fears and in sharing them, his men will be encouraged. He asked me to pray with him. As he left he gave me a bear hug and left with a smile.

The military is so full of doers that vulnerability is time consuming. I am sure that there are units where the macho thing goes on and vulnerability is equated with weakness. Here was a man who was not afraid of an enemy and who care immeasurably for his troops. Nor was SGT Cliff afraid of his own vulnerability. I think that he may have befriended it a long time ago and had come to realize that on the other side of his vulnerability, with the grace of God, lie growth.

Weeks before I left for Baghdad, it had been a while since I had seen or heard from SGT Cliff. I asked members of his unit as they passed through to send my regards. They said that he was doing well. Part of me has a fear that I will open the Stars and Stripes and see his face among the fallen. I pray not. I pray that he continues to be an inspiration and friend in Christ to his men. I pray that he gets to go back to many more church picnics.

Learning to Grieve (All Over Again)

2006-05-19T14:00:00.000-07:00

I keep looking at the photograph of SPC C. There is something that haunts me even though I have a long history of working with the dead. I have worked in funeral homes, in a morgue, assisted in procuring organ donations, catalogued unidentified remains and worked with grieving parents in a Neonatal unit. There is something about this young soldier’s story that leaves me unsettled. He was a cook by trade who volunteered to be on the QRF. In the photo we have for release, he has the steel eyed look of a soldier. I recall when we took these photographs. We were about to fly to Kuwait from Camp Shelby. Several of the soldiers used the foil of dark humor and referred to these as their “Obit Photos.” An American flag is draped behind each one of us.

In a photograph I later saw on an internet database of fallen soldiers, SPC C looks more like a National Guardsman than regular Army. He's a boy with a beret. One of the characteristics of Guard communities is that we all know each other. We all live near one another. It was only a matter of days before I spoke with the soldier who suggested to SPC C to “do something with his life” and join the Guard. This was a SGT from Allentown struggling with some anger issues of his own. As we casually conversed in the gym one evening, he told me that he has tried to encourage young men to take a direction with their lives. This direction makes no sense. I continue studying the photograph plenty of times after all the official business is over. I am saddened.

I earnestly believed that I was walking that fine line between not being to intrusive and sending clues that I was available to handle the work of the memorial service among SPC C’s unit members. I touched based with the LT and the SGT. The CO and SGM each asked me to be present while CID interviewed each of the SWA hut mates. There was no biting on the bait. I began to feel frustrated that I was not going to have anything real to say to the gathered. I hate relying on platitudes and generalizations. I asked the SGT to meet with me. I tried to be gentle, but something was happening here that reeked of denial. I was beginning to sense there were psychic land mines around; I itched. As a new SGT, I reminded him that he was no longer one of the boys—he was a “them” like me.

A shower did not ease my mind. The memorial service was tomorrow. I had put a bulletin together, alerted the choir, selected scripture and as of yet knew little about who of his friends would speak and what they would say. (There have been instances of inappropriate reflections. Plus, I had experience from working with a College Chaplain who would both help students with their pieces and serve as gatekeeper. She had a more motherly touch than I.) I should have had something by now. My gut told me that they were avoiding this. I decided that it was time to go pay a visit. Disaster. I took it too personally and the “conversation” turned into a shouting match. One soldier accused me of telling him how he should grieve. The stocky soldier looked at me incredulously when I stated that their actions were lacking in “personal courage.” “YES, I AM JUDGING YOU!” I yelled as I stomped into the night as I passed the one soldier smoking on the back of the SWA hut. Later I would express doubts to their LT about how I handled the matter. The LT, who was beside himself about the death and the possibility of drug involvement, said “They need to grow up sometime.”

This was not the end of the push-pull, however. At the rehearsal, I was asked if there would be any “open time” for reflections from the congregation. Of course, I said “yes” and it was the right thing to do. One of the friends created a slide show, but included a Country Western song that was all glory and America and soldiers. I had already prepared the choir to sing a “goodbye” tribute. Another officer told the soldier that it would be OK. I took control of the situation and said, “No.” Now I had to deal with an officer who was senior to me who decided that he was in charge of the memorial service. This was confrontational, but I didn’t back down because I had all legality behind me and I knew that this was all a part of the anxiety and individuals trying to gain control in a situation in which they felt helpless.

The memorial service went especially well. The soldiers truly rose to the occasion. There was a young black man who was a member of the QRF who was present the night of my confrontation. He hadn’t said a word. In fact, he was always quiet and dutiful. He had the presence of a well loved child who was making his way in the world. He surprised me (and perhaps many others) when he came to the lectern and delivered a thoughtful and sensitive reflection surpassing many I heard on the college campus. I was touched and proud of him. The stocky Hispanic boy-man also rose to the occasion. SPC M, did not. He had his reasons, I’m sure, and needed to mourn his way—as we all do. I said what I thought needed to be said so that he might not walk away from this experience with residual guilt. Putting on the prophet’s mantle is not usually what is expected of a chaplain. It is often necessary. But, it is not my job to save people from their foibles. I am mostly called to help clean up in the wake of human foibles.

I spoke of heartbreak. I talked about the care of the medics. I said that soldiers are more prepared to deal with loss of their comrades due to combat. I preached that it was OK to be angry at God. I still look at the picture. What a waste. Only a loving God could bring any good about from this loss. So we grope in the dark until the light comes. Or we just pretend it didn’t happen at all. SPC C was a hero. We don’t talk about the dark place to which he went to hide from the pain. I put gauze on the community’s wound. There is little more I can do.

Unnecessary Loss

2006-04-29T08:19:00.000-07:00

Saturday afternoon 25 March should have remained uneventful on Camp Coalminer. The day certainly started off that way. In my opinion and wishful thinking it should have remained uneventful. But 25 March was not uneventful. Our Quick Response Force (QRF) had spent a night out escorting a convoy and did not get back until the early hours of the morning. The members had come back tired and ready for bed. QRF soldiers volunteered for this team. They are our defenders and are the most soldierly of us who mostly work maintenance, support and logistics.

The members of the team live in SWA huts--three or four to a hut. As individuals got up mid day and went and showered and then went to eat, one 25 year-old decided to return to his hut. Early in the afternoon the medics received a call that someone in B-10 had a heart-attack. I was standing outside the Medics station when the call arrived. Naturally, my thoughts went to some of our more senior and overweight members, not a young, happy, energetic man like SPC C.

I found Hargrave quickly and we were only moments behind the Ambo’s arrival at the SSTP (Surgical Shock Trauma Platoon). When I walked toward the tent, a number of our soldiers were standing outside. I unzipped the door of the tent as a Marine questioned who I was. There was no issue as soon as I identified myself as SPC C’s chaplain.

On the far table lay the body of SPC C’s body. There were at least six medics around him working intently. His head was pulled back for ventilating. A priest was anointing him. I asked the priest, “Is he (Roman) Catholic, Father?” His reply was, “I was called down here.” This irritated me a bit because I was sure that SPC C wasn’t. But it would not have been seemly for two chaplains to get into a squabble in the middle of an emergency room. (Personal history says otherwise, however.) I came closer and touched the leg of SPC C. He had tattoos on various areas. Later I learned that he had a new one put right over his heart with the name of his new baby.

The physician stated in clinical terms all that had been attempted. He asked the crew for any ideas that could be attempted. From what we learned later on SPC C’s heart was probably stopped for an hour before he was found slumped in a crouching position. The story that was eventually pieced together was that SPC C had come back with the other members of the QRF in the early morning hours. He was last seen in the shower and then went back to his four occupant hut. The other three stepped out and he remained behind. He was not seen for over an hour until one of his roommates found him.

From the start there were questions about his death. Was he taking steroids? Or other performance enhancers? Were there any illicit drugs involved? Was he doing inhalants? These questions weren’t said out loud usually, they hung in the background and occasionally one would be dealt out as if from a hand of poker. Autopsies are done in Dover, DE along with any toxicology. Oddly enough, the information I was given was that autopsy reports are only released to the family. (I don’t know if this is accurate, but it sounds strange enough to be Army policy.) There is a chance that the unit may never be told the entire story.

I liked SPC C. He was competent. He was a bit cocky, like many good soldiers. I later found out that he was a cook who volunteered for the QRF. That told me a bit about his identity and his desires. Several times I rode in the vehicle where he was Trip Commander. He seemed totally in his element on the radio and got along well with the rest of the crew. There was good camaraderie among them. The three tended to be a little cliquish. One short and very stocky Hispanic hardly ever gave me eye contact. He manned the crew served weapon. The third was a shaved headed white boy with stars in his eyes who smiled and joked. All three worked out in the gym religiously strutting in their green or brown Under Armor--all pecs, lats, and biceps. They were young man trying to put on manhood.

As I left the tent, my expression and a few words told the story to those of the 228th waiting outside. I told SPC Hargrave that there was nothing else we could do at the SSTP and that the ministry now was handling the needs of the unit back at camp. Later that evening, I invited the XO and SPC C’s Company Commander to Mortuary Affairs (PRP—Personnel Recovery Platoon) where the usual ramp ceremony scene played out, but this time with a lot more hitting us home. There was something wrong here; the waste, the mystery and the unfairness of it all.
On top of this, I had a run in with the MA chaplain. Up until now all my relationships with chaplains—especially MA chaplains—had been excellent. CH O from the beginning had been a bit intrusive. Right before the ramp ceremony he decided to take me aside and proceed to tell me that we would conduct this one jointly. “Negative” was my response. I guess I could have been a bit diplomatic. At this, CH O asked that we go inside his office. I indicated that I would not and that it would be best to discuss these matters out in the open. I don’t remember all the details of the conversation, but the upshot was this: 1) CH O did not call us. Hargrave remembered him saying at the SSTP, “I was going to call you.” I thought he said, “I tried to call you.” Either way, the result was the same. 2) CH O called a Roman Catholic priest to perform last rites when he didn’t ascertain whether SPC C was RC or not. He rationalized his actions by saying it was a ministry the medic team. I told him he screwed twice and I was not going to let him screw this up. He outranked me and started to refer to me as “Lieutenant.” I told him that he could take this as high as he wanted; I was not going to back down. He marched out. Ultimately, I was in the right on all scores, but I alienated CH O a bit. This is not the best thing in our business. There are so few of us, but conflicts are inevitable in the tricky area of religion, military custom, and protocol. (Whether or not one likes it, the arena is political. And I am not one to sugar coat what is not palatable to begin with.)
The day after there was a convoy. I was asked to be at the convoy briefing. The sadness was evident on mostly everyone’s faces. Off to the one side were SPC C’s buddies and team. One, a short and very stocky Hispanic was stone faced. Another young man with a shaved head and an open face was in tears. The third, a black soldier entering his manhood, looked stunned. After the briefing, I offered a brief prayer. Dozens of soldiers gathered around me in a circle. I asked them to each put their hand on the shoulder of the soldier next to him/her. I felt a real human ache, the reaching out of many for meaning. In my prayer I reminded them to take care of each other.
I lobbied the leadership that I should conduct a memorial service (religious) rather than a simple memorial ceremony (military honors with prayer). I was given the green light and proceeded in attempting to pull together all the players for the service. Accomplishing this and getting us through the memorial service itself was one of the most challenging times in my chaplaincy to that point…

Article 32 and other Genuine Ones

2006-03-12T09:13:00.000-08:00

An Article 32 hearing is a legal proceeding where an officer is appointed to investigate and make a recommendation if a courts martial should be held. In this case the BN XO was appointed as the Article 32 officer that vests him with the power to conduct something like a grand jury hearing to see if a crime has been committed. But, the difference is that the officer is prosecutor, judge and jury. There had been a case of sexual harassment in which a SGT was implicated on three counts.

The XO requested that I come along (not to be part of the hearing), but to be present as witnesses gathered in case a soldier wished to speak with a chaplain. I agreed that it was a good idea. In fact I complimented him on thinking about how a chaplain's presence can be helpful in these situations. Events like this can be hard on units because emotions run high and individuals have mixed loyalties. When we arrived at the site there were a few soldiers milling about, so I made some small talk with one of them. It turned out that he and one of his sons were on the deployment together. His children were rather accomplished—one had just completed engineering school.

As we were talking, more soldiers gathered including the XO who gave a brief statement about the process. One young female soldier with a slender frame and face looked upset. It turned out that she was deployed with her father. They were from Tennessee. The soldier had brown hair and eyes. I could see some anxiety there. I approached here and she shook a little and starting tearing up. The only thing I could say was “Tell what you know. This is part of making things better.” Her father agreed. After the session began, Hargrave and I waited downstairs a bit. It ended rather quickly. Apparently, the defendant “lawyered up” and there was not much to be said at this point. This means that in a few weeks there will be a formal Courts Martial proceeding—the first one for the 28th since WWII. I have since learned that the proceedings will continue sometime later in March. I have been asked to be present again. The presence of a chaplain is a reminder that these are very much human matters as they are official matters. Plus I see my purpose of “presence” to take things as they come up and that God’s truth and purpose will be revealed.

Missteps can happen even when one tries to show discretion and “do the right thing.” While I cannot reveal much in the way of details, I can say that I ended up being involved in another investigation regarding a male and female who were involved in an affair. While that fact of relations itself is touchy in the Army, add to the fact that they’re both married and the male broke into the female’s quarters one evening and you have a big problem. On top of all that, the male had previously come to see me for counseling. Plus, at one time I witnessed him grabbing her but chose to speak with her about it instead of confronting him. Where I didn’t pay attention was when I was asked if I would sit in during an investigation. It is here where I should (and properly) have said it was not my place to be involved. Instead I was involved and even asked questions of the soldiers. A chaplain should be aware of the dangers of being perceived as part of a prosecutorial process. One could quickly lose creditability. At one point, it was suggested that I may be required write a sworn statement. As the days have passed since this conversation, it seems less likely that I will have to face such a thing. I indicated that any statement on my part would be very limited due to issues of confidentiality. The Army is clear on what constitutes confidential or sensitive information. As I move further away from this episode, I will take it as a learning experience.

I am not sure that either the male or the female trusts me. I may have done what the command thought was right, but had I known the boundaries better, I probably wouldn’t have fallen into the potential trap. God knows that there are all sorts of little sagas going on in the camp. If I were to be seen as a policeman, then I might as well hang up the ministry hat.

Recently, I was blessed by a visit from a chaplain friend who I met during training at Ft. Jackson. CH Fisher gave me a big hug when he saw me and immediately I felt like we could pick up from where we left off. The last time we spent any real time together was at a pub in downtown Columbia where we shared beers, dinner and laughter. Jonathan Fisher pretty much stole the hearts of the audience at our graduation dinner with his comedic antics and impressions of the cadre NCO’s and officers. When arranged alphabetically in class, we were adjacent to each other. I was able to hear his fine voice while singing and gained a sense that he is a happy person. CH Fisher comes from an evangelical free church background and leads services with a guitar and praise. While I come from a whole different tradition an approach to ministry, I feel that I have made several friends from the school house days. More and more, I am finding that they are deployed here.

Frequent Flyers. Every Chaplain has them. That is what we sometimes call those hapless souls that find their way to the chaplain’s office regularly. They can sometimes test one’s patience. There is one young man with whom I have been supporting throughout most of the deployment. Initially he came to me with concerns about sleeping and then he came to me asking if I could do an “engagement ceremony” over the phone. We took care of these things. Then he got it in his mind that he didn’t belong here, so he put all his effort into building a case against his sanity. After months of being bounced around and even being demoted for a stupid threat, it seems like he is getting his wish. Part of me is truly concerned for him and part of me trusts that he knows to get what he wants because I’ve seen him do it here. After almost reaching the boiling point of my frustration with him, I decided that it wasn’t my job to try to fix him, simply to acknowledge and argue for his humanity. I believe that even though some treated him as though he were giving the Army a snow job, he is truly a person in need and deserves good care. I just hope that when he gets home, that he is able to get more of what he does need in order to live a more stable and happy life.

The long deployment is wearing on some of the college aged soldiers. Many of them had their studies disrupted. There were some who were even freshmen and had attended college for a number of weeks before they were called up. Recently I dealt with two women friends who had to be separated because one was needed at another FOB. Both were in their late teens/early twenties. The one who remained here took it hard. She was brought to my office sobbing. I told her that she didn’t have to talk about anything if she didn’t want to—that she could just sit a feel OK here. After a while I broke the silence with a couple of questions about the situation and I talked about loneliness and that there was no shame in it. Taking a cue from an old friend of mine, I decided that maybe she would enjoy me reading some “Winnie the Pooh” to her. We all regress in times of stress and letting her know that it was OK to go back to a place where she needed to temporarily be soothed a child. Yes, unconventional. Yet it was effective. In a matter of a short time the soldier decided that she should go use the phone to talk with her parents. In chaplain’s school we were shown photographs of young injured soldiers holding teddy-bears and were reminded by our cadre that many of our soldiers are still adolescents. I am grateful for the experience that I had on campus at Franklin and Marshall College for six years. My mentor used to say that “the twenties are a difficult time in life.” They are when one has something of a “normal” life. Add a deployment and life in a war zone and the issues quickly come to the surface. These kids are required to grow up so quickly. I admire and feel for them.

One interesting man I met recently over lunch was a young Captain, an Airbone-Ranger type. He had served his entire career in the infantry. By his looks he had some Asain or Polynesian in him. He may be in his late twenties and was thinking about what he wants to do next in life. He said, “Infantry gets old after a while.” I asked him about the impressive tabs and patches he was wearing. He said that he was “just checking off boxes.” I reminded him that we are always changing a growing into something new. When I talk in this pastoral way, I often feel that I am mostly preaching to myself. He was the kind of young man that anyone would be proud to have as a son or friend. I kept hearing in the background of my mind, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”

The Three Major Feasts: Christmas, New Year’s and Super Bowl

2006-02-17T00:18:00.000-08:00

The Sundays of Advent went very quickly. The choir prepared the chapel with all sorts of tacky decorations including three Christmas trees and some other mini trees. It looked festive. SPC Armbrister, our choir director, warned the choir not to make the trees look "ghetto fabulous." I laughed.

Boxes upon boxes of snacks, toiletries, socks and decorations had come from various groups back home. One elementary school from south central PA sent more than thirty boxes packed with items collected by the school kids and their families. We had a glut of stuff that we kept putting out on tables. Initially, I posted signs announcing the fact that there was all this free material. Soldiers came to the chapel with all of their excess! Eventually, most of it got distributed. We still have an occasional box arrive.

Early on, I had decided that for our Christmas service I would use the Lessons and Carols format. In the meanwhile, however, there were all sorts of politics going on in our camp. One story mostly included a specialist who decided to press the issue of his mental health. He reported that he had hostile feelings like he was going to shoot someone and in the same breath would say that he didn't feel like he could shoot an enemy combatant because he didn't believe in killing anymore. I also had a sergeant, a cook, from Tennessee who was a bit of a sad sack, who wanted to sing "Little Drummer Boy." Part of me felt that I needed to protect him from humiliation. But the part of me that applauded his guts prevailed. He didn't make it to the service, however, because he was needed on a food run at the last minute.

Our special case specialist apparently had signed himself on to the deployment even though he had a three inch thick mental health file back at a hospital in PA. It was only when he decided that this deployment "wasn't like the one in Germany" that he started to seek his return to the States. And round and round the paperwork goes. Everyone was chiming in, including a psychiatrist, whether he should go home or not. Command was initially dubious, then began to see the wisdom in cutting bait with this particular soldier who had damaged his brain on cocaine abuse. He was relinquished into my supervision for a while to do various painting jobs, but he drove me up a wall with all of his excuses. I started to feel like an overseer, so I gave him back to the Sergeant Major. At that point I could be his friend again, rather than another "persecutor."

He liked playing simple Christmas melodies on the keyboard. So I asked him if he would do the prelude for the service. He accepted. And even though he would not stay and eat in the dining facility because of "all the people," he played his piece in front of everyone on Christmas Eve. I think this was his declaration of his humanity. For me it made it all the more real that he was present in the midst of many others who doubted him, shuffled him off, attempted to provoke him and made fun of him.

We put several luminaria outside the chapel that had a few concrete barriers. Early in Advent, I asked SGT Musky to help build a shelter with a manger in it. He used plywood, tree limbs, wire, grass, and string. I even spotted some palm trees that we could use as roof thatch. It was beautiful and rustic. It sat outside the chapel door as a quiet reminder of the lowliness of His birth.

Liturgy--work of the people. I chose not to preach a homily that evening, only have the Christmas story tell itself and have the musicians, readers, and carol singers find their place in the joy and mystery of the evening. I had solicited candles from back home, but alas, nothing arrived from my source. A church sent a handful of used ones--hardly enough for everyone. At the last moment, I grabbed a bunch of chemical light sticks and asked Hargrave to hand those out. As our soloist, SGT Barracol, began to sing Silent Night in English and Spanish, he was briefly surprised when everyone cracked their green glow stick and sang along with him. Laughter briefly filled the room and then the recognition that how right it was that soldiers would celebrate this way. We had a trained italian tenor sing "Ave Maria." And a Baptist with a big voice sing "O Holy Night."

The chapel was packed. Holiness and expectation were in the air. And I felt blessed to be a part of it. We had readers of all ages, races (the military is the most integrated institution in the US), sexes, abilities and ranks. Some were eloquent. Some struggled a bit with the King James. It was real. Although we had no children in our worship, there was childlike wonder in the air.

I caught New Year's Eve fever and I went to the BN Commander and said, "Sir, we need to drop something." He said, "What do you mean?" I said, "You know, like back home they drop the ball in Times Square, a Hershey's Kiss in Hershey, and even a sausage, pickle and goat in other towns of PA. "What should we drop?" "Let me think about it." I said. Eventually it came to me. We could use a pick (we're the Coalminers). We wrapped a picked with about 500 twinkle lights, and gold and silver garland. We hung it from an old anti aircraft gun whose barrel was easy to ratchet up. And there the pick hung bright as all get out for most of New Year's Eve. Hargrave and Musky thought I was nuts. I told them that this was about memory making. Even with putting the message out among many, only a handful showed up. As we all counted down, I lowered the blazoned pick to the ground. We heard some gunfire at midnight and saw a couple of flares fired into the air. About eight of us shook hands and went to bed. I think partly disinterest, partly homesickness and that it was just one more night kept soldiers from coming out.

The New Year's lunch was among the holidays where officers serve. One could have steak, turkey, shrimp, roast beef, ham. There was no sauer kraut, but there was cabbage salad.

Talk of the playoffs turned to talk about the Steelers heading to the Super Bowl. Terrible towels came out. We had only one or two Seahawks fans in our midst. One is the sergeant in charge of our weapons. SGT Hines is a burly man who originates from the NW. He shared with me John Wayne's, The Quiet Man and he made a comment about soldiers' personal lives should have nothing to do with their ability to perform their duties. I became a fan of his.

The game was set to be televised in the Dining Facility on two large screen TVs beginning at 3AM minus any commercials. (AFN provides free network programming provided the commercials are blocked out. Instead we have dozens of Public Service Announcements either promoting safety, a particular branch of the service--lots of chaplain commercials, or family support programs. Some are cute. Most suffer from low production quality.) Plastic football shaped plates were handed out so we could eat some wings, lukewarm fries, and jalepeno poppers. Due to the way the tables were set up, people sat in horizontal lines and clusters. It was an opportunity to say hello to a few soldiers and I did the chaplain thing. Seeing the anticipation in others, it struck me how as Americans we believe our own hype. I have warmed up to football--even played a little here and rooted on our winning team with most "fan" in me that I have ever seen. As far as the Superbowl was concerned, I enjoyed watching the first half and the controversial touch down. I went to bed not certain that Pittsburgh would pull it off. I was quickly asleep into the third quarter.

These three experiences underscored to me just how much I am a man oriented in finding meaning in worship and church life. New Year's is full of glitz and forced revelry (and believe me, given the right party I could have a very nice time)and more than a few empty resolutions. The Super Blow is full of bluster and chest banging. (Anyone could foresee the celebrations in Pittsburgh getting out of hand. There's always a few idiots who think they need to overturn a vehicle in order to whoop it up.) But, Christmas brings the hush and hope of holiness to my soul.

The Children of Khalidyah

2006-01-19T08:02:00.000-08:00

SPC Hargrave and I have been among the fortunate Unit Ministry Teams (UMT’s) who have been afforded opportunities to be part of some “high speed” training, missions outside the wire, solemn ceremonies and even humanitarian missions. Most UMT’s just don’t get to do all this “stuff,” so we feel valued and trusted by our command and just plain lucky.

When we first arrived at Camp TQ, there was a large amount of clean up to do. The outgoing unit had been on back to back deployments. They came straight from S. Korea to Iraq. I think that they just got tired and really didn’t spend a whole lot of effort in making the camp better. I’m not aware of the mission demands put on them either, so it’s not totally fair for me to judge. One thing that I have noticed is that National Guard units are composed of more mature individuals who have job experience back home. This probably plays into the fact that we were ready to make Camp Coalminer more livable by making layout, security, and building improvements.

Also, part of getting organized here including opening connexes (large shipping containers) and finding all sorts of items in them. Back in September the CSM came to me and said that he had found many trash bags full of stuffed animals. He suggested that I may want them for a future humanitarian mission. So we set to going through the dusty bags and checking the condition of the toys. Most were great; some needed to be tossed. We were left with dozens of every sort of stuffed toy, from a giant Bugs Bunny to a boat load of Beanie Babies.

During a post chaplains meeting in October I mentioned to the group that we had this inventory and were willing to share it with any units who were conducting humanitarian missions. Just as luck would have it, the Navy chaplain from Mortuary Affairs had made arrangements with a Marine unit that was planning a humanitarian mission to a local fishing village. (Yes, a fishing village in Iraq. We’re next to Lake Habaniyah.)

When the day came in November, we met up with Marine CPT Benitez and her men. CPT Benitez was a compact Hispanic woman who was just given command over FOB (forward operating base) security. She seemed eager to conduct a humanitarian mission. I guess it is one of those things that helps build a repertoire of leadership skills (interacting with local leaders, build communication skills, etc.) and makes soldiers feel good all the way around.
Getting to Khalidyah was simple. We simply drove our convoy out of a southern gate and drove downhill toward the lake. We then took a paved road that hugged the shoreline for about a five minute drive. The “village” was a gathering of brick houses with tin roofs, and a few other buildings on uneven and dusty ground. Poverty looks the same wherever you go. I remembered poor Greek villages I visited while I was growing up. I was reminded of impoverished Palestinian children when I visited Israel and the Gaza back in ’95. Barefoot kids dressed in a wide range of mostly donated clothing (One could tell by the American logos) began to show their faces.

One of the first was a young girl (possibly 3-4 y.o.) who came to check us out from about 20 yards away. Eventually, the Marines set up so that there would be some order to the distribution operation. The irony of putting up barbed wire to hold back the 30-40 so kids was not missed by me. (But there are wider security issues when a unit does this sort of thing.) The consideration, of course, is who else may be watching and if a suicide bomber might come within our perimeter.

While we were handing out toys, medics were visiting with some of the town folk and checking on their ailments. A Public Affairs Officer was talking with some local men over the front of a pick up truck that had some damage around a headlight. (Apparently, the US pays claims on any incidental damages. Occasionally, one will hear a story about a settlement of thousands of dollars paid on an accidental death and then the family wants to dicker over a couple hundred dollars for a refrigerator.) War brings out odd behaviors, relationships and dependencies. When it comes to giving and receiving, there are matters of pride. Who needs to look good? Who needs to save face? It can be delicate.

The children were sweet for the most part. Some tested their “good” words and taunts at us. Most kids preferred to pick their own toys rather than be handed one. Sometimes a little kid would get one only to have the bigger and older son of the mayor take it away from him. I think even some adults took toys from the kids. I joked that the toys would probably soon be found in a local flea market in exchange for cash.

I took a number of photographs, but spent most of my time giving out stuff and talking to the kids. I tried to always squat so I could be on their level and see their faces. In many cases there were so untouched—ignorant of their poverty, but happy and curious in the moment. I gave the camera to a Marine and asked him to take some photographs. Out of the nearly 80 pictures he took, my face made it in one and part of my side made it in another. Next time I will need to be specific. “Take pictures of ME giving out gifts.” Then I ask myself Why? Do I really need to show world that I am doing good?

After Christmas, I put out an announcement for a collection of more stuffed animals and toys that soldiers might be willing to donate…

Comedy and Tragedy Deployed

2005-12-25T23:47:00.000-08:00

I’ve come to believe that my writing is less about “journaling” than it is about reflecting on experiences and how they line up together or create tensions. It’s been over a month since we had our talent show here. I took an idea from a Navy chaplain’s experience with his Marines during the beginning of the conflict here. In his book, he mentions an impromptu talent show that he put together and what a morale boost it was. I decided that in a camp situation, a talent show would be the right thing to break the monotony and would give an opportunity for individuals to come into relief against background of “cammies.”

For about a month before hand I advertised the talent show on power point slide during the Commander’s Update Briefing (CUB). It had all sorts of pics on it of individuals and groups singing, dancing, riding unicycles, making dogs catch Frisbees even an old Indian woman playing an accordion—anything that would conjure up people doing their “thing.” The idea was met in a lukewarm manner and I got the feeling that “if the chaplain wants to have a show, let him have one…” I decided to invite individuals to cover the MC’s slot and judges positions. (They were all perfect for the job. CPT (now MAJ) Miller has a affable way of working the crowd and a great sense of humor. LT Welteroth, a young energetic officer with a sharp wit played our critic. SGT Cassada was hard to impress. And SPC Armbrister just wouldn’t give any unearned points.) They loved the idea of having it be a “Gong Show,” so I quickly enlisted Service and Recovery to weld together a gong we could bang on for “bad acts.”I got few entries in the weeks to come, literally. And two were real entries and one was a bogus name that because of the handwriting could be read as “Joe Mannia” or “Joe Mamma.” These were not auspicious signs and I was getting a little nervous that display of talent would be How to Produce a Flop.

It wasn’t more than three days before our “Coal Miner’s Talent Show” was to happen that soldiers were actually signing up. I was relieved and amazed at the entries. We had a drummer (SGT Muskey) who assembled a rock group with two medics. The one medic, SGT Ortego was a guitarist and a huge rock music fan who had been in attendance at the original Woodstock. Then, all of a sudden, we had a list full of vocalists, dancers, lip-syncers, and others. When the evening of November 4 had arrived over 150 soldiers piled into our dining facility (DEFAC) to watch this event. Our XO, MAJ Sheehan made sundaes for everyone. The laughter was infectious. One can tell how much they had been through by how willing they were to laugh or clap whole heartedly for the smallest effort.

There were several impressive acts. 1LT Delia was not an entrant because his wife back home was helping to sponsor the prizes through the FRG. He has been classically trained in operatic singing. He sang a Pavarotti standard “Torna A Surriento” beautifully. A young woman SPC did some ballet; she had been dancing for thirteen years. We even had our Quick Response Force (QRF) lip sync a Back Street Boys number with female dance partners. We had a female sing “The Rose” a cappella and another female lip sync David Allen Coe’s “You Don’t Have to Call Me Darling” while holding a near beer. I attempted to sing “If I Only Had a Brain” with a guitar accompanist. I got gonged because I couldn’t read the tiny print of the lyrics. I said so much and the crowd started to laugh. It was assumed that my “special act” was for comic relief, but I had done it seriously… After the winners were announced, one young man came forward and did a three minute comedy stand up act. He based his material on our experiences so far. We were amazed at how funny he was and several lamented the fact that he wasn’t “in” the competition because he would have won.

Spirits were high that night and soldiers briefly were transported to another place and time in their lives while building bonds in the present. I watched a couple soldiers pretend that they were at a concert and lift their lighters high. The crowd liked discouraging the overzealous LT from banging the gong. Others sang along with the David Allen Coe song. One soldier fell off her seat when she was cheering me on.

During some time of reflection, the image of the comic and tragic masks of the ancient Greeks came to mind. I was reminded somehow that a chaplain must wear masks (as we all do) yet know especially who he is under the mask. The mystery of being both participating fully and having some element of detachment so that the work of ministry takes place. Is it a part that is prayerful? Is it a part that the world around the chaplain trusts that he will be a faithful witness to what he has observed?

Tragedy came suddenly in the form of an innocent morale visit to Ramadi. This is where we have our C med company that is home to surgeons, docs, and medics. If we were able to drive a direct route to our camp at Ramadi, it would take about 15 minutes. But, the roads through the city are far too dangerous for a convoy, so we take a route around the southern part of the lake, which takes two hours. When I arrived, I did my regular rounds of visiting the brigade chaplain and a fellow UCC chaplain who is a LTC from Vermont.
There is a room with a few beds in the Aid Station and I claimed one for myself. Two were filled with soldiers who were awaiting transfer for further treatment.

I was just about to turn in as I was walking down the breezeway when I noticed a number of the medics preparing instruments and IV bags near several stretchers. At first it seemed rather routine and I continued to head toward my room. Once inside, I decided that I may have misread what I was seeing so I decided to head out again. I made my way to the back of the clinic where a number of medics were gathered.

No sooner had walked to the back deck than the ambo pulled up and the stretchers started coming in. They were Marines who had faced a complex attack with a Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device (VB-IED) and a couple of IED’s. The first one had neck and foot wounds and seemed to be intact. The next Marine had both of his legs missing with tourniquets at the ends keeping him from bleeding out. I quickly decided that my job was simply to be there, pray with, and assist the medics in any way I could without interfering in their work (This is what we as chaplains are expected to do.) When I introduced myself to the young man without the legs, he said that he was fine and that I should pray for his buddies.

Three more Marines came in. All were missing at least a leg or in a condition where a leg would need to be amputated. At least two were unconscious from what I recall. I overheard one of the surgeons praising the fact that even though one Marines had taken his “last breath” they were able to revive and stabilize him to the point where he could enter surgery. I made my way into the O.R. and see if I could simply be there for the medics or assist. A nurse anesthetist (MAJ) quickly befriended me and told me stories of chaplains that he has known. He put me to work with setting IV’s, retrieving equipment, and hand pumping blood through a warming device as surgeons removed a mangled leg off of the African-American Marine. I thought about the very long road to recovery and life changes that this young man was now possibly facing. I thought about how things in people’s lives can change in the “twinkling of an eye.”

The O.R. was a chaotic place. Even members of the two Marines being operated on came in. There was one Gunny who seemed very broken up. I tried to encourage him to go elsewhere so he didn’t feel so helpless. There were soldiers taking down notes, others running back and forth for additional packs of whole blood. One soldier coordinated chopper times to get the Marines to Baghdad. Apparently it was difficult to get a stable blood pressure on the Marine on our O.R. table. He may have been bleeding internally. Also the surgeon was concerned that he may have cut the leg too low, but the chopper was ready to go and he decided that the orthopedic surgeons in Baghdad would have to make the call. It was the difference of being cut above the knee or at the upper part of the thigh—challenging his potential mobility even more.

As things calmed down it became clear that some of the unit members were gathered trying to make sense of what happened to them. They had the stunned look of the grieved about them who stand around waiting for something to happen. In cases like this, teams of counselors debrief the Marines (soldiers) or their chaplain will do the same. Luckily, I have not had to conduct one of these for my unit. Other chaplains in our BCT (brigade)—especially infantry—have had a few of these sessions.

How can one minister authentically in the face of wide expressions of human experience? I believe that it has partly to do with the masks one is willing to put on, that he may enter into the lives of others. The wearing of the mask is not a deceit, but an expression of the many active selves that may revolve around a still Self that is an observer and intercessor. The chaplain reflects the events around him and also gives “holy permission” by expression of the mask. The mask is paradoxically empathy and a healthy detachment that acknowledges that “yes” what the community is experiencing is real, but it is not the totality of Experience. The masks are the joy, pain and mystery of incarnate life.

Coal Miner Choir & Coal Miner Baptism

2005-12-04T23:48:00.000-08:00

I’ve been behind the curve in getting some of these items posted. It has been at least a month since our choir was invited to attend an all gospel service on the other side of the post. CH (MAJ) Goodwin, a warm Southeast Islander (?) Haitian (?) man with an Assembly of God endorsement insisted that we come. He was the consummate shepherd. After inviting him to do a pulpit exchange one Sunday he came back to check on the choir and then sell his program again. CH Goodwin, a twenty year veteran, had a completely charming and disarming way about him. We couldn’t say “no” to him. And it’s a good thing we didn’t. The Gospel Service was packed with at least six different choirs and a variety of instrumentalists. It was truly an upbeat and spirited time. There is so much talent among our service members...and so much diversity even within the realm of Gospel singing. This event also allowed our choir to feel more appreciated than they had.

The choir members had been a little frustrated that our congregation wasn’t the type to get up, sing and clap along with the choir. I attempted to explain to the choir members that most people from PA with predominantly Germanic backgrounds don’t usually get into the charismatic thing… Also, the choir felt a bit overworked so they decided to sing for us every other Sunday. One of our field grade officers (XO) felt it was his duty to remind the choir members that they “should” be in church every Sunday regardless of their singing…and he suggested that they might try some “regular” hymns. The choir leader, SPC A. came to me. I had to smooth her ruffled feathers and let her know that she was in charge of the choir and that I had no expectations of who “should” be in church. And more importantly I told her that they were to sing whatever was a true expression of worship for them…and perhaps throw the XO a bone by singing “The Old Rugged Cross.”

One Sunday, a young energetic black male in the choir came to me and expressed interesting being baptized. I told him “of course” provided that we get through some basic Christian doctrine. Next thing I knew two other members of the choir came forward to request baptism, a white male and a mixed race female. Together they made a wonderful and attentive class, plus a powerful witness to the Gospel. I thought I was going to do the “dramatic” thing and baptize them by total immersion in a hole in the ground. When I attempted to dig, I discovered that the ground was like concrete. My next idea was to disguise a trash can by draping cloth around it. Hargrave nixed this…he said it would still be and look like a trash can. I told him to drop the purity kick because when Jesus was baptized in the Jordan it was likely that there were a few animals upstream… He just looked at me as if I needed psychological help. Eventually, I relented because I was worried that the individuals would feel cold having to stand around in wet clothing. Plus, I stressed the importance of the baptism being part of the worship service… My bottom line for the catechism was “One Lord, One Baptism” and that they should reject any church that would ask them to be re-baptized.

On the day of baptism, the candidates stood with their sponsors. I dipped my hand in the large stainless steel bowl I borrowed from the kitchen and used the ancient formula…”The servant of God, name, is baptized in the name of the Father (sprinkle), of the Son (sprinkle) and of the Holy Spirit (sprinkle). I prefer this formula over “I baptize you…” because it takes the focus off the minister and reminds me of some of the excellent insights of my Greek Orthodox heritage. I gave each candidate a small palm branch, the symbol of victory and a reminder of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. I even taught the congregation to sing an ancient chant, “Those who have been baptized into Christ, have put on Christ. Alleluia!” Prior to giving the candidates the palm branches I used them to sprinkle the congregation in order to remind them of their own baptism. At the close of the ceremony, the sponsors hung crosses around the necks of each of the candidates. I then asked the congregation to receive the candidates as members of the Body of Christ. It was a wonderfully affirming day for all of us.

Of Geckos and Men

2005-11-11T01:19:00.000-08:00

SGT M_ has an easy way about him and has been easy to befriend, as well. His voice and manner is one of a person who grew up in a family with either Italian or Slavic roots. I think home for him is in Perkasie, Wilkes-Barre or someplace like that. He is in his mid to late twenties, I would say. I first met him back at the National Training Center (NTC) around the time when he met his father for the first time. I remember talking to him about the experience and being grateful that it went well for him. Sometimes encounters like the one SGT M sought out can be less than happy events. But for him it seemed to complete a picture. I think he went into it with some realism and didn’t have high expectations for this man who struggled with an alcohol addiction.

As I have gotten to know him better, I have learned that SGT M_ is a self-starter in so many areas of his life. One of his passions is air brushing. Apparently between that and being an accomplished drummer in a band back home his able to have a comfortable life. He has a fiancé, who he affectionately calls “my girl” (I don’t think I know her name yet). He has used his carpentry skills to improve a cabin by the lake back home. M_ has also added a screened in porch on his one room connex housing.

His natural curiosity led him out hunting one evening to catch small geckos. He proudly showed me the terrarium that he had built for the five or six reptiles which he had fashioned out of some scrap wood, Lucite, and netting, and a light bulb. I was impressed by the workmanship. SGT M_ noticed that every time he caught one of these geckos nearby there were usually native black beetles that traveled in pairs. He deduced that this must be the gecko’s food source. M_ wanted to know what the reptiles were, so we did some on line research. After visiting a handful of sites we were confident that what he had caught were Hook-toed geckos (that was the most common name for this species). We didn’t find too much on their dietary habits, so I told M_ to just watch them for a few days and see if they were getting lethargic or seemed hungry. SGT M_ went on to catch more beetles and moths by the lights of the DFAC (dining facility). The Hooked-toed geckos went on to flourish. M_ even put a tiny piece of cold cut on string and had them jumping all around inside their new home.

SGT M_ assembled a band here which won the talent show that I promoted. He wired the DFAC so we could have as close to a professional sound system as we could. One evening when he was visiting with me, our conversation went to musical instruments that we would like to learn. We both concluded that piano is on the top of the list. He confided in me that he would like to learn how to read music and that he “never was one much for book learning.” He also told me how his mother championed him when teachers had pretty much written him off because of attention deficit and other learning difficulties. I told him what I’ve witnessed in his natural curiosity and various gifts and that I believed he could learn most anything he wanted (including Aramaic, just because he thinks “it’s cool”). A few days later I ran into another young man in the chapel who was playing with the instruments. Somewhere in our chit-chatting, he tells me how much he loves music and that he’s pretty good with music theory and teaching. I tell him that I know someone who would like to learn from him.

To be human is to struggle with self doubt, but it takes a community of others to remind one of the strengths they possess. I hear echos of myself in many of those who come into my office. I try to recall the teachers (ministers and others) who have been “there” for me. The quality that remains most with me is all of them listened and many of them refused to buy into some lesser person than they knew I could be. I ordered a trumpet through the Army system. SGT M_ says that he’s “pretty sure” he could play Taps on it if needed again. I tell him that I hope that it will be here before Easter so he can play some flourishes during the Easter worship service.

Spiritual Readiness

2005-11-10T22:06:00.000-08:00

The following piece was written for the monthly battalion newsletter:

Spiritual Readiness
Chaplain Aristides Fokas

You may be familiar with the saying that “Chance favors the well-prepared mind.” This was stated by Louis Pasteur the chemist who solved many biological mysteries. It has been said of Pasteur that his is one of the foremost contributors to the health of humanity. I think that it can be equally said that “Life favors the well prepared spirit.”

Soldiers in a war zone face a great deal of uncertainty on a daily basis. We do a great deal to insure safety and awareness in missions as build a routine to stay focused. Things in our immediate area may not seem to change much, but around us we might notice constant change. Or we may be facing a great deal of intensity, like the positive event of a marriage or new born child. Or it could be a tragic event like the loss of a comrade or our own severe injury. A healthy spirituality is one that helps us to face the ever changing aspects of our lives with realism and hope.

A Navy chaplain recently shared the story of a Marine who divulged to him that prior to deployment he had committed a serious crime and had “buried his conscience.” Within a matter of days, the Marine decided that it was important to come clean because he no longer wanted to feel dead inside. He had been working in Mortuary Affairs. To his other Marines he seemed constantly off his game, distracted and preoccupied. Perhaps noticing all the finality around him, he may have decided that it was time to “get right with God and the world.” His chaplain noted that when he came to say goodbye and return to the U.S. and face charges, he seemed more at peace and on his way to a redeemed life. The road will be long, but entirely more hopeful than what he had become and what he feared that he was becoming.

Practicing one’s faith prepares us to make life affirming choices even when the decisions are difficult. A mature spirituality recognizes that life is full of risks and consequences. Yet, faith reminds us that God is abounding in mercy no matter what our situation. Openness, flexibility, self-examination, prayer, the reading of scripture, being a friend, alertness a possessing a moral compass is all part of spiritual readiness. All that is necessary is a desire to grow and trust.

You said, "Seek My face", my heart said to You, "Your face, Lord I will seek."
( Psalm 27:8)

Constellations

2005-11-05T03:10:00.000-08:00

When we first arrived here at Camp Taqaddum back in July we flew in during the night. After sitting on a somewhat ratty bus in the hot summer night with our gear piled all over the place, we made the half hour trip to our part of the Forward Operating Base (FOB). After unloading my gear and using one of the latrines, I decide to go by a wall and lie on the ground so as I could face the stars. The Milky Way was clear that night and even though I was dog tired I was in awe of the beauty of the sky.

Since that time, the sky has been more present here. The reason partly is that we are outside more often. The sunsets are often amazing and beautiful. Because most evenings have been clear, it has been easier to follow the progress of the moon. During an evening in early October I saw the very faintest sliver of a moon. I later pointed out in a briefing on the celebration of Ramadan, that when this sliver becomes evident that is when Muslims know to mark the beginning of the holy month.

The presence and activity of the sky inspired me to order a couple books on constellations and simple astronomy. The calls for Mortuary Affairs often come in the middle of the night. One evening as I stood outside under the stark and beautiful night sky waiting for SPC Hargrave I spent the time observing the Milky Way, a prominent red Mars and a clear bright Venus. Hargrave swung by with the humvee and we went on to the somber work we had to do. Recently, I have had as many as seven flag draped transfer cases resting in front of me. This particular evening there was only one. Since I now a veteran of these ramp ceremonies, I have less performance anxiety and am able to be more observant as I read the psalms and prayers. For some reason I became more aware of the field of blue and the stars in the flag. At this moment these for me were not our states, but reflective of the cosmos and the soldiers I had prayed over. As I match up names with the faces that appear on the news tributes, I realize that I will never look at an American flag the same again.

My father’s village in Greece had a cemetery in which two teenagers who had drowned were buried during a summer I was there. The Greeks often place portraits on the grave marker. I think it is so that the image of the loved one won’t fade as quickly. The pictures of the young who die have a mysterious quality to them. I search their faces for any hint of their ill fate. There is none. I often do not know who the soldiers are, but when I see their picture, I feel sadness and love for them. The mystery is this: I don’t know what kind of persons they were, if they had something more to live for than being a soldier, if they were a patriot or not, if their dying in this war really means what it is supposed to mean. I mourn the loss of their future. I love them for being mortal and made beautiful by immortality—I prayerfully see them entering the celestial sphere and being in a place where fear, death, tears and sighing are no more.

I have come to know the Marines who run the MA operation. Their deployments are only eight months, so I will come to know three different teams and their chaplains. No one can be assigned to this work nor compelled to remain. One must volunteer for this work. They remain separate from other units and are often treated as bearers of “bad luck” should another Marine or soldier come into contact with one. So, they keep a rather closed community. They work hard and their chaplain often has sessions with them discussing what they have dealt with. The purpose of this is to help them to learn a level of detachment. This way they don’t let their emotions get out of hand should they find a wallet with children’s pictures in them or a wedding ring or some other item that might have emotional significance.

Sleepwaling and other tales of life during wartime Part II

2005-10-06T05:28:00.000-07:00

The memorial service we held for SGT Pierre Raymond was a difficult one. SGT Raymond was a replacement soldier from MA who wasn’t even on the ground with us for three days before he was struck by a mortar attack at Ramadi. There was a whole lot of grappling with the randomness of such a loss. We hadn’t even had the chance to get to know him. One of the soldiers I have come to know well SPC Taylor, an irrepressible man from TN who is full of colorful stories and good humor. He has been fighting a weight problem here, but is always laughs back as we try to keep him away from the ice cream freezer. “Taylor, put down the ice cream and step away from the freezer!” Back home he works as a pest exterminator and is highly active in his Baptist church. He describes himself as a “Saved exterminator.” One day the Command Sergeant Major overheard Taylor singing to himself in the chapel. Apparently he was very talented and trained as a singer, but didn’t want anyone to know. I coached him a bit on singing Danny Boy. He did an excellent job and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. In fact, he received a coin from the BCT XO and his self esteem has gone up a few notches.

Around every corner and every day I learn something more about my fellow comrades. One evening we started a prayer group. Only one other soldier than Hargrave and myself showed up. He was a young LT. He spent the time giving his “testimony” to us. He had grown up in an abusive home in a hard neighborhood. Eventually he was part of the Fresh Air Fund program. The host parents loved him so much that they wanted him back every summer. He has since earned a master’s degree and is a husband and father. He works in a corrections institution and wants to give back in any way he can.

I have had to visit a young female soldier in the middle of the night who was given a Red Cross message that her step brother, with whom she had been very close, was killed in an auto accident back home. She was heartbroken, but also had the jaded attitude of someone who had known a great deal of loss. Her family story was one of several recent losses. When I asked her to whom she felt closest, she mentioned an uncle who was in an infantry unit in a nearby camp. Shortly after she left for home, we received notice that he was killed in a roadside attack. I later learned that he was one of the five flag draped coffins that I prayed over. I think of her often and the difficulty it will be to reinvest her self in others. Why bother to trust anyone when they will likely die on you?

In spite of the negative events here or the ones that we learn about from back home, there is a good spirit about the camp. We try to provide a regular week of events in the chapel. We have a “Band of Brothers” series on Mondays; Tuesdays is bible study; Wednesday is prayer service; Thursday is our book club (Purpose Drive Life); Friday is movie night. The choir usually meets twice a week. We’ve had all sorts of special talent on Sundays including SPC Taylor. This week a classically trained LT will sing The Lord’s Prayer for us. Our bible study is just wrapping up with Job. We’ve had some excellent discussions on suffering and the problem of evil. We’ve even had moments of laughter in reading some of the sarcasm that drips off the pages when Job responds to his “comforters.” In worship I try to be as broad in reaching this diverse group. We sing some old hymns then the gospel choir takes over. Since we are mostly PA types who mostly come from some type of liturgical background (a few evangelical types), I try to be sensitive to our TN contingent and give them opportunities to lead.

I have been receiving many packages. I have not had a chance to thank everyone as of yet. Most of the goods go directly into the chapel or the mess hall to share with the other soldiers. The generosity from back home and the generosity among the soldiers is inspiring. Often I find boxes upon boxes left at the chapel door of many fine survival items and “tons” of candy. Individuals could choose to hoard these for them selves, but they don’t. They have an impulse to share freely.

The counseling load is steady. I have been dealing with everything from soldiers who are experiencing nightmares to simple issues of adjustment. Most of these soldiers are experiencing some degree of anxiety. It is usually very easy to listen and “just be there.” At times I have even had groups of soldiers in my office who want to know how to best handle an issue of “unfair leadership.” Often I feel the satisfaction of having helped. Sometimes I feel the doubt of one who realizes some of these issues are beyond immediate control and it may be a matter for God, time, or being in a new situation.

Below is a reflection for a battalion newsletter contribution:

Embracing Dignity

War has to do with suffering. Not only the suffering inflicted upon us by our enemies, and the suffering we inflict, but also about the suffering that is a product of war that ripples out in all directions affecting the guilty and innocent alike. Additionally, as soldiers, we are still part of a family system that can be in various states of health and well being.

When a Red Cross message comes in the middle of a mission that requires an already large amount of effort, it can come as a huge blow. The news of a parent’s death, a brother’s tragic accident, a wife’s problem in giving birth, a relative entering hospice care are all life altering events that require a great deal of attention and energy. How a soldier and their families navigate through these events can make a real difference.

One thing that is a constant blessing to me as a chaplain is learning about an individual’s ability to find meaning and dignity within circumstances that are less than happy. Someone said, “If life is full of suffering, life is also full of people who rise above it.” Recently, I visited a soldier whose marriage was in jeopardy. The soldier’s section sergeant reported to me that the soldier was “having a tough time” and was seen crying. This otherwise squared away soldier was trying to deal with some of the pieces of his life. I stopped by his hut where he was living with a few other members of his team.

On his wall were pictures of his family including one of his newly reacquainted father. Other pictures included siblings, friends and, of course several of him with his wife. I asked if I could spend a few moments with him. The soldier said, “Of course.” And then I asked the soldier if he wanted to go someplace else where we could speak privately. The soldier said “Chaplain, these other soldiers are like brothers to me…they are family. They know all about this.” I was moved by this soldiers’ trust in his brothers and just as much by the fact that his brothers supported him in his time of need. The feeling in the hut as the other soldiers went about their business and down time was one of familiarity and trust, a place where many would be comfortable in knowing that they belonged.

Heroes wear ribbons, but those who trust in the goodness around them even in times of difficulty wear a robe of dignity.

Sleepwalking and other tales of life during wartime Part I

2005-09-16T21:53:00.000-07:00

Recently, one evening I asked Hargrave if he wanted to watch a movie with me. We've gone through a slew of films together, mostly action and adventure, some comedies, the guilty pleasures of the Soprano's and the occasional thoughtful film like Hotel Rawanda. As he was sitting next to me cleaning his weapon, he kept dropping his cleaning tools and eventually the M-16 fell to the floor. He picked it up again and started cleaning it. I asked him if everything was ok. He looked exhausted and I encouraged him to go lie down. He literally staggered from his seat to the cot, but picked up the weapon again and continued to clean it and drop his tools. I told him that I was going to bed. Eventually, he got back up and continued to watch the movie. The next day when I asked him how he was doing, he had no recollection of the events of the prior evening. A few nights later he walked the 100m or so from his hooch to my office at about 3AM and woke me up and made several comments about looking for some keys or something very mundane like that. The next week a SGT from the signal company found him in his PT uniform in stocking feet at 0430 AM dusting off the top of a large air conditioning unit quite a distance away from his hooch. The SGT took Hargrave back and reported the incident to me. Of course, the sleepwalking incident made news all around the camp.

This bit of news was apparently interesting to a CPT who decided to bring it up out of context during a leadership meeting. I surprised myself by respectfully telling him that it was inappropriate to do so. I let him know that I already referred SPC H to the doctor and that this was really a command issue which was out of his lane. Truth be told, sleepwalking is a safety issue, but more so for front line soldiers. Hargrave spent the week sleeping in my quarters. Eventually we talked and he stated that what was stressing him has passed. From the little I know and have read, sleepwalking episodes can come up and then suddenly never happen again. Hargrave is sleeping back in his hooch and seems very "on" these days. I am very fortunate to have him. If I were to lose him, the ministry would be greatly hampered. I praise him as often as is realistic and let others know how valuable he is to the ministry. On occasion we make jokes about sleepwalking as our way to be subversive and get others to lighten up.

A few days later we had another "angel" to attend to and the following evening we went to say goodbye to CH Rivera at Mortuary Affairs. He and the Marines who staffed the MA were quickly ending their tour. The new team had come in. All of them are volunteers for this assignment and are allowed to bow out at any time. The Marines will find new work for them no questions asked. I was introduced to the new team and briefly addressed them and thanked them for taking on such serious work. Most of these young men listened attentively. Marines are very deferential toward their leaders something not always seen in the Army. A female Navy corpsman approached me and told me that she had lost everything back home in MS due to Katrina and that she was looking to have her service extended so that she could at least have a job. The Marine goodbye gathering included a pig roast, which was excellent. This was also a stimulating social event. One Marine LT was very bright. We exchanged ideas about a recent article written about the slow disintegration/evolution of the Y chromosome (recent news). A middle aged Marine and I talk about some of his favorite British comedies and SCI FI on PBS.

The gospel choir continues to amaze the worship goers. The choir is a racially mixed group with energy and talent. They are usually the highlight for the otherwise traditional Service of the Word that I usually offer. The choir is lead by a black female soldier who is the daughter of a minister. She stutters when she talks, but shows great joy when she is singing. This choir is among the most spirited I have encountered. I guess this is so because there is a sense of going through the work and hardships together. They have approached me about preparing a Christmas play. I said "of course." I will have to do a little research to find the right one.

As part of the war to "win the hearts and minds of the people" we gathered boxes upon boxes of school supplies that had yet to be distributed by the previous unit. We took the time to inventory the dozens of boxes of crayons, coloring books, pencils, sharpeners, pens, construction paper, etc. and passed it on to a Marine Civil Affairs Unit for distribution. We also collected bags upon bags of stuffed animals. These we saved for the possibility of distributing personally. The time has to be right, however, and the risk has to be reasonably low. This is not something I expect in the near future, given the recent events.

The Angels

2005-08-28T09:10:00.000-07:00

I usually have very little difficulty sleeping. Every once in a while, after I’ve gotten up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom I will drum my fingers on the mattress to lull me back to sleep. Or sometimes I will let my curiosity get to me and I will turn on the television. Tuesday night, I turned on the TV around 0100 AM and then turned it off again. I was still unusually restless and then the knock on my door came. “Sir?!” “Yes!” “We have an angel.” Angels are what we call our fallen soldiers. This soldier came from one of our attached units.

SPC Hargrave retrieved a vehicle while I put on my gear. Due to the fact that we keep light discipline on base, the ride over was dark and dusty. It’s a little difficult to see some of the dirt road turns as well partly because of the dark and partly because of the limited visibility the humvees have. Mortuary Affairs is located in an old concrete hangar. It is run by the Marines. It is one of the very few buildings on post that have exterior lights. When its lights are on, it is for the purpose that they can be easily located for those who have business there. In the day one can read from far away the sandbags that have been placed on the roof to outline the words “No One Left Behind.”

I entered the door and was greeted by a Marine who showed me the way to the chaplain’s office. Chaplain Rivera, a U.S. Navy chaplain is assigned to Mortuary Affairs. He takes care of all the Marine casualties that come through and the MA team members. Unit chaplains come in for the Army so that we can “take care of our own.” It is partly a matter of duty and continuity of pastoral care. The fallen soldier or “angel” was from our brigade, but it is too dangerous for chaplains at other bases to make the trip down so I go on behalf of all the units in the brigade.

CH Rivera, SPC Hargrave and I spent a few minutes together in his office before we were told that the team was ready for me. On the floor in front of me was a box draped with an American flag. Around the coffin gathered about a dozen Marines at a slight distance. I read Psalm 139 and a short prayer for fallen soldiers. Even though I had done many funeral services, I was a bit shaky doing all this. It seemed very intimate and more “real” than before. It must have been that I understood that this was another man who also wore the uniform and that the only real difference between us at the moment was I was standing and he was in a box going home.

I was visited an angel of a different sort a few days later. He came in the form of an infantry soldier (a sergeant) who was part of a unit that got caught in an ambush at a hardend structure. He was one of at least five soldiers who had to be evacuated. He had no outward injuries other than a likely concussion. He also had been treated for smoke inhalation. What he did have was some post traumatic stress. He was referred to me by an infantry captain.

He was about 6’1”, 200 lbs with brown hair, blue eyes, and a nose that had been broken from football or wrestling. He came from Pottsville, PA. His two greatest concerns were his one year old daughter and the men of his unit. As I attempted to assess how stressed he was, I saw that his thinking was very clear. However, he had some small ticks of rubbing his head and lightly rubbing his face. It may have been from the phantom feelings of debris or something else entirely. He also had some difficulty sleeping.

Since WWI the wisdom that has prevailed is that soldiers with combat stress do better when they have the chance to return to their unit as quickly as possible. That’s what he wanted. And he was a few days away from leave when he would get to go home and see his child. He had been separated from his wife who also has made a career of the service. There was something very solid about this man. He was part of a world so very different from my own. He seemed duty bound and yet already had the kind of eyes that have known suffering. I wanted to touch him in order to reassure and comfort (as I sometimes do), but restrained because I felt that I might break a plane that would possibly suggest that I thought he belonged in a different world than the one he chose.

I told him that I would check with him the next day. I ran into the SGT at the internet café and we began to talk again. I asked about his sleep and made no mention of the ticks that I observed. He told me that he was still restless, but got some sleep during the day. As he rubbed his right arm, he adjusted his t-shirt sleeve to cover a tattoo (an act of modesty.) I told him that at this point I was far too curious and that he had to show me. He revealed a Jesus about 5” tall in a white gown with his arms outspread. Then he showed me his other arm, a tattoo of an upside down Satan in free fall. At that moment I remembered that I had seen an engraving tool in the supply sergeant’s room. I went and looked for it and brought back a small Celtic cross with his name engraved on it as a gift from his chaplain. I told him to put it in his pocket, but he chose to put it on his chain with his dog tags.

What I am discovering is that I am mostly sustained by the rich stories soldiers have to share with me. Many are difficult stories, but most reflect something eloquent about adversity and inner strength. I don’t think I would rather be anywhere else right now as crazy as that sounds.

The Mission to Habaniya

2005-08-15T09:04:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday I was given my first mission to go “outside the wire.” Basically, the mission was to visit Habaniya, an old Iraqi airstrip with large hangars, and several beat up buildings. The purpose of the mission was to visit our Delta company (They prefer to be called 779th, because they are mostly a TN unit that is attached to us.) Delta Co. is a maintenance company run by a short female captain with a heavy Tennessee draw. The Commander sent me on this mission to basically assess morale among the soldiers.

Preparing to leave the wire takes work, paperwork, that is. All trips outside the wire must be in a convoy of no fewer than two vehicles. Originally, I was going to catch a ride with a Logpac (supply line) so as to make the trip as easy as possible. On the day I was preparing to go, we learned that a five ton truck (with crew) and two soldiers from the signal corps needed to go to Habaniya, as well. This meant we could take our own (shared) vehicle and that I would be driving. When we approached one of the sergeants from whom we usually borrow a vehicle, she stated, “Oh, Habaniya...” with an ominous tone.

The two soldiers who accompanied me and SPC Hargrave had made this trip before. They sat in the back seats and the one sergeant handled the trip ticket through the window of the humvee when we approached the gate. I asked him directions. He pointed out the curving road ahead of us and then told me that a bridge followed. “Once you hit the bridge, give it all you got.” With that said, he instructed the occupants to charge their weapons. I hit the bridge and gave all that the engine had. We raced across it at 25-30 mph. (Remember these are up-armored humvees.) As I was driving, I looked to the left and right of me on to the highway below and further on through the reeds of the Euphrates in order to spot any snipers. As we came toward the end of the bridge, I asked the sergeant for more directions. He said straight ahead and in less than a minute we were at the gate to Habaniya. “Is that all it is?” “Yes.” The drive over must have taken less than two minutes! All joking aside, however, vehicles do sometimes shoot from the underpass and snipers from the reeds. The Euphrates where we are is no wider than some parts of the Conestoga Creek.

Camp Habaniya has grass and palm trees and experiences regular (almost daily) mortar attacks and small arms fire. Our camp is mostly barren and experiences infrequent mortar attacks. When we finally located our soldiers on the sprawling and deteriorating complex, they were really glad for our visit. A handful of soldier/college student types (male and female) were working on the engine of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle. They loved what they were doing because they were getting to do their MOS (job description) and “learning something new every day.” We went around and spoke with many others who seemed relatively happy with how their deployment was going. I appreciated their attitude and the way bonds seemed to be forming. I noticed one soldier who was not feeling all that well lying back on a chair. He had stomach cramps. Apparently everyone went through a touch of diarrhea, but no one was worse for wear. The next day at dinner, one of the soldiers approached me in the mess hall and said cheerfully, “Since you visited us we decided to visit you.”

The Freeport Flag Ladies

2005-08-07T10:45:00.000-07:00

Remembering…

The day we flew in order to deploy to Iraq, we left from MS and initially flew into Freeport, ME for a brief rest and refueling stop. As we deplaned we were greeted by at least a few dozen veterans, citizens and well-wishers. There were middle aged and older folk who seemed like the wholesome New Englander types. They stood in two rows flanking us as we came down the aisle and they all shook each of our hands. They made sure we did not miss any one. Some were wearing their legion hats, several ladies had American flag pins or red, white and blues ribbons on. I was moved by this display of support, not so much out of the patriotism, but simply that they cared about us. They cared enough to come out and greet us. It was clear that on many of the veterans faces that this was an act of duty and an acknowledgement that they had been “there” once. And what they faced and what we were about to face was real.

The Freeport Flag Ladies had a small USO operation where they had a bank of cell phones for free use so that soldiers could call home. In their little storefront they also had some cookies and other goodies for us. On the walls were photographs from soldiers on their deployments in various group poses some with military equipment and others without. You could tell that these folks had made an impression with soldiers and in turn soldiers showed their thanks by sending tributes of photographs and combat patches.

On the door was a picture of Stephen King’s home. Apparently his residence was in the vicinity and was a local attraction. Out in the center of the small terminal was a real estate display. There were many handsome Maine properties, some beach and lakefront. They were all a small fortune, but it was fun to imagine what life might be like in one of these storybook like homes. Our layover was long enough for soldiers to make phone calls, have a snack (maybe even a lobster roll), and look through the magazine rack. One soldier lamented out loud that “girlie” magazines were forbidden in Iraq. From Freeport we flew to Dublin, Ireland where they serve Guiness for breakfast. “Just black coffee, for me. Thank you.” I tried to say it like I really meant it.

For many soldiers the deprivation of access to alcohol and fleshly media was a bit surreal for them. We have been told that it is very important to respect the norms of the host nation and that violations will be severely punished. Also, from the Army’s point of view alcohol use affects readiness. In a hostile environment, one never knows when they will be asked to be “on.” The expectation is that one is stone sober when handling weapons. Some of the soldiers that have come up to me and declare that they are giving up smoking as well. The first thing I always ask is, “Why do you want to put more pressure on yourself?” Often one will answer that they weren’t feeling that great smoking anyway. At that point I congratulate them and tell them that they have my full support.

Now that we are here, I am getting into a regular routine with almost all aspects of my life. Military institutions recognize that humans in order to feel secure need a routine and a degree of discipline. Aside from minor inconveniences of mindless bureaucracy and the occasional a**hole (obstructionist), what I am experiencing here at this place and time is mostly good. And a lot of it. Today, I watched Platoon on my computer. In the movie, Charlie Sheen’s character says something to the effect that soldiers are often viewed as the throwaways in society. They are called “grunts,” but when you want something done you know that you can count on them because they know what it’s like to deal with adversity and not complain about it. Thank God for grunts. They are beautiful in ways that others often miss. I know I am a soldier every time I learn of a loss of one. I pay close attention because I feel for soldiers. I know for certain a soldier would never accept or want pity, but when I see the photograph of a dead soldier I see someone who strove with God and Man. And I see something beautiful that has been lost.

Send Me, Lord

2005-08-02T05:41:00.000-07:00

I wrote the following piece for the August battalion newsletter:

As our days at Camp Beuhring in Kuwait were coming to a close, many of us were beginning to receive our assignments to either go by convoy or to fly. There were mixed emotions for many because this was the first time that they would be entering hostile territory. As the serials for the convoys lined up in the staging areas, Chaplain Assistant SPC Andre Hargrave and I went from vehicle to vehicle to talk and pray with soldiers. Many were very optimistic and ready for the three day trek to Camp Taqaddum near Ramadi. A number of soldiers said, “I am finally getting to do what I came here to do.” These were confident souls who have trusted their training and were more than ready for the “clock to start ticking” (so that the time to go back home would come).

Our Commander, LTC Glen Nissley lead the convoy to its destination. When I spoke with him about his decision to convoy rather than fly, he stated that it was important for soldiers to know that leaders are willing to “lead the way.” It is critical for soldiers as well as family members to be able to see meaning in the call to service. When one says, “Send me” they may be responding to something so deep that they cannot name it, but know that their gut is telling them it is what I must do. Saying “Send me” can be a dangerous act.

There is much about wars that are dangerous and devoid of any meaning. But many soldiers speak of the bonds with their unit members and “buddies” as something very sacred and full of meaning. When one accepts the call to service, one is not necessarily going it alone. Often there are others who go before us and beside us. We draw courage and inspiration from those around us. The 228th FSB is full of soldiers who said at sometime and someplace, “Send me.” I can see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices and I witness it in their actions every day.

UCC Chaplains

2005-07-24T06:22:00.000-07:00

UCC Chaplains
Originally uploaded by greek64.

I am pictured here with CH (LTC) Charles Purinton of VTANG 109 INF. It is an amazing coincidence that two UCC chaplains would be in the same brigade. We are so few. The other chaplains in the brigade include a Roman Catholic, 2 Presbyterians (I think) an LDS, and a Methodist.

Iraqi Barbers

2005-07-24T06:19:00.000-07:00

Iraqi Barbers
Originally uploaded by greek64.

Most of the Iraqi barbers on post are very careful, gentle and methodical. They take their time and give the client a neck and upper back massage!

Prayers and Pics

2005-07-24T05:24:00.000-07:00

These are two prayers that I wrote for the occassions of leaving Camp Buehring, Kuwait and for our Transfer of Authority ceremony. Attached are several photos from recent events and experiences.

Prayer for Sending Forth:

Almighty and Merciful God,
In whom we live and move and have our being.
Your Holy name we glorify, for you are the
Author of Life, source of all strength and wisdom.
You are the lover of justice and bring all peoples
and nations to your reckoning.

We gather as American Soldiers at this place and time
Who are about to depart on a mission in which we
Will face danger from the enemy.

Some of us are anxious and apprehensive.
Focus our minds, strengthen our resolve,
And make our spirits steady and alert.

We lay at your feet all our burdens and cares
Of situations beyond this place and trust in
Your presence among those whom we love
And from whom we are now separated.

Forgive us of our faults and sins, known and unknown.
And help us to know the joy of your salvation in
All times and places.

We are the sons and daughters whom you have created
And ask that you strongly be present with us as we go
Forward from this place to do the work that has been
Placed before us. Shield us by the power of your mighty
Arms.

Remind us that you have won the victory over all things
Including death and hell itself. And you forevermore
Reign in glory. Amen.

Transfer of Authority Ceremony Invocation

Almighty and Merciful God, you have been
Our strength in this time of war and insecurity.
We thank you for your guiding presence among
Our soldiers and leaders.

We ask you that you bless our efforts in bringing
Stability to the Iraqi people who are in crisis and
Are seeking a better future.

As we soldiers meet on this field to change command
May the 2nd Forward Support Battalion look back
Upon the memories of their tour here as being worthy.
Assuage any remembrance of hurtful ties and lead them
According to your will.

As the 228th Forward Support Battalion assumes responsibility here,
Give us perseverance, wisdom and strength. Be with us as a fortress
In the days ahead. Protect us by your mighty arm and grant us success.
Amen.

Benediction

Now go in peace. Serve the Lord secure in the knowledge of
His power to save. May the Lord touch you with a wind
And keep you strong. Godspeed until we meet again. Amen.

Snail Mail 007 style

2005-07-14T12:35:00.000-07:00

Due to security purposes, I will send my snail mail address to individuals rather than publish it here on the blog. We all keep a "burn box" and destroy any mail or items with addresses on them. There even have been instances of insurgents and terrorists sending mail to soldiers' families. So we are vigilant in this respect. So, my address information given on "a need to know basis." I admit that I get a kick saying that. I always wanted to be more clandestine. I just didn't think I'd have to go to Iraq to achieve this...

The Cloud of Mosquitoes

2005-07-14T04:28:00.000-07:00

Remembering...

After the ten day block leave (including travel time), I flew to Gulfport, MS in order to get back to Camp Shelby. My connecting flight was through Dallas. When I arrived in Gulfport I began to see all the familiar military. I had mixed feelings, but for the most part it was good and within moments I gladly resumed my role as their chaplain. I greeted the soldiers warmly and asked many about their time away. Some shared stories of packed itineraries taking off with their families to various destinations. Others told me how it was good to spend down time just lying around and catching up on rest. After waiting for a while, we were told it would be another hour or so until a van arrived to pick us up. One sergeant apparently met a Navy serviceman who was willing to offer rides in his pickup truck. “Over here, chaplain. We have a seat for you.” So, I schlepped two heavily packed duffle bags, a hand bag, a rucksack, a laptop case, and a “ditty” bag over to where his pickup was parked. I had the most baggage. (As we prepared to leave Shelby we were instructed to “take everything” with us. I left a locked trunk behind, but still carried most of my equipment back to PA. I initially went down with far more than I needed and then the Army kept issuing things that weren’t really needed for the deployment and finally issued some of the things there were.)

When I first arrived at Camp Shelby back in April, I was initially assigned to the Replacement Unit until those of us just reporting in were processed and received “Go’s” on our Common Task Training Stations--CTT (Everything from calling in Medevac to throwing grenades.) Eventually, I was assigned temporary quarters, but when I went to look over the situation what I found was an overcrowded barracks at an even more desolate end of the camp. I decided to go back and squat at the Replacement Unit officer’s barracks until someone decided to kick me out. For a number of days I was being hounded by some SSG to get packed and going. My reply was that I there wasn’t any room for me in my regular unit housing. (This was accurate according to my intelligence!) Eventually, they completely forgot that I was there to the point when I went to check out they couldn’t find any record of me even being there…) So, when block leave was over and it was time to go back to our assigned barracks, I went back to the Replacement Unit where I was very comfortable. Yes, my housing was non-air conditioned and over a half mile away on foot in the sweltering Mississippi heat, but it was pleasant, quiet and comfortable until…

One morning I woke up with what I thought was a pimple on face. I didn’t pay it any heed and just noted that I had a small break out. The next afternoon I decided that it was time for a mid afternoon nap. Naps are hard to avoid when the weather is so oppressive. So I took my shirt off, took book in hand and lie down on the wrinkled and damp sheets to enjoy my down time. Grogginess had its way with me within minutes and I was drifting away until I felt bites on my chest and arm. I made note of the problem and covered myself with a sheet for the rest of the nap. I reported back to the unit in the late afternoon, had dinner and came back to the barracks in the dark. I put some repellent on and hit the sack. The next thing I remember was grabbing my pillow and trekking the half mile back to the chapel and lying on a van bench. I thought I was safe in the air-conditioned chapel, but I made the mistake of lying down right under a window that was cracked open for ventilation. The nasty blood suckers attacked me here too. (Before I left on block leave there hadn’t been one mosquito. I was rather amazed because the lush environment is perfect for mosquitoes. They must have hatched while I was on block leave.)

The next day I decided to do some research on the little miscreants. According to the latest science, it is true that mosquitoes prefer some individuals over others. Researchers have found that there are some compounds in our blood that is attractive to mosquitoes. The compound apparently has to do with cholesterol regulation. Also, mosquitoes find humans by the carbon dioxide that we give off during respiration. Some mosquitoes can sense a human target for a blood meal as far as forty miles away!

The next few nights I used the Army’s permetherin spray all over my van bench and applied the standard repellant and made sure the chapel window was closed. Some soldiers were curious why I was sleeping in our make-shift chapel. I told them that it wasn’t because I was trying to become more holy, I was run out of my barracks by the cloud of mosquitoes. As a child I had be terrorized by the little SOB's. In Greece we would buy several coils of "Katol" and burn them around me at nightime as if I were at my own funeral. I would wake up at night or the next morning finding out that no one else in my family was afflicted. I'd walk around with big welts from the reaction that my body had to their feasts. I'd scratch until bleeding. I'd put on salves and creams and ointments. As an adult, I've learned to ignore them and restrain my self as much as possible. At Shelby some soldiers commiserated showing me their itchy bumps and scratches. God even connects us through the sharing of our minor miseries.

Camp Taqaddum

2005-07-10T10:12:00.000-07:00

Camp Taqaddum or “TQ” is the eastern most camp in our area of operation. We are at a former Iraqi air base near a lake in the Al Ramadi region. We are actually closer to Al Fallujah than we are to Ramadi. Apparently all the news during the past year about Fallujah was a matter of the military cleaning that city up. According to what I have been told, Fallujah is now quiet and it is actually Ramadi that has more activity. There are daily reports of IED’s and VBIED’s (vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices) every day. As a matter of fact, today when our Quick Response Force was patrolling the area toward Ramadi they had found that an insurgent had blown himself up in the road while trying to set up an IED.

The flight here from Kuwait took place at night. About 50 of us were crammed into the hot cabin of the C-130. It had been a long time since I have sweated so much even in this heat! Between the cramped space and the heat, I think I was a moment or two away from yelling, “Get me the hell out of here!” but I calmed myself with cool thoughts. I thought of Alaska and polar bears in the snow. It actually worked for me. We arrived at TQ at about 4AM. We had to unload our bags from trucks, plus help another group of soldiers with their bags. Some of the other soldiers were continuing with another flight to a post further west. We got on to hot, dusty busses and were dropped off about 15 minutes later in the dark night in what seemed the middle of nowhere.

TQ once had tents. A few have remained standing. The sandstorms have pounded through those, so the Marines and the current Army unit have built small huts that are slightly off the ground. Each hut and most other buildings (including the large chapel) are surrounded by high sand barriers. There have been mortar attacks here, but none has landed in the central areas of our part of the camp.

After being to wait until my housing was assigned, I decided to find the current chaplain to help me settle in. Last time I waited until assigned, I got last dibs on one of the “slums” back at Shelby, MS. I plan not to have others decide my fate in this current situation if there is anything I have to say about it. CH (CPT) Buffington is a younger man with the 2nd FSB. They were in Korea before being assigned to Iraq. It has been a long two years for them and they have been eager to see us. He is a warm Southern Baptist with a mostly counselor persona. His congregation at this morning’s worship was mostly African American. It is apparent that his unit values him. CH Buffington has given me some good advice for survival skills here at TQ. Part of CH Buffington’s duties here included work with the Marine’s Mortuary Affairs unit. Apparently, nearly all of our casualties pass through this camp. He has told me of some very difficult sights and the great care that goes into preparing bodies for shipment back to Dover, DE. He will introduce me to this unit in the next few days. After then they will call on me in the middle of the night to offer prayers over the war dead.

The morning before flying up, I visited with three serials from our unit that were preparing to convoy up to TQ. I went from vehicle to vehicle. Some were gun trucks, others were five tons, and others yet were Humvees loaded with soldiers and equipment set for a three day drive. As I walked about, small groups of soldiers approached me for time of prayer. One asked me to bless his rosary. Even the commanders requested that I offer prayer with them. I made it a point to climb up to any soldier who was posted as a gunner and check in with them. I would shake their hand and make small talk. I would ask how they were doing. Most were solidly ready for the exposure to danger ahead. A couple were a bit nervous, but not shaken. One leader was having a difficult time. She had been having some issues within her unit as it was. At least some of her NCO’s were showing concern. The convoy took nearly three days with very few rest stops to get from Kuwait to TQ. The soldiers including the Commander arrived a bit weary, but certainly glad to make it without incident. Eating with them in the mess hall was like a family reunion.

Now that I am close to being more settled, I will spend some time uploading photographs and recounting some of the experiences of the past couple of weeks.

In The Box: Live Fire and Hands Across the Desert

2005-06-20T14:22:00.000-07:00

The "Box" is a 1,000 square mile (the size of Rhode Island) area of desert in the middle of the Mojave that has been set apart for military purposes since before WWII. Up until recently the mock battles that took place at the National Training Center (NTC) were based on conventional warfare. Previously armies had territories which they had to defend, boundaries and phase lines on a linear battlefield. The battlefield which we were entering had been modified to reflect current operations. The Army has literally built little towns in this desert simulating Iraqi villages. We also had our own Forward Operating Bases (FOBS) behind a wire. Our troops ran patrol and security missions with cordon searches. We were often targets of insurgents either by IED's, suicide bombers, and ambushes.

The days in the FOB went fast even though bathing was a luxury. Most of the evenings were spent reacting to "mortar" fires by doning our body armor and walking over to the aid station to help with patients and offer pastoral care. Throughout the time there was a mix of notional and real patients. One young woman almost had her head crushed when the trap door of a 113 personnel transporter opened while she was standing under it. Luckily she only lost some teeth. A couple were forced up into her maxilla. When the Commander and I visited her in the hospital, her face was amazingly free of any marks. She was one very lucky young soldier. I told her how good she looked and we spent a few moments in prayer together.

SPC Hargrave and I were the only UMT to participate in live fire training. Basically, the point of our being part of the exercise was for practice during convoy operations. Due to the nature of the enemy and the war being fought, it is during convoy operations that we are currently most vulnerable. SPC Hargrave helped to "kill" a sniper that, so far, no other team has killed. I helped load ambulances and attend to the wounded any time we weren't the ones who were "killed." The reason we were targeted so often was because we were among the very few Humvees in the convoy. All the rest of the vehicles were much larger and more protected.

Whenever we weren't in action we were either sacked out because of the stifling heat or attending all sorts of meetings. The chaplain with whom I shared responsibility on the FOB (and who is a superior officer) just loved having regular pow-wows and offering critiques. I kept looking to see if there was an umbilical cord on me that the doc forgot to cut... The Army accomodates a wide variety of leadership styles. CH E has a wealth of experience and wisdom; it's just that he likes to dispense it spoonful by spoonful.

The Observer/Controllers who were working with us were truly excellent and encouraging. One was especially complimentary of me and SPC Hargrave. The OC's regularly followed us, gave coaching and critiques. At NTC, the OC's are hand selected and rotated every two years. It is considered an honored teaching position because one is working with soldiers who are about to deploy. In essence the teacher is making sure the soldiers are ready for combat and feel personally responsible that soldiers survive.

Several evenings I visited our "morgue" to see the "dead" and learn more about soldiers and the various companies missions. I would usually ask soldiers about their religious affliliation. If they did not claim one, I would often ask if they were baptised or taken to church as a child. Many responded "yes." I had more than a handfull of lapsed Roman Catholics. Sometimes the dead were forgotten in the morgue instead of being processed. I tried to help any way I could to speed up the process.

One day, a SSG assigned SPC Hargrave for a detail. Initially the SSG asked me whether he could assign the SPC to the detail. I said "yes," but then SPC Hargrave reminded me that the OC's had scheduled a review. I told the SSG that Hargrave would not be going. Politics occurred (I'll just leave it at that) and I found that I was on the short end of the stick. I decided as a means of protest that I would accompany a group of over 100 soldiers out to the desert to pick up trash (aka Hands Across the Desert) rather than show up for a ceremony to which I had been "invited." I think that the message was clearly sent that SPC Hargrave and I operate as a team. When we got back in the evening, everyone including my commander was especially nice to me. The benefit to me was that it showed that I was willing to go where the soldiers were. And I met and laughed with several. It was a really good day on many levels.

The porta-johns often had very colorful and often vulgar grafitti. I couldn't help myself. I would usually read it and laugh outloud if it wasn't downright hateful or degrading. One of my favorites that reflected just how clever soldiers are was "Lord Asherton cannot hold his liquor." I loved all the small ironies of this blurb.

Worship and Bible studies were meaningful. After we returned from the box, I held a Bible study and used two texts for meditation. One was Jacob wrestling with the angels and the other was Jesus' test in the desert. We spoke candidly about where we wrestle, how we've been wounded, and the nature of temptation. We also noted how angels minister to Jesus after his encounter with the devil in the desert.

Communion 19 June 05

2005-06-20T13:11:00.001-07:00

Communion 19 June 05
Originally uploaded by greek64.

Communion 19 June 05 close

2005-06-20T13:11:00.000-07:00

Communion 19 June 05 close
Originally uploaded by greek64.

Eucharistic Prayer 19 June 05

2005-06-20T13:10:00.000-07:00

Eucharistic Prayer 19 June 05
Originally uploaded by greek64.

CH (MAJ) Peter Lawson delivered the message the day after we returned from block leave. I served as celebrant for the communion service.

Mom & Dad June 05

2005-06-20T13:08:00.000-07:00

Mom & Dad June 05
Originally uploaded by greek64.

Mom was tearful as we said our goodbyes.

Sherman and Gunner

2005-06-20T13:06:00.000-07:00

Sherman and Gunner
Originally uploaded by greek64.

I spent part of my block leave with my favorite dogs...

Hot Water & Hot Desert

2005-06-05T10:28:00.000-07:00

The night before the convoy into the desert, we staged more than 120 vehicles. We slept next to our vehicles so that we could rise and leave early. It was a real treat to sleep under the stars. I slept the most soundly than I had in a while. In the morning I got behind the wheel of a Humvee with SGT Fitzgerald, a susinct man with a nasal voice, and my chaplain assistant SPC Hargrave. The vehicle belonged to SGM DeLorenzo

The fact that I was behind the wheel of this vehicle was a minor miracle. The day before this event, I almost did everything within my power to avoid going out in the desert with my unit and even considered resigning my commission. The Observer/Controllers (course trainers) for the chaplains had told us to secure our vehicles and show up and a pre training inspection. I had been told point blank by my commander that I was not to draw a vehicle. This was unusual since chaplains, by Army doctrine, are guaranteed transportation and that all six other unit ministry teams had drawn their vehicle. I had approached the commander on a least two other occasions to plead my case. When I didn’t get any satisfaction, I took the issue to the brigade chaplain. The chaplains as a group even had a conversation around the issue. No one could understand exactly where this was coming from. I was told that I could borrow a vehicle from the SGM anytime I wanted, but that I was not going to draw a personal vehicle.

I made arrangements with the SGM the night before the pre inspection to borrow a vehicle. I was told that I would have a vehicle at 0630. I woke up at 0500 and reminded detachment SGT Rowe that I needed a vehicle. He gave me the paperwork to the vehicle and told me that it was three rows back. SPC Hargrave and I searched back and forth up and down—no vehicle matching the number that I was given. At this point it was getting late and I was growing disgusted with feeling that we were being jerked around with this vehicle issue. I marched back into the tent and went up to the SGM and told him that I was tired of “this s---.” As we were loudly discussing the subject, our executive officer (XO), LTC Flipczak chimed in and asked what this was all about. He told me that there were no “designated vehicles” for the chaplain. I explained to him that I wasn’t seeking a designated vehicle, that I was seeking the vehicle that was promised to us for use that day. He started asking me why I even needed a vehicle. I explained that I had been required by the OC’s and that the Army Regulations explicitly guarantees the use of a vehicle for the chaplain. He said that the Army Regulations guaranteed that as a field grade officer he was entitled to personal sleeping quarters and that he was now sleeping with the enlisted and so much for Army regulations. To which I replied, “That is your problem, Sir.” We hadn’t had our first cup of coffee, before I had run-ins with a SSG, the SGM, and the XO. I was winning friends all over the place… The SGT went to search for our vehicle. I told SPC Hargrave that we were late and that we should just walk over. And we did…

aid convoy opps

2005-06-05T10:24:00.000-07:00

aid convoy opps
Originally uploaded by greek64.

I was the only one in the humvee that could render aid to three others...

aid convoy opps ii

2005-06-05T10:23:00.000-07:00

aid convoy opps ii
Originally uploaded by greek64.

I was the driver during several training exercises. Our vehicle seemed to be singled out each time as being ambushed. We got tired of being "injuried" and "killed" all the time.

aid convoy opps stretcher i

2005-06-05T10:22:00.000-07:00

aid convoy opps stretcher i
Originally uploaded by greek64.

Helping to carry another soldier to the AMBO.

aid convoy opps stretcher ii

2005-06-05T10:21:00.000-07:00

aid convoy opps stretcher ii
Originally uploaded by greek64.

Helping to carry a patient to the ambulance (AMBO).

aid station

2005-06-05T10:20:00.000-07:00

aid station
Originally uploaded by greek64.

Offering pastoral care to a notional head injury patient.

aid station back injury

2005-06-05T10:18:00.000-07:00

aid station back injury
Originally uploaded by greek64.

I am offering pastoral care for a soldier who "injuried" his back. (We had a mix of real and notional patients.)

convoy briefing

2005-06-05T09:53:00.000-07:00

convoy briefing
Originally uploaded by greek64.

SPC Hargrave gives a briefing before our convoy to a chaplain's meeting.

UMT NTC

2005-05-23T13:06:00.000-07:00

UMT NTC
Originally uploaded by greek64.

Attached is a photograph taken earlier today of me and SPC Andre Hargrave, Chaplain Assistant at the National Training Center at Ft. Irwin, CA. We work as a Unit Ministry Team (UMT) and I am the only member of the batallion (228 FSB) that has a permanent Personal Security Detail. I foresee many good experiences working together during this deployment to Iraq.

Entering the Desert

2005-05-12T08:42:00.000-07:00

In my last few days before leaving Camp Shelby for Ft. Irwin, CA (NTC) there were some other soldiers I met that were noteworthy. First of all, there was Bob. Bob is a man who is overly over 50 years of age. He is round and is missing some teeth. He is a sweet souled man who was told to report to Camp Shelby for deployment. When he stepped into the health screening area for the SRP, the staff took one look at him and told him to go back home. The sad thing was that Bob had is heart on deploying, so I met him when he was a little deflated. MAJ O (my eccentric barracks mate) was once his commander. He did a fine thing by going to the movies with Bob. The next day I met up with them at lunch. I arrived late and discovered that all the strawberries had been eaten. I briefly mentioned something about it when I sat down and got back up to go get some condiments. When I got back to the table Bob had placed three big fat strawberries on my plate. I thought Bob was an excellent example of a human being who in his own suffering still was sensitive to others….a walking sermon.

I haven’t mentioned MAJ O as much as I probably should. He is a bright, eccentric and quick witted man who has a good read on things. He keeps me laughing with his take on things. He also gave me the chutzpa to just stay in the transitional/replacement unit barracks and not go up to my assigned barracks that was packed to the gills. He is a single man in his late forties that continues to try to find the right woman. He is competent in his profession, but I think that he sometimes over thinks things and needs encouragement when it comes to personal decisions. Now that we are at FT Irwin he is working hard with his unit and I see him less.

Before I left Camp Shelby on the final evening before our departure, I decided to do laundry. In the laundry trailer, I struck up a conversation with a young soldier who seemed exceptionally bright. I quickly learned that he had been home schooled by a highly religious mother. He also mentioned that he tended to be a bit more quiet in his unit because they didn’t quite understand him. He told me that he had been studying philosophy, but wasn’t sure that was the way he was going to graduate. We talked a bit about some history of philosophy type stuff. He admitted that he didn’t expect a chaplain to be as worldly as myself. He mentioned that he usually avoided them because they tended to proselytize and be a bit pollyana. I told him my first theological plank was if there wasn’t a God there should be one. And that when someone tells me that they don’t believe in God, I ask them to tell me about the God that they don’t believe in and that chances were that I did not believe in that God either. He tested me when he asked if I had ever heard of Anton LaVey, I said that I recognized the name but couldn’t place the personage. He reminded me that Anton LaVey was the writer of the Satanic Bible. I told him that I knew a little about Satanism and that what most people think of as the Satanic church is a pretty modern construct. I also told him that I knew that Satanism wasn’t the worship of evil. He said that Satanism is mostly about putting oneself first. I told him that the problem with putting oneself first is that it builds hatred toward the weak and treating others as objects. He agreed and told me that he wasn’t a Satanist anyway. He told me in not so many words that the God his mother presented to him wasn’t one that he cared for. I told him that it was OK and that resenting his Mom had more to do with her and less with God. He knew that. I told him to keep in touch with me because I found him to have a hungry mind.

When it came time to leave for FT Irwin a battalion of soldiers stood in formation in the dark and roll was called. When one name was called a young man with a Boston accent yelled “We’re all gonna die!” There was nervous laughter. I heard that later the soldier was confronted by his peers for his poor choice in humor. It took a whole tractor trailer to move all our sea bags and rucksacks. We boarded four school buses and then we went to a processing center where we were weighed and ID’s and dog tags were checked. From there we boarded three tour buses where we took an hour’s long drive to Gulfport, MS to the Trent Lott (ugh!) Army National Guard Post. We arrived after midnight and slept on the cold concrete floor for four hours. Well, it wasn’t consistent sleep. As a matter of fact at one point in the middle of the night when it got really cold a couple dozen soldiers got up around the same time and huddled in the break room. Some soldiers slept seated, others on lined up chairs, and some including me were on the floor.

The flight to NTC was comfortable. We flew on a commercial airliner that treated us to leather seats and a couple of movies. We arrived early in the day. The bus ride to FT Irwin was about 45 minutes. As one drives through the desert on their way past the gate, there is a large rock formation that is painted with various division crests: Airborne, 3rd I.D., 1st Cavalry, and many more insignias were emblazoned on the rocks. It was partly impressive to me and partly saddening. I thought of how in some ways the painting on the rock was a prayer for permanence for some who passed through here and never came back.

The desert is beautiful. The landscape, the weather and even the light remind me a great deal of Greece. Our initial camp site is in a basin surrounded by hills and mountains a few miles out. The weather has been hot and dry in the day, and cold and windy in the evenings. There have been a few dust storms during the day. We live in very large and weathered circus tents that have been rented to NTC for $4 million a year. This is somewhat puzzling since there are dozens of small structures without walls that could be modified. In fact, I was told that years ago all soldiers stayed in these and slept on the ground.

All seven teams (chaplain and assistants) are here now. We’ve begun to coordinate our efforts as the brigade plans the mock battle. Apparently, this battle scenario will be non-linear reflecting the current situations in the world. There are many Observer/Controllers who set the rules, watch the action and give feedback to the leadership. It is now my fourth day here and we are receiving MILES equipment that is worn to detect laser beams as we’re shot at. We’ve also begun to wear our flack vests that contain heavy protective plates inside. Within a few days we will drive out into “the box” which is about 1,000 miles square (the size of Rhode Island) and begin the battle. I will be in a Forward Operating Base for most of the time, but will have some limited functions out in the field for training purposes.

On Sunday, I lead an evening service around the time the sun was setting. There were about 15 soldiers present from various Christian traditions. Instead of calling the service a General Protestant service, I named it an Interdenominational Service in hope of having lay contribution to the service. CH (LTC) Purinton was in attendance and could tell that he appreciated my efforts. He and my immediate supervising chaplain have been very supportive. SPC Hargrave has been an excellent assistant and very helpful. He had been looking forward to my arrival at Camp Shelby because he had been tasked with other things to do beside chaplain related responsibilities. He gets a little frustrated at the bureaucracy and some of the digs that come his way for a variety of reasons. We’re a good match and I sense that we will be good friends as well as a good team. It hasn’t been all roses integrating into the FSB, though. I think that this is partly due to the way the commander views the chaplaincy. LTC Z is new to this unit and had replaced LTC Niles, whom I met back in November. LTC Z is a junior high school teacher in civilian life who has earned an M.S. in Psychology. I believe he is a “gamesman” of sorts who likes to use the chaplain as an information gatherer and a “good cop.”

Camp Shelby: Eleven Days Out--Part II

2005-05-02T15:08:00.000-07:00

A Chaplain's Plate full of Army Personalities

The experiences here at Shelby are coming fast and furious. Partly it is due to my training schedule. (I am brushing up on some basic soldier skills as well as gaining “advanced” training for the chaplaincy.) Some of it is due to the fact that units are now packing for desert training at NTC. And plenty of the experiences are coming from the soldiers who have heard that the chaplain has arrived. I have had a steady stream of counseling sessions each with different themes and particular twists. Additionally, I have met a whole stage of characters. Many have the unique personalities that only the Army can draw.

So far, I have met one person that I immediately sensed was a true leader and an honest Christian. MAJ Harlow, a native of Mississippi with soft southern draw and manners was always ready to laugh or earnestly converse. He is an accomplished man who does survival races. He has a sibling who is a doctor and another who is a district attorney in a tiny town. We spoke for a number of hours about our own faith perspectives, how they were similar, how they were different. And we spoke of what nourished our faith. We prayed together like old friends. By the time the MAJ Harlow and his men left for Afghanistan, I felt like I was saying goodbye to someone dear to me. I was touched that he invited me to come to the chapel and pray for him and another soldier. The other soldier had recently had a brain tumor removed. Both sides of his skull had scars. He was a gentle man who showed gratitude for his life. As we were finishing up another person prayed for us. MAJ Harlow introduced him to me as the chaplain that retired from his unit. This chaplain was a simple country preacher who had combat experience in Viet Nam. We briefly talked and I asked him what he thought was the most important thing I should know about the chaplaincy. He was simple and direct. “Be with your soldiers.”

Of course, not all soldiers are like MAJ Harlow. I met another soldier, SPC S__ who had 18 years experience in the Marines. He and I were pared together on a land navigation course along with one more female specialist. When we began to plot our points and set our compasses so that we could go out to find them, he began to simply say “this is wrong” without offering any suggestions or showing willingness to try to persevere. At one point we got separated and we were both confronted by a sergeant course manager who stated that if we separated again, he would take us off the course. I felt frustrated in his presence and called him on his attitude. He then lectured me about his eighteen years of service and his three previous deployments and the fact that he had a B.S. in computer science. I told him that I respected his work, but felt that he was disrespecting my leadership. We hadn’t found even one point before three hour course was about to end. At that time and after his whining, I marched us up to the start point and asked that I be given a “No Go.” About a week later I did the same exercise with my chaplain assistant, SPC Andre Hargrave and we found all of our points.

My chaplain’s assistant is a squared away soldier and a licensed Baptist preacher. SPC Hargrave is an African-American man who is over 30 years old. He is competent, attentive and keeps a positive attitude. After briefly spending time with him, my intuitions were confirmed that we will do well together. He is a faithful man with a realistic perspective. He is able to see and laugh at some of the ironies and hoops of the military. Right now he is a little frustrated because the camp has been put on lock-down so many times, that he hasn’t had the opportunity to go send some money to his wife and child. This past Wednesday, we attended a prayer group together. There were soldiers from so many different traditions, but all of us spoke freely about our journeys of self-acceptance and God’s grace. SPC Hargrave was very supportive to those in need. He has pastoral sensitivity and respect for my training and leadership.

Another fine person that I met was a complete surprise to me. CH (LTC) Purinton, a UCC ordained chaplain from Vermont and holds some type of administrative posts that is connected to this deployment. He took me out to lunch and shared with me some of his anti-war activist journey during Viet-Nam. I knew that I had met the right person who would understand that the call to military chaplaincy was an odd turn for me. We talked about his and his wife’s interest in eastern healing methods. He is a calm and warm man with intellectual curiosity. Something in the back of my mind told me that CH Purinton and I will have some future dealings.

The other day I needed to complete two more Common Tasks. One of the tasks was to high and low crawl while under fire. Soldiers usually learn how to do this on with their weapon in tow. Since I did not have a weapon, I asked if there was something special I should do. The sergeant said, “No. You just won’t have a weapon.” At that moment a sergeant from Florida spoke up and said that he would protect me by shadowing him. So, there were three on the team. SGT Pask impressed me as ready and capable to handle assaults. He stated that he was part of a SWAT team in Tampa and that he would do anything for the Word.

I have had many counseling sessions already. There have been a wide variety of issues. I have had one soldier who went AWOL and who was suffering from emotional distress. He claimed that he belonged to a gang back in Philadelphia and that he had entered the Army because he was in fear for his life. He had brought his young family to Mississippi. They were living in motel along a strip near Camp Shelby. I have met a soldier who had been Active Duty who was very down and didn’t want to be a soldier anymore and was having suicidal thoughts. I have been working with a young man who applied as a Conscientious Objector who found out recently that it may take six months to process his application. This means that he will still have to go to Iraq with a gun in his hand. I spent time with a young man in tears whose recent bride will not talk to him on the phone other than saying she can only talk about it face to face. I have prayed with a woman soldier who is feeling isolated and vulnerable.

A small irony took place when I met SPC Schaeffer, a young man from Clearfield, PA who had converted from Protestantism to Orthodoxy. He had sought the path out himself. He was looking to speak with a chaplain who could connect him with Orthodox worship. On Saturday night, he and another soldier who grew up in an Orthodox-Catholic household and one more soldier who was interested went to an Easter Service in Biloxi. I helped to get them there. SP Schaeffer was interested that I knew so much about the services, iconography and hagiography. It’s likely that we will have more to talk about in country. I told him that some of the oldest Christian communities are in Iraq and if the climate allows, he might have an opportunity to go and worship with them. Amazingly, under Sadaam Christians were protected.

Right now I am happy in my work and in my day to day life here at Camp Shelby. Many of the soldiers are beautiful in their earnestness. One thing that seems to mark the American GI is his flexibility. They work hard and show resilience when things get tough. Just the other day the dates for the trip out to the National Training Center got moved up. Many have to leave tomorrow. They were told to pack up faster. They did. We’ve been on lock-down because of some missing sensitive items. They bear it in stride. The mix here is amazing. There are young men, men in their prime and men past their prime looking to contribute or have an adventure. The young women are determined and capable. I am where God wants me to be right now and I pray that my ministry among them is worthy in his eyes.

Camp Shelby: Eleven Days Out--Part I

2005-04-28T12:05:00.000-07:00

Camp Shelby is located about an hour north of Gulfport, MS (near Biloxi). It is a camp run strictly for the National Guard units from all over the U.S. that are preparing to deploy or that have returned from deployment. The grounds about the camp are very lush with many small pine trees, bushes, and occasionally one spots a magnolia tree. Most of the buildings are plain cinder block barracks. There is a military museum with a dozen or so helicopters, an attractive chapel, and an old home that has been converted into office space.

The experience here is the most “military-like” that I have had in terms of the variety of people and the activity level. At 5:30 AM there are scores of soldiers out beginning their physical training. Many of them are youthful and athletic, while others are older and paunchier who move with expressions of effort on their faces. From that point on in the day, in every direction one looks one sees soldiers performing a huge variety of duties or walking about. Some of the soldiers wear the classic green BDU’s (battle dress uniform), others are in their PT gear, and others yet are in Dessert Dress Uniforms (DSU) or the newly designed ASU’s. The ASU’s have small square pixels of a grayish green, moss, and tan. They are worn with tan nubuck-type boots. Some soldiers are loading items on to the backs of vehicles, many are standing with cell phones up to their ears, others are standing about waiting for shuttle rides and a few drive by in humvees while someone sits on top on a turret gun. It has been relatively easy to find my role in this hum of activity.

Since arrival, I have been staying in a barracks with several other young officers. I am currently housed in the Transition/Replacement Unit area. The unit to which I have been assigned has been here since January and there is currently no space for me that I know of. This actually is not a problem because I have other requirements to fulfill in the Soldier Readiness Program and attend a few more classes that build and refresh on some soldier skills. Soldier readiness includes vision, dental and audiology check ups, paperwork confirming a soldier’s security clearances, housing, and even confirming wills and powers of attorney. Additionally I’ve had at least four more shots (I had five back in PA) and will have to wait another ten days until I am able to receive the small pox vaccine. Apparently the method of vaccinating for small pox is to break the skin. Eventually the area scabs over, but in the meanwhile one must not touch it due to the live virus that is present and can be spread.

The Army was good about tracking my flight from Harrisburg into Gulfport. In my earnestness and anxiety, I packed nearly every piece of equipment that has been issued to me. Plus, I needed to bring a few extra books to support my ministry. All in all I had two duffle backs, a rucksack, a hand bag, a computer case, and a small trunk. I had to make three trips back to the terminal to gather my belongings. About an hour later I was picked up in a van by a specialist whose duty was to shuttle soldiers back and forth to Shelby. The first thing after he helped load my stuff, he asked me if I was hungry. I told him that I was (I hadn’t eaten since breakfast) and he asked me if I had any preferences. I spotted an Applebee’s and we were able to sit and relax for a bit before making our way toward Shelby.

The only task that I needed to complete before arriving was to send my tax returns. Talk about Southern hospitality; our waitress actually called to find out where the closest post office was. The scene at the post office was comical. I expected that since it was still right before dinnertime that the line would be short. The windows had closed and only a couple people were standing in front of a brand new and fully automated postal computer that weighed mailed and printed stamps. The woman in the front was waiting for the machine to print while an attendant stood next to the machine. The machine went on the fritz and for the next twenty minutes we stood there waiting for something to happen. I decided that I had finally waited enough and simply overloaded my letters and manila envelopes with stamps and dropped them into the slot. I believe that this might be the fifth year in a row that I have to pay my taxes by installments. My accountant told me that it is due to self employment tax. Sometimes it feels like trying to dig a hole in a lake of water.

Most of my time since my arrival has been spent in-processing. As I mentioned, my home for the time being is the Transition/Replacement unit. In-processing begins here. The first two days while I was here were spent in a room with approximately 15 other soldiers while we watched a series of briefings. We covered everything from our new status as Title 10 Active Duty soldiers to sexual harassment. The days went slowly. Luckily, I arrived about the same time as an acquaintance from the aviation brigade back in PA. He is a bright and very talkative Major who enjoys the ever present ironies of the Army. His unit called him only days before they wanted him down here. When he arrived, he discovered that they had no place for him to stay. Both he and I have been walking to the other end of the post (about 1.5 miles) to get to the cafeteria. Under the replacement unit we have been given passes to the Consolidated Dining Facility that serves three hot meals a day. The food has been very good and is rumored to be much better than that in our units. So, we both are willing to hang out here until it is certain that we have places to stay.

The use of cell phones has completely changed the landscape of what an Army post looks like. During clear days and evenings, one can look around the camp and see dozens of soldiers on their cell phones perched, standing and walking around. They appear to be wax people who have been set here to give the impression of activity. One evening, I followed suit and called a friend back home. I walked outside the barracks in the warm evening air and talked to a friend back home over my cell phone about some soldiers who had learned that they would be doing foot patrols in town in Ar Ramadi. I mentioned that the morale among these men was somber and then continued talking about my many other experiences since my arrival. A few moments later I was approached by a soldier in his forties with forlorn eyes and a southern draw. His manner was apologetic but earnest.

This is what I remember of our conversation:

Soldier: Are you OK, sir?
Me: Yes, I am doing well. How are you?
Soldier: We’re pretty concerned. Are you a chaplain?
Me: Yes, what is going on?
Soldier: Well we heard you talking over there and are concerned about you. Are you going to be OK?
Me: Yes, I should be fine.
Soldier: Have you gone on this type of mission before?
Me: No.
Soldier: Do you know where we’re going?
Me: Yes. We’re going to be around Ar Ramadi. I had heard things were once calm there, but now it is getting a bit hairy.
Soldier: We’re just worried about the mission and all the flying around. Do you know much about it? Will you be OK?
Me: I don’t know much about it. But, I’m sure I’ll be OK.
Soldier: Have you flown this kind of mission before?
Me: No. But I am part of an aviation battalion back in PA. I think we’ll be fine.
Soldier: I guess you haven’t been brief yet about the flying conditions.
Me: Well, no. I’m a chaplain and don’t get into a lot of details about flying missions.
Soldier: I thought you said that you were a chopper pilot.
Me: Chopper pilot?! No. Oh…I get it…I thought you ask me if I was a chaplain!

The next day I suggested to the brigade chaplain that post chaplain contact this unit to assist with some of the anxiety over the deployment.

Onward Christian Soldiers...

2005-04-12T17:19:00.000-07:00

Yes. We actually sang "Onward Christian Soldiers" at the chapel service the morning before the graduation ceremony. I was once told by a seminarian friend who couldn't stand Onward that IF a congregation sings it that they ought to sing it right--with gusto. And we did. There is something powerful about standing with a group of peers who you know would go the extra mile in their service to God and others. Yes, Onward is a "rouser" in lyrics and music but I think it is less about having the "right" image of God than feeling God's awesome strength. I have enjoyed singing "A Mighty Fortress" more than a couple of times. The words and music impart strength and a quickening of the spirit. We often must do a fine balancing act between the power to be and act and the need for humility in the face of the complexities of life. I think that this balancing act becomes a daily practice for a military chaplain. We are called to be men and women of God and examples of good soldiers. The Christian tradition has soldiers and spiritual warriors within it: St. George slaying the dragon. St. Ignatius of Loyola. St. Barbara died a martyr's death and is recognized as a patron saint of those who work with artillery. Even Zwingli in the Reformed tradition knew the battlefield. It can be said that Martin Luther King, Jr. was a spiritual warrior of a higher order that called people to resist by peaceful means. Martin of Tours, a soldier gave his cloak to a beggar.

Some acquaintances, friends and church members sometimes wonder and ask about what called and motivated me toward this work. It is as complex as the experiences that have made me who I am and as simple as the desire to do something with dignity and meaning. I don't see anything extraordinary in what I am doing and can think of at least a handful of others who might be better at it. But, I believe that my call has a lot to do with wanting to be where I might be most useful to others. I believe that I can be with others in their times of grief, because I am familiar with its contours. I believe that in the military I am learning things about myself that I hadn't seen before, such as the ability to be more flexible in the face of difficulties and that there is genuinely strength in diversity. I have learned that I often great respect and admiration for individuals who are so very different than I am. And that common ground is a matter of being willing to be open to common experience. One doesn't even have to "talk about it" and figure it out. Common experience and especially common experience in adversity reveal truth if not being truth in themselves. One day when I met up with a professor friend of mine and began to reveal doubts about my path said, "Yes. But do you look good in the uniform? That's what really matters." I howled with laughter. And told him that quickly put things back into perspective.

The week prior to graduation was filled with some winding down events and programs. One of the highlights for most of my Protestant colleagues was the arrival of wives and other family members. The new officers wives were briefed in an adjacent room and were given some survival skills and regular refreshments. Most of them were young, attractive and upbeat. Many of them had teaching or nursing experience in common. One woman with a quick wit and a curious mind was the Director for Special Education in her school district. I met at least a couple of wives who just by their presence gave me more insight into their husband. For some it was obvious that the couples drew much strength from being with each other.

Visitors to our classroom during the last week included Navy and Air Force chaplains. We spent time discussing how chaplains work together during joint operations. We had a couple of highly motivated "rah, rah" recruiters stop by and present some of the latest figures in recruiting and what it means specifically for the chaplaincy. As individuals are entering seminary later and later in life, the chaplaincy has had to adjust the age caps. Right now, there are many Catholic chaplains who are entering at far beyond 40. Many Protestants are close to 40. Other briefings included a presentation of how the branch is supported by Non-commissioned Officers and what our responsibilities are to their education, training and promotion. For those of you who don't know it, the military is run by the Army's middle management: the NCO's.

We spent a few afternoons simply preparing for graduation. We had songs to learn, facing movements to practice, and making sure that the pins and ribbons on our uniforms were correct. I finally earned my first ribbons. These were ones everyone gets just for showing up: The Global War on Terrorism ribbon, The Army Service ribbon, and The National defense Service Medal which shares an odd similarity to the Rainbow Flag. At least I wasn't going into the graduation dinner devoid of ribbons. I had been feeling self conscious around all the peacock officers who have all sorts of doo-dads pinned on themselves. Additionally, the graduating Chaplains (versus graduating Staff Specialists) all received chaplain's kits. The Army has a kit for each religion. The Protestant kit can be used for Catholics because it has a reversible cross/crucifix and a pyx (a small silver box) for wafers and an oil stock for anointing. I believe that the Catholics have their own specified kit as do the Orthodox. The Orthodox kit is packed with all the necessary accoutrements, as are Jewish (complete with Seder items), Hindu and Buddhist. Chaplains were all given black and white reversible stoles with the seal of the United States embroidered in gold thread. This item will mostly be used for military funerals.

Mom and my dear friend Bonnie (A former choir director who saw me through my combat training at a previous congregation in another Conference.) arrived at the graduation dinner right on time as the receiving line was about to begin. Their adventure started in Reading and Lancaster to Philadelphia and then a flight to Raleigh, NC. From there they drove 3.5 hours to Columbia. It was moving for me to have Mom there because I knew it would fill her with some pride and help put her mind at ease for the mission I have undertaken. We went through the receiving line and met General Hicks, the Chief of Chaplains. Gen. Hicks entered as an enlisted soldier about 35 years ago. He was very warm and gentle. The evening included many introductions of new friends and colleagues. We had various presentations to Small Group Leaders (chaplain trainers) and NCO's who made the program memorable. We even presented lampoonish skits. A brilliant one was presented by first platoon with the direction of CH (1LT) Jonathan Fisher who had voice and drama training. (Jonathan, a GA Guardsman was promoted from Staff Specialist to Chaplain during the last week. He, like most Guard Chaplains are being used for Iraq right of way.) They based their skit on how to cut a pizza and used the various personalities to do retakes of the same scene. The room was in an uproar of laughter because the impersonations were near perfect. My mom was laughing without having any experience of the real individuals; so it translated well.

The evening culminated with a pinning ceremony for all the chaplains. We all stood around the ball room in our dress blues and Class A's as the higher officers pinned us with the Chaplain Branch Crest. There was an immense amount of pride present in the room of over 200 service persons, families and guests. It was very silent and solemn. The color guard shortly thereafter retrieved the colors and slowly exited the room as the sergeant lead the way with an outstretched saber.

The next day started early. I found that 6:50 A.M. was a bit too early even though we were told to be present. We mostly waited around until 7:40 A.M. when we conducted one last rehearsal. (I think.) Anyway, chapel began at 8 A.M. and CH (MAJ) Brown, our Course Leader gave a solid homily on having humility and was peppered with good humor. During the break between chapel service and the graduation ceremony, I had the opportunity to introduce Mom and Bonnie to CH (1LT) Louis Kaminski, a Catholic Priest from the Scranton area. Fr. Louis and I are heading to Iraq with the same brigade. He will cover a wide area because of the lack of priests as chaplains. (Only 8% of the chaplaincy is Catholic, while 25% of the Army is Catholic.) Mom, of course, told Fr. Louis to look after me.

Our graduation ceremony was short and sweet. CH Hicks gave the graduation speech. It mostly was based on his life story and some important advice to "be who you are and live out your calling." In other words, pay less attention in trying to "make it" in the Army and more in taking care of soldiers. During one point in his speech he inserted a quote from John Wayne. I think it had to do with courage. Bonnie later mentioned that there would have been better persons to quote for the military given that John Wayne was a draft dodger. I never knew... I guess it's one of those image vs. substance things... After the graduation, we all lined up outside the School House as everyone came by and shook our hands. I was impressed at the cross section of America that was present. "Rednecks," Asians, Puerto Ricans, Well-heeled white folks, African-Americans, Veterans, Conservatives and Liberals, elderly persons, teenagers and children. As people shook my hand I would often ask them for whom did they come. One man stated that he just liked coming to the chaplains graduations and wanted to wish us well. It was a beautiful and humbling day as many said, "Thank you for what you are doing."

It was hard to say goodbye to one of the best group experiences of my life, so far. But it wouldn't be another hour or so while our platoon members waited again in line to receive our final evaluations. We started to grumble a bit, as family members were kept waiting and others had travel plans to fulfill. After each student came out with his paperwork in hand, he would say goodbye in his own way to the remaining chaplains. I shook our class leader's hand and thanked him for his excellent leadership (Since, I had come in 3 phases I was able to compare. CH Long had been in Special Forces and was a quiet, yet clear spoken leader. ) As I turned around to leave, one of my buddies called my name and ran and gave me a hug. This was especially meaningful given that we had a couple disagreements, yet remained friends with each other. All of these experiences have been a great blessing and have been strengthening for the road ahead.

The drive back to Lancaster was amazingly pleasant and relaxing. The interstate traffic moved smoothly. I came home to an additional new housemate who brought six! dogs with him. Three of them are Vizsla pups. When the pups started crying in the middle of the night, I brought them to bed with me. For a while they walked all around the bed and over me and wrestled. Then they settled down. One slept on top of my head. The next morning I found one under my pillow. They are irresistibly cute. Luckily I don't have to succumb to the temptation of keeping any. Orders arrived today. I fly to MS on Friday. According to this piece of paper I will be on orders "no more than 545 days"...

Capstone

2005-04-06T16:21:00.000-07:00

On Monday, we got up early enough to make a 7A.M. formation so that we could ruck march about five miles to our camp. My rucksack weighed around thirty pounds, plus we each wore Kevlar vests and helmets. So we were carrying enough weight into the early morning march with seventy degree weather. The sweat started pouring out of me quickly until I remembered that I had purchased a nylon cap that I was wearing under my helmet. As soon as I remembered I took it off and became somewhat cooler. We had a couple of injuries during the march, but not so much that anyone had to miss out on the training exercise.

We stopped half way to drink water and change socks. Some of us who are not used to marching or hiking also had to deal with blisters. I was in good shape in that department. The heavy winter boots that I had were very comfortable, but a bit hot. We marched mostly off the pavement along the sandy trails until we came to a dirt road which lead to our camp area. My stamina held up very well, but it was a relief to lay down the load.

Initially we lined up in formation and put down our rucksacks and rested a bit. Shortly thereafter was tent assembly. We raised five tents, three of them large enough to fit thirty persons lying down. We were fairly orderly for having a number of persons who had never done this before. I got to pound in a few spikes while a few other students were surprised about how aggressive I could be.

After the tents were up, our next task was to dig foxholes "personal survivability shelters" for ourselves. We dug them in "v" formation in order to accommodate two: one for each side of the "V." We faced a wooded hill opposite ourselves in order to simulate the direction the enemy was expected to come from. Later that evening and a couple more times thereafter we were surprised by the enemy with loud simulated mortar rounds and gunfire. In addition, loud Arabic call to prayer was played to give an other-worldly effect. We quickly donned our masks and lay face down in our foxholes and then we were critiqued on our reaction times.

I slept on a mat and sleeping bag between two soldiers who were snorers. It didn't seem to bother me too much. It took me more time to get myself in a comfortable position on the ground. One evening someone sounded the alarm and we all ran out to our foxholes only to discover that the class instructors were surprised by our false alarm. They sent us back to bed. One morning, CH Tripplett impressed upon us the importance of these foxholes by telling us that when shrapnel hits the ground, it runs outward along the ground and hits anything in its way.

Our main purpose in the exercise was to hike out to different sites where we would learn about different aspects of ministry and soldiering. These were called situational exercise lanes or "STX lanes." (By the way, in the military it is possible to speak in complete sentences only using acronyms.)There was a triage STX lane, an Improvised Explosive device (IED) lane, and a Memorial Service/Ceremony STX lane. During each hike to the various STX lanes we carried a dummy in a stretcher in order to add realism to our hikes.

A Jesuit Priest and I worked on a Memorial Service together. The assignment was to respond to a scenario given to us and to determine if a service (religious) or ceremony (military custom/non-denominational) were best. We had to have everything in order including a homily to deliver after 15 minutes of preparation. Our scenario was a mass casualty in Iraq of three single soldiers, each of differing faiths including one Muslim. I preached from the OT (Ps 23 and portions of Ps 139) and emphasized how amazing it was to have three persons of such diverse backgrounds willing to fight for each other. I spoke of how the Muslim must have felt odd, being an American soldier and fighting predominantly soldiers of Muslim faith. I mentioned that he held America precious just as each of us did. I talked about respect and how one who is not outwardly religious (one of the soldiers had indicated "No religious preference") is still a child of God.

The other lanes also had significant learnings for me. We crept through a wooded area and attempted to point out all the mines. We were pretty good, but died at least once if not a couple times. These devices are insidious. They can be hidden and booby trapped in countless ways. We were told that some units have to face high pressure like this for 24 or more hours at a time in some cases. Our triage lane was excellent. We were briefed on how medics make decisions and were taught carries and how to call for Medevac (helicopter evacuation). We topped the lane off with an exercise of responding to several wounded. Some of us got silly by trying to make the "chaplains" or the "patients" laugh while playing along. They threw us a curve by having an Arab looking man who was armed and carrying a baby walk into our area. One of our chaplains didn't react in the best possible way to the situation. We were told that we needed to stay aware of the fact that all sorts of chaotic things might come our way and our job was to be as deliberate as possible in our actions.

The atmosphere during our exercise was part military and part church camp. Most of you are probably aware that I listen to preachers with at least one ear of skepticism. The one night, I was deeply impressed by one of our colleague chaplains who preached. CH (1LT) Martin was a young man who came from a holiness or Pentecostal background. He spoke eloquently of how he had wrestled with hopelessness in his life. He was remarkably vulnerable with no hint of cheap platitudes or self pity. CH Martin spoke with a compelling simplicity. A couple days after the service, I sat and spoke with him. (He was one of the snorers next to me at night.) In our conversation, I discovered that he had done Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) at a hospital with a Trauma unit. I affirmed to him that I believed he had a powerful ministry to share.

In the tents at night there were silly antics and laughter. There was a remarkable cohesiveness given how much we were being stressed. It is obvious that this is a quality that the military rewards. Morale remained good. Two meals a day were hot and good. And the weather was amazing until Thursday morning when rain was threatening. Range control closed down our course and we were packed in buses rucks and all tighter than sardines and headed back to hot showers. It was a really just an appetizer of what soldiers often experience out in the field. But, that was the point. We weren't sent out to be survivalists, simply chaplains who have some grounding in soldier skills. More will come later.

Holy Week & Easter, Ft. Jackson Style

2005-03-27T12:02:00.000-08:00

I have missed recording a few stories, mostly because there is little time and I am often more interested in eating or sleeping. There have been images, words and persons who have made an impression on me, yet sometimes it is difficult to convey what these mean other than being beautiful, comical, irritating, or salvific.

For example, I am up to my eyeballs in substitutionary atonement. Yes, I know Jesus died for my sins, but I'm having a little bit of difficulty understanding the preacher who felt that Jesus died for the guilt of her minor traffic offense--speeding. It seems to me to trivialize the gospel message, but when the background theology is about a personal relationship with Jesus, you have to start looking for more and more evidence on how you've been saved.

During the afternoon on a very long day last week, we were addressed by an Airborne Chaplain who was dropped with his unit into Iraq during the war. It was definitely a story of adventure as he and the rest of the troops were dropped into an oily bog. The purpose of his talk was to help us learn to pack efficiently and with all sorts of safety measures and back-ups. The Army calls tying objects that you don't want to lose to your equipment "dummy chording." Very practical advice. Moments later one of our Small Group Leaders (an instructor from the school house)--a man with a crusty exterior gave us a lightning quick lesson on knot tying as he reflected on one of his many Army experiences. He obviously grew up on a farm and presumed most of us did as well when he told us that the knot we needed to tie was the "type used to secure packs on mules" or something like that. I nodded my head as if I knew what he was talking about. Most of us were comatose at this point and had been standing around a table for what seemed a couple of hours.

More than a handful of my classmates have been on quarters for a bug that's been going around. I can't imagine even missing a day in this program for all that we usually cover. One soldier, a major who has had Special Forces training has been out a week. He showed up for the class photograph and stood near me. I could see that he still had bouts of the chills. Spirits were high while the pictures were being taken with all sorts of silly comments being made by the SGL's while we tried to maintain military bearing.

One of the highlights of the week was the false start of our PT test. Most of us were up before 04:00 for a 04:20 formation in the rain. Initially the rain was light but became heavier with some lightning as we stood while a team of graders prepared the testing area. It took a major to make the call a sergeant could have made for us to leave the field. We were later advised that none of us would have been wrong to object and leave the field for safety issues. We were reminded that even a private has the authority to speak up when safety is at stake. If one does not speak up and is the ranking officer, he is ultimately responsible if there are any violations--safety or otherwise. Sins of omission are just as weighty as sins of commission.

PT test day was on Good Friday at the same time. We were put into squads for push-ups and sit-ups. These graders wanted us to turn our backs on the ones being tested so that we wouldn't cheer them on. This was a first for me. So far on other PT tests we've been allowed to cheer each other on. I did very well for an old man and even beat my best time for the 2 mile run: 14:31. I stayed behind a young man that I knew was about 45 seconds faster than me and that kept me motivated. Also I caught up with a young man who has been a worship leader and then I kept pace with him. At the end I had nothing to give for the sprint, so he took off and came in about 4 seconds faster. I would have done even better had the finish line been clearer. I stopped where the clock was and not at the cones about three feet away. The graders yelled me onward. I collapsed in the grass with lots of pain in my side. An MP yelled at my sergeant to get me off the field. I indignantly looked at the MP and got up. A classmate told me to keep my hands above my head and breathe deeply. It was helpful and I was soon congratulating others as they came in. My final score (on a 300 pt system) was 258. One must score 90 and above in all three events to be awarded a Army Physical Fitness Badge. I might continue working on it provided it doesn't interfere with my wine drinking and desert.

Later that evening, some of us celebrated by going to an Irish pub and drinking beer, eating, smoking cigars, sharing some of our stories, telling bawdy jokes, and enjoying some laughter. All of us at the table were from diverse church backgrounds. Laughter is bonding and humanizing.

I can't remember the sequence of the week too well, but at one point we were visited by an Army surgeon, nurse anesthetist, chaplain, and social worker who recently were treating the injured in Iraq. They presented us with some difficult to view photographs of all sorts of disfigurements. The chaplain stated that it was important to define one's "theology of war" when dealing with so much suffering which often comes suddenly and unexpectedly.

Easter Sunday Sunrise Service was at 0630 in a crowded community center. The soldiers sat on the bleachers and the ranking folks in chairs on the gym floor. There was a platform with about 30 flags standing behind it. A brass band played a few familiar Easter hymns as background music before the program began. It was an extravaganza evangelical style with a gospel choir, a talented soloist, hand clapping and praising (and more substitionary atonement). The LTC's, Colonel, and others in their dress blues clapped hands and rocked back and forth only the way white men can. The preacher was a colonel who spoke of the many tombs in our lives and the victory of the Resurrection. He was one of the few evangelicals that I ever heard preach on Christ's decent into hell. He also spoke about his last Easter in Iraq when he was in a crowded hangar with soldiers who had seen a good amount of action and that "all fell away except the presence of Christ." He mentioned the Christian minority in Iraq and their greeting: Al Meeseeh qam (Christ is Risen). And while the praise music, the hymns, and the religious fervor were foreign to me, he preached a solid message.

I later attended the Episcopal Service. I was the only chaplain present other than the celebrant. All the rest were young soldiers, many of them recent arrivals at basic training. Some of them knew the liturgy very well. At the end of the service, CH Ira Houck, asked any soldiers who were leaving to come forward for a blessing. A young African-American soldier from Baltimore came forward. Fr. Houck laid hands upon his head and prayed for the soldiers safety. It was the most tender moment of the day. Later this soldier approached me and shared with me that he was going home because he was "having visions" and was being discharged for schizophrenia. He was a sweet young man and stuttered a bit when he spoke. I was reminded how back on campus the pressure would bring out any latent psychological illness. My heart went out to him wondering what few possibilities might be open to him. Oddly enough, I sat next to another soldier from Alabama who had been looking forward to basic training his "whole life." He had acne, but still glowed with confidence. In my brief conversation about his background and his future plans I could tell he was thriving here. In an environment where every one is in green, the soul seems to be more of what distinguishes one from another. It has been a blessed day one that I believe has pointed me more deeply into the mystery of this vocation.

Tug of War

2005-03-22T17:22:00.002-08:00

Last week the entire class was given a kinda recreation day with games and lunch. We originally planned to have this event outside, but the weather was rainy. Nearly seventy of us hung out in a concrete block recreation hall and played some social games. There were a few rounds of a four way tug-of-war that was definitely a chance for the preachers to show that they have testosterone. Being the enlightened liberal that I am, I checked in with our only female to see how she was doing with all of this. She grew up with several brothers so it wasn't really an issue for her. When I got in the game, I admit that I jumped in a pulled on the rope as hard as I could. We had one round that was the North vs. South. There were nearly twice as many Southerners as there were Northerners. This may give you a clue as to the clearly Evangelical flavor of most of our chapel services. I have never been in a group of people that publically prayed so much. The phrase "object constancy" popped into my head while we kept praying and praying. I wondered if all the praying was to make sure God was still there or whistling in the dark. The day was part youth group activities and revival mixed in with a praise and worship service. There is just so many times that I can sing "Yes, Lord, yes, Lord, yes, Lord, yes." And I think I passed the mark that day.

Our lecturer/homilist chose to give us a study on the greek word, "to submit." The context was that the military is a place where you submit to authority and that within this order there is accountability and service. This is clearly an appropriate talk for a military context.

Later on we broke into small groups for prayer again! Although prayer groups are not typically my speed, I appreciated the need for intimacy that is expressed. I think this is often difficult for men. Chaplains need to show compassion for each other because we tend to take on so much. Plus, knowing how to model how to support each other spiritually makes us more effective with soldiers.

More to come.

The Best Mattress

2005-03-13T16:42:00.000-08:00

Without reviewing my notes, I barely remember what all happened last week. Friday is still pretty clear in my mind. We all needed to report by 5 A.M. out in a field with our ruck sacks, Load Bearing Equipment (LBE), and kevlar (helmet) in order to hike three or so miles. Not only were some of us late (not me), but some of us did not pack according to the packing list (nor me). There was a surprise inspection where we had to dump all of the ruck contents out onto the ground and then hold items up as the sergeant called it off of a list. One individual, a fine soldier and chaplain who is going to Air Assault school, decided to weigh down his pack by packing towels and weights instead of what was listed. A lot of what the Army is about is following directions as they are given. I learned this the last time I was down here and have made my peace with the Army Way. When it comes to things like this I don't over think. No need to. There's a strange security that sets in knowing this.

Later in the day, the Chaplain's School held a tribute to the contributions of women in honor of National Women's Month. A young local councilwoman spoke during the program, but the highlight was when three black women sang a piece that rocked the house. It was by far the best singing I have heard here. After the program we were served a buffet style lunch with dessert and all. As I was waiting in line there were some flowers (pens disguised as flowers) that were available for anybody who wanted one. I took one and put it in the pocket of my uniform. That was a mistake, because a sergeant came up to me and told me that it wouldn't be good if anyone saw me like that. Live and learn. The uniform is sacred.

A fellow student (and my battle buddy) is an ELCA pastor from Minnesota. He was invited by an Irish Catholic priest to come to the Mass. I went along with him because not only was I curious, I wanted a break from some of the gimmicky preaching that sometimes comes on the Protestant side of the house. The homilist/celebrant was not able to make it to Mass. So some one stepped in in his stead. It was a brief homily and an "instant Mass." (My terminology for when the priest has conducted Mass for the last 30 years and is able to zip right through it without you being able to find your place on the page.)

The most nourishing activity for my soul this past weekend was a visit to my friend Cheri in Atlanta and her daughter, Eve (who is also my Goddaughter.) Cheri let me sleep on the greatest mattress I have ever been on. It was a King Size firm. And I slept like a king. On Saturday, we took Eve and a picnic basket to the botanical gardens. It was a glorious day. Although it is very early in the spring, there were still many flowers out and lots of aromas to wake me up from the winter's funk. There were hyacinths and jasmine that perfumed the air with just enough sweetness to make me inhale deeply and savor the day. We saw dessert areas, frogs, quails, lilies, orchids. It was beautiful. After spreading a quilt on the green, we ate a few crackers and cookies. The warmth of the sun pushed me to the ground and I went belly up prepared to soak in as much as I could. A grogginess quickly settled in and I drifted to sleep and lost track of time.

The friendship I share with Cheri goes back to my high school days. Long stretches often pass between the times when we see each other, but she is able to recall some of the minutest details about the past. There is continuity with Cheri. She loves images and has taken and collected hundreds of photographs. All of them poetry. All of them devastatingly beautiful. Anyone who loves and makes beauty like she does is rare. Eve is playful and a little shy. She likes hip-hop music and gluing shells and sparkling stones on boxes. She is innocent, sweet, and seldom makes a fuss. She loves lions and tigers.

I spend Saturday night watching a movie, The Story of Us, for a counseling course. It has Bruce Willis and Michelle Pfieffer in it. It was tolerable. The assignment was easy because the Army doesn't look for depth counseling when you can just put a quick fix on something. This training is given to all of us, because some of us will be on various bases and serve as Family Life Chaplains. As a Guardsman, I am going on a specific deployment. This is good background and will be helpful at times when I am working back in PA with the unit. But, for now it is just an added skill.

The weekend of domestic activity reminds me so much of what is good about families and how contentment is available where there is nurture and grace. I come back to Ft. Jackson, refreshed and stronger.

Yes, I have received several letters from a variety of friends. I plan to sit down soon and respond individually. Right now, things are still moving quickly and it is a luxury to sit and concentrate on writing. It feels good, like a sun bath. Now to bed and back to 5:20 A.M. physical training and the flood of powerpoint presentations. I am convinced that powerpoint quickly dulls the brain into a semi-hypnotic stupor. Great stuff.

Keeping Up and Being Social

2005-03-05T14:21:00.000-08:00

The work just keeps piling up. Since I arrived, I have been assigned to create a worship service based on a certain battlefield scenario. Mine involves heavily fatigued soldiers who have been in contact with the enemy for three days. No one has been killed but 14 have been wounded. Additionally, there is a new mission to execute with a "high risk factor." There are several different scenarios that the chaplains receive. We have been delivering these 20 minute services in the field and giving some constructive criticism. Many of us are seasoned preachers with a wide range of styles, theological perspectives, and effectiveness. Some of the preaching is very conversion oriented and yet seems appropriately earnest. Others are more reflective. I sometimes find myself considering that it is not so much what we say as the fact that we are there and that grace is available regardless of eloquence or ability. In regular daily worship one of the best sermons I heard so far was fairly simple, but got to the heart of the matter in the ways of chaplaincy. The colonel who was delivering focused on the Army's value of selfless service and Micah's passage that reminds us that God does not want exorbitant sacrifice, but to "do justice and to love mercy and walk humbly with your God."

Other work includes a counseling paper, an ethics paper, preparing our battle books, being physically prepared to pass the PT test and to use all of this in a "Capstone" event where we will spend four days in the field. Yesterday we marched with our ruck sacks on for three miles at 5 A.M. in order to get a feel for it and prepare our feet. I will devote most of the rest of this weekend to diving into the assignments, getting some exercise, getting some groceries, and resting.

One of the things that I most appreciate about the chaplains who are teaching the courses is that they are persons of integrity who aren't just dispensing doctrine to us. Many show humor, warmth, strength of character, and a keen ability to deal with ambiguity and the gray areas of human behavior, the military, and religion. This part of who they are appeals to me greatly because of their appreciation for the complexities of all the situations with which we may come in contact. These are not individuals with a "one size fits all mentality," they are committed and enlightened persons who show a great deal of passion for their work. Being here is definitely stimulating.

I had a couple of conversations with student chaplains that were more or less a reminder that real differences exist between us, even in the midst of the goodwill and camaraderie. One of the questions that we frequently ask each other in small talk or introduction is "Who is your endorser?" (Meaning: What denomination is your sponsor?) One of my neighbors, a gentle man who stutters at times was surprised that I was highly supportive of the recent commercials that the United Church of Christ ran showing various "outsiders" including gay couples entering a church. He at first asked me about accountability for sin and turning people to Christ. I said that it was important to show welcome and to nurture people in faith. I didn't go so far to say that Jesus himself hung around the outsiders of his day. The next day the young chaplain briefly spoke to me apologetically and said that he appreciates the graciousness of such a message. It still seemed as though he was confounded by the idea of the existence of such a church and that someone would care to enter the military as a chaplain from such a church. I was reminded of a conversation that I had with my Associate Conference Minister, Karen King who said that we liberals have just a claim to patriotism as conservatives and that we too, have contributed greatly to the shaping of this nation. In another conversation with a tall and warm young father of seven children who is of the Anglican tradition, he asked me about a senator from PA who is supposedly problematic. Naturally, I replied that this was Santorum. But then he mentioned that it was during the last election that he was being targeted. I realized that he was speaking about Sen. Specter and that we were talking in code over the culture wars. I defended Sen. Specter as being a moderate and that PA needs more like him because we are potentially losing civil liberties... There was no turning back from this collision in the conversation when he said "Do you mean things like the Patriot Act?" I said, "No. I mean things like abortion." (I could have just said "Yes" and leave it at that, but I didn't.) We later decided that we should have lunch or dinner together to discuss other matters. Part of me is slightly wary, because I am one of the very few liberals in this sea of conservatives. Yet there is a civility and warmth that remains in spite of being in an obvious minority.

I have been more social than my usual self. Partly I enjoy learning what makes some of my cohorts tick. And partly, I enjoy discovering how similar we are in our sense of humor. I find humor salvific and bonding in the face of the work load, the sometimes tediousness of the day, and the fact that we will be facing and have already faced difficult paths. Last night I went out with a bunch of guys many of which had prior service and less than pious lives in their younger days. Some had conversion events where they gave their lives to Jesus. At least two had grown up in real "hippie" and intellectual households and may have searched for some structure in their lives. These two men were interesting to me because of their "squared away" exterior and their depth, playfulness, and warmth in their interior. Others are more show a more conservative bent, but still share funny stories from their past. I try to suspend judgment when I hear something that I interiorly question. I recognize the power of the desire to be like others and accepted even at this point in my life. I cannot help but marvel at this point of confluents of souls. I find that I am less self conscious around many of my fellow students and optimistic for my choice to be here and engage in this calling. It is challenging, enlivening, enriching and meaningful.

Taking It Up a Notch

2005-03-03T17:08:00.000-08:00

Given the intensity of this week, just taking the time to reflect in this journal seems self indulgent. We've had PT every morning beginning at 5:20 A.M. The days alternate between running and "muscle failure" (basically stretching, sit ups, push ups, and other isometric exercises). We've had class until at least 6 P.M. each evening with only a little more than an hour for lunch. As officers at this training facility, we are on our own when it comes to meals, except for the fine continental breakfast that is offered at Army Lodging's Kennedy Hall. (Not John F., but John T. Kennedy.)

For the most part, the week so far has consisted of a counseling class that is oriented to solution based therapy. It is a pragmatic model that is client centered that encourages one to find creative solutions to their own problems and affirming any positive movement between sessions. It works. The Army also has been emphasizing it's caring posture toward marriages. There is even a specialty within the chaplaincy for "Family Life Counseling." (The divorce rate is higher than the national average.) So, we will be trained in couples counseling. The sessions so far are part lecture, part practice, and part informercial about the method itself or the specialty. Our lecturer was an ELCA pastor. I had some face time with him and he shared how few of them there are in Northern Florida, where he once pastored. He had some excellent resources, such as Friedman's book Generation to Generation. And he introduced me to a Paulist Press publication by Ciarrocchi on pastoral counseling to those with mental illness. We spent time on suicide prevention and grief counseling as well covering topics in swathes rather than being overloaded with details. Suicide prevention training is mandatory for all soldiers twice a year. This briefing is usually given by the chaplain.

We were lectured by CH Sterling who gave a very lucid explanation of Just War Theory, it's history and distinctions within it. He is by far the most scholarly lecturer here. It's easy to imagine being in a university or seminary setting when he is leading the discussion. Jus ad Bellum and Jus in Bello are headings of criteria for going to war and behavior in war. The theory has its limits, but the main intent is to limit the dehumanising effects of war and how to best win a war when a country must enter into one.

The 21st Century Army has some interesting toys. One of which is something called FBCB2 or "Blue Force Tracker." We we trained on this system which is essentially a communications system that prioritizes messages on the battlefield and visually presents data in nearly real time. It is like a video game that includes overlays, highly detailed maps and satellite photographs, tracking of friendly troops and enemies, analysis of terrain and line of site for firing weapons, and so much more. After each major segment of learning, we were tested in our knowledge. By the end of the second day, I started to feel a bit overwhelmed and got nervous in trying to figure out the problems. After a good night's sleep, however I was masterful to the point of tutoring others. The interesting thing about Army learning is that there are good days and then there are great days. There is not enough time to dwell on weaknesses, often you move on only to find confidence in something else.

I appreciate the pluck that I have the chance to experience here. There are times when I think how well I might have done if I had military experience at a younger age. But, I also notice that I display some of the marks of my Liberal Arts education, especially in areas that require some critical thinking. A couple of students have asked me "How did you know that?" I sometimes take for granted what I got as an undergrad and through my own curiosity. There are many smart people here as students, even a few Ph.d's Others have come up through Bible Colleges. Last year there was a young Hispanic man who was conservative and had been home schooled until he went to college.

Matters Practical, Serious, and Ordinary

2005-02-26T17:10:00.000-08:00

Class time is packed with necessary info and tips on map reading, making "battle book" (a pocket reference with protocols, symbology, frequently used forms, etc.) and discussions on how the Army accomodates religious needs, and ministry to dying and grieving soldiers. Some of this has been a review of the ground that was covered the first time I was here in January 04. Since then the school house (United States Army Chaplain Center and School) has revamped the curriculum slightly to focus more on chaplains who are deploying. Previously the training presumed program management through chapels on military bases and posts. During one class segment, we watched the beginning sequence from Saving Private Ryan. We were pressed by one of the senior chaplains to ask ourselves what our ministry will be about in the face of such gruesome events. We talked about how one's theology is revealed and distilled in the presence of absurdity. "Who are you, chaplain?" asks Chaplain Jones.

I have caught up with a couple of chaplains (students) who I have met previously. It's great to have the colegiality and commraderie right off the bat. This class is about half the size of the previous classes I have attended here. Many of the chaplains are near my age and seem seasoned. They are generally a friendly bunch. I have also connected with the senior chaplains and staff who I had met before. It was genuinely good to see them all even the short Hispanic SGT who enjoyed razzing on me a bit. I spend a good deal of my down time reading, exercising, taking trivia quizzes on the internet, doing laundry, shopping for groceries, eating, or going to the movies. I've been to more cinemas here than I usually go to back home. So far I've seen Sideways, The Aviator, and Finding Neverland. They were all highly worthwhile. Neverland was very touching and enchanting. There were many older folk in the theater. I'm glad I opted to see it.

I checked the internet to find a local UCC, but there are none in Columbia, SC. There is an Episcopal Cathedral. I am intending to worship there tomorrow morning. I have already fulfilled the school's requirement to visit various different religious services (Christian & Non-Christian) on and off post. I have yet to visit a muslim service. I will likely do this before I graduate even though I am not required to.

The newness of this journey is still present. I miss family members, but am finding this time away a way to strengthen myself and focus on a mission bigger than myself. I expect that the solitude will at times feel more like lonliness and when I'm in demand (on duty) there will be times of stress.

On Friday, we all assembled in a hall with other units and attended a change of responsibility ceremony for the SGM of the Chaplain's Corps. One of the young soldiers in the group was completing his AIT (Advanced Individual Training) who was wearing a PA 28th Infantry Div. patch. He was happy to see another Pennsylvanian. So was I in this sea of Texans, Carolinians, and other Southerners. When it was time, we and the other assembled soldiers stood nearly motionless at parade rest for over an hour. There was a great deal of dignity and acknowledgement. The outgoing SGM was a very eloquent man and obviously well-liked. The band played and a chorus sang, "Old soldiers never die, they just fade away." I vaguely recalled having heard it before. It's an odd little piece. I'll have to do some internet research on it's origins.

The Nearly Squared Away Soldier

2005-02-20T19:02:00.000-08:00

After saying goodbye to mom with tears welling in her eyes and dad who kissed me and both cheeks and shook my hand, I left Lancaster mid Friday afternoon. I drove down I-81 for almost nine hours until I reached Fancy Gap, VA. It was later than I thought. The one mom & pop motel that I scoped out was already closed for the night. The other one had very bright porch lights which made me believe it might be tough to have a dark enough room to sleep in. So, I stayed at the Days Inn.

I packed two sea bags, a duffel bag, a foot locker and more at the end of December in preparation for mobilization to MS with the unit from Sellersville. I have two different kinds of rain gear and a full chemical suit, but I forgot to pack underwear. So, I had the opportunity to go shopping when I arrived at Ft. Jackson.

The weather is mild unlike last winter. I've seen a few people in shorts. My accommodations are a little different than last time. I don't have an oven and stove, so I will have more meals out. That's fine with me. It will get me to know my surroundings better and give me the chance to socialize. I've met a couple of the chaplains in the program already. One has been here since January and the other has just arrived to complete the program, like myself. They both seemed of the "easy going" school instead of the more intense variety.

I rushed a bit too much in order to get to chapel this morning. This was the opinion of the MPH who ticketed me. Had I read the map correctly and not confuse my end point with my start point, I would have been going in the right direction at the right speed in order to make it to chapel on time. I had the intention of attending an Episcopal service, but when I arrived at the chapel I was at some type of low liturgy--possibly Baptist. I found the chaplain to be an excellent preacher who entered the service in his late thirties and had recently returned from Iraq. He preached on a long portion in Genesis where Abram and Sarai set off and Abram tricks the pharaoh into believing that Sarai is his sister and continuing. The chaplain paralleled the going through the motions that Abram does who eventually becomes faithful to soldiers first entering the Army and discovering their aptitudes and limits. He had much more to say and mostly all relevant. I was glad that I ended up at this service despite the $30 toll I had to pay to get there.

I've been eating well. Last night I had mousaka at a Greek restaurant named "Zorba's," of course. Tonight I went to a Mexican restaurant after which I went to the cinema to see "Sideways." I genuinely enjoyed this film because it seemed so authentic...the comic and the tragic both at once. Seeing weakness become strength and the vulnerability of the winner was touching. Plus, these actors seemed like credible wine people. Years ago, I worked at a winery and we were truly an assemblage of characters who seem to attract even more.

Even though my reporting date was today, my program doesn't begin until Tuesday because of the holiday. It's nice to have a paid holiday be the first day of school. I'll likely use tomorrow to work out and begin reading one of the several books I was given to bring along with me. Perhaps it will be Dostoevsky, "The Idiot" or something else. Then again, I could finish a few that I had already started.

Ground Mail may be sent to:

United States Chaplain Center & School

CH (1LT) Aristides Fokas

10100 Lee Rd.

Fort Jackson, SC 29207-7090

Anticipation

2005-02-17T07:32:00.000-08:00

Saturday I took a 3 hour trip to a town near Mansfield, PA in order to brief families of soldiers arriving from Iraq. There were parents, wives, and children present. As I was discussing how it is easier to say goodbye than the mixed feelings individuals have with soldiers coming back, I could tell that this was striking a chord with a woman in the group. Apparently, she has ambivalent feelings on her husband's return because there was a history of abuse in their already short marriage. Then after a tour in Germany after the birth of one child, the soldier volunteered for duty in Iraq after the birth of a second child. We talk about how time and distance don't always solve marital problems. I also shared some resources with her of which she was already aware. Basically, the feelings and the unresolved issues are taking the front stage now.

Later I conducted another briefing in Lewisburg. Within the group there was a wide range people waiting for their soldiers. There were parents whose youngest had gone to Iraq and whose older child was religiously changed from his experience in Desert Storm. There was a wife of a sergeant who had experienced deployment before. And there was the twin who was waiting on his returning brother.

Both of these units had seen serious action and loss of life, so family members are anxious to see their loved ones. As they anticipate arrivals, there are many like myself who anticipate leaving. Goodbyes are being said once again. Tomorrow I pack the car and head to SC in order to complete the chaplaincy training.

Blackhawk

2005-02-09T17:10:00.000-08:00

On Saturday I took my second helicopter ride since entering the service. After "office hours" for individuals who were seeking grief counseling, I decided to approach a pilot and ask if I could ride along during his team's training flight. It was a glorious two hour ride hovering over forests, streams and small towns. The helicopter ride is joyful in a way that airplanes are not capable; one can remain stationary and gain a complete view of the world below rather than wizz by without taking in as many details. I used the time to think about some of the losses of life we've seen involving helicopters during this war. Earlier in the day, one of our senior pilots told me how he escaped Vietnam by flying out on helicopter.

When I returned, the afternoon was spent catching up with recent widows, checking in with soldiers with marital issues, and worship. One sergeant Major asked me to share prayer with him. I was touched when I found out that why he wanted to see me was to offer prayer for me. He did so eloquently. I had the sense that he was not only praying for me, but for others that he has seen off during the years and did not have the fortune to see their return.

I have been here just a year, but feel truly connected to this unit. I always look forward to drill because I know I am going to have authentic conversations. Many have entrusted me with personal information and the state of their souls. I find this satisfying and humbling. During our morning briefing, the Colonel gave a fine compliment to me and reminded his officers of the importance of having a good chaplain. I will miss being here, but I will return a stronger soldier, a better person, and a more seasoned minister.

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Originally uploaded by greek64.

The Decision

2005-02-03T17:08:00.000-08:00

I really don't have much in my history to suggest that I would have decided to become an Army Chaplain. I doubt it would have appeared on the radar screen ten years ago. I can't say that I have had special interest in military affairs or soldiering or any thing like that. Years ago, while I was still in college I took one of those interest tests that scored me high for functioning well in a disciplined environment.

Even the call to ministry was not consistent. When I was a child I remember wanting to become a priest, but even that didn't remain constant. I've done many things including studying funeral directing, studying economics, admissions at an art college, working in a bank, and many an odd job. Most recently I have been a pastor at a church and an interim pastor at another.

I remember my interest in military chaplaincy surfacing while working as the Assistant Director of Campus Ministry/Assistant Director of Community Service at my alma mater, Franklin and Marshall College. I had the sense that I wanted to have a purpose beyond the campus which had become cozy for me, but not necessarily home. I had grown up in Lancaster and even though I had been away for a few years, I felt that I needed more of an adventure so that a new chapter would open up in my life.

Plus, I didn't feel that all my skills and talents were being drawn upon at campus. I felt the call to serve young people who were working to get a leg up in the scheme of things. Whereas, for the most part, our students had many options open to them. My thoughts began to center around military service as a chaplain. I think if most are honest about what they do in life, it has not only to do with what they can contribute and what they can get, but also what it is they need. I have a need to be recognized. I also need to take the hero's journey so that I can come back changed--stronger and more capable and confident that I did something worthwhile. It is my hope that upon my return, rewards (material and spiritual) will be available to me that I might find what it is that will bring the greatest amount of happiness for me and those around me.

In a way, I'm also a "faith junkie." I need to see how people's lives play out and the obstacles they overcome, that I too might take more faithful risks. Yes, the uniform, the camaraderie, the order, the triumphalism, the learning, the hard work, all have significance for me. But, the decision to be part of it all was simply a matter of saying "yes" and recognizing what a friend once told me: Ministry is just an excuse for being there.

Taps

2005-01-28T05:57:00.000-08:00

I conducted my first military funeral yesterday. The soldier, SGT Robert Bye was a former Marine and a Guardsman of 13 years. He was on orders and preparing for deployment. He held a second job as a truck mechanic and took a call for a roadside repair last week during the snow storm. From what I gathered, he was out on the highway when a tractor trailer rear ended the other one and ran him over. He was 39 years old.

He was father to four children and married three times. The challenge in ministry with blended families is often a matter of keeping track of who is who and how they're related. His widow is a nurse who has faith and is surrounded by many supportive individuals.

Due to the fact SGT Bye was on active duty orders, he was given a full military funeral and buried at the National Cemetery at Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA My role in all of this was to visit with the family and to provide religious support during the committal service. While I read portions from Psalm 46 and 139 and excepts of the Gospel of John, the white gloved honor guard held an outstretched flag over the casket. When I indicated to the Officer in Charge that I was done, he signaled for a gun salute and the playing of "Taps."

During the funeral service, a Presbyterian minister from the congregation Robert grew up in reminded us of the lyrics to Taps which were written during the Civil War and were used to signal "lights out."

Day is done ...Gone the sun ... From the lakes ... From the hills ... From the sky ... All is well ... Safely rest ... God is nigh ...
Fading light ... Dims the sight ... And a star ... Gems the sky ... Gleaming bright ... From afar ... Drawing nigh ... Falls the night ...
Thanks and praise ... For our days ... 'Neath the sun ... 'Neath the stars... 'Neath the sky ... As we go ... This we know ... God is nigh ...

At that point the honor guard folded the flag, presented it to the widow who in turn requested that it be presented to his eldest son. Another detail that had three smaller flags approached the family and gave them to his other sons.

When a family loses a soldier on active duty, a Casualty Assistance Officer is assigned to the family to help them through all the paperwork and details and serves as the Army's personal liaison to the family. The CAO works with the family until everything is completed. This often goes beyond a year. The officer who was assigned in this case was CPT LLoyd, an attentive man in his mid-forties with an easy-going nature. This is his first assignment as a CAO. Before I leave for school, I will also touch base with the family to see how they're doing and offer support if needed and desired.

Today, I will spend some time completing paperwork and see how I can tighten up some of the scheduling for the briefings. The news coming out of Iraq is so disparate. On one hand there is talk about how we are catching major players in the insurgency and excitement about the elections. On the other hand we had the greatest loss of lives in one day, threats to potential voters by the insurgency, and an insufficient number of trained Iraqi guardsman. The elections and the work of the parliament in the next few months will be an indicator of what the climate may be like when I deploy with the 228th FSB. This morning I heard that along with over 1,400 casualties, we have over 10,000 injured troops. Not much is stated about how many injuries among civilians.

Last year when I first attended chaplain's school, one of the senior chaplains asked if I knew about the history of the PA Army National Guard 28th Infantry Division (which I am a member). When I told him "no," he recommended that I become familiar with it because it is impressive and something of which to be proud.

Almost Being There

2005-01-23T06:04:00.000-08:00

So far the big blizzard hasn't dumped as much as expected on Lancaster. All the better. Being at Camp Shelby in Mississippi seems even more attractive now that winter has really arrived. Yesterday I shoveled here and some of Mom & Dad's driveway.

A few days ago I received a call from a soldier in one of the units at Shelby. He had begun the process of applying as a Conscientious Objector. My understanding is that when soldiers apply for CO status, the chaplain is basically a counselor and helps the soldier clarify his/her religious grounding on the matter. A chaplain makes a recommendation to the CO board, but has no direct vote on the outcome. Since I was not yet at Camp Shelby, I suggested that the soldier get in touch with my senior chaplain. I heard that he had done so.

Sometimes soldiers who serve in supportive roles become anxious that they will be called upon to fill infantry slots or will face situations where they must use their weapons. If I were at camp right now, I would have greater opportunity to mingle with the troops and get a sense of morale. All sorts of issues come up in garrison while preparing for deployment. A chaplain helps to make sure troops are at the highest possible state of spiritual readiness to take on a particular mission.

Back at the HQ in Hbg, as I help other chaplains schedule briefings and offer my services to fill in, I am spending time reading all sorts of briefings, diaries, After Action Reviews (AAR's), field manuals, etc. in order to help give me as much background and knowledge of resources. I've even been reading up on all sorts of sects and cults from a sociological point of view.

The job, a castle and more dogs

2005-01-19T17:39:00.000-08:00

The last two mornings have been about getting up before 6 A.M. in order to make it to Harrisburg by 8 A.M. I've been working in the basement "War Room" of the castle style Head Quarters for the 28th division. It is very quiet down there only with a few who are regulars. This is where the PA ANG protects PA from invasions by NJ, NY, DE, MD, WV, and OH. A Master Sergeant Chaplain's Assistant is showing me the ropes of this temporary assignment. He's a bright and talkative man who is ordained in the Evangelical Free church who has an extensive background in rescue mission chaplaincy. He has great stories both humane and absurd.

My current task is to confirm dates and times with various chaplains to present Family Reunion Briefings. Basically, it is a matter of making a few phone calls and following up with emails. So far, most of them have a handle on their scheduling. I may be needed to drive somewhere to present one of the briefings myself in order to lighten their load. Additionally, I'm assisting in the production of a brochure on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and resources to help afflicted soldiers.

For part of the day I've been casually researching on the internet chaplain oriented topics to prepare for mobilization and to make sure I have enough manuals, supplies and what not.

I like putting in a regular work day. Heck, I could even get used to the concept. Currently, I'm scheduled to be doing this for two to three weeks, after that the Senior chaplain will search for more funds to extend me until I leave for school on Feb. 20. When I finish school on April 8, I will be attached to the unit that is waiting for me down at Camp Shelby, MS. Now it is just a matter of showing up and doing the work that is assigned to me.

Some of my concerns about leaving Sherman behind are starting to fade. A friend of mine, Mike and his three Vizslas and a Dalmatian may occupy my house while I'm away. Mike bred Marshal, my Vizsla. Marshal was a gift to me the last time Mike and his dogs stayed here a couple years ago. Now, once again his one bitch is pregnant...

Indulgence

2005-01-14T16:59:00.000-08:00

Although getting three hour plus doses Comedy Central's stand up comics and MAD TV is personally gratifying, I haven't found anyone who is willing to pay me in making it my career. So, I decided that the last day of the week ought to be a productive one. Not to give anyone to impression that I've totally succumbed to the demon of sloth, I did read nearly the entire Jan 17 issue of TIME magazine which is devoted to "The Science of Happiness." There are some excellent discussions of mind & body relationships and even the theological question of "Does God want us to be happy?" I figured that my happiness quotient was in danger of lowering if my bank account were to hit zero before I were deployed, so I called Substitute Teacher Service and told them that I was available to work all day Friday in order to save the homestead.

Today it was a real treat to substitute for a 5th grade class at Martin Luther King Elementary School, Lancaster, PA. I was genuinely impressed with the attitude and courtesy that these children displayed. I believe it was a nearly 100% Hispanic classroom. The teachers and administration stress discipline and respect. And it shows. The class has been broken down into peer groups of fours called teams. Each team is praised and gain privileges or is disciplined based on the actions of any individual member. It works very well and helps to foster a society of mutual accountability and self direction. I only had to say "let's be quiet" once or twice and it happened! Then learning took place. If you ever think you don't know much, teach some elementary school. It will make you feel like a genius. And with the Teacher's Edition texts, you'll know all the answers! I even learned how to say "Have a good weekend" in Spanish": Que pasa un buen fin de semana! I would definitely go back.

I am on orders beginning Monday and will be working here in the State through 28th Division Joint Command organizing and presenting Family Reunion Briefings. Basically stated, these are a service to family members who are about to receive their soldier(s) from overseas. The briefing underscores having realistic expectations about reuniting and understanding that individuals change and grow over time apart. And that is good to become reacquainted to who everyone is in the family. Good stuff. I've lead these before and find it fulfilling. In the meanwhile, I received calls from chaplains at Camp Shelby asking me where I am and how to get me down there as soon as possible... So, they're still working on it. One thing is certain: I have orders to be at Chaplain's School on Feb 20. After that I am deployable and have been told that I will attach with the 228th FSB, Sellersville and go through with them to Iraq.

Just in case you might wonder where the religion is in CHAPLAINARISBLOG or if you have ever wondered or even cared if I have a prayer life, what follows may be of interest to you. I look for an authentic prayer life in the clergy I seek out as mentors and companions. Protestantism has taught me the beauty of free-form prayer and "talking to God" in prayer. This is the type of prayer where one approaches God from their experience and desire to bring before him the cares of the heart for one's self, others, and the world.

Recently, I was reminded that my background includes more standardized prayers of the Christian tradition. A prayer that comes straight from Orthodoxy is the simple contemplative Jesus prayer: "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon me a sinner." Some feel inclined to pray only "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy." and allow the prayer to be more encompassing. Protestants are more familiar with formal prayers in the form of collects during worship.

Beads. Yes, Beads! I grew up around old Greek men who would carry worry beads. Beads have a long history associated with the life of prayer in many different religious traditions. Last year, while on retreat, the Rev. Sr.Barbara Catherine at Community of Saint John Baptist, Mendham, NJ lead a group of clergy in making our own Anglican Rosaries. It felt like occupational therapy stringing these beads. Luckily Sr. Barbara chose high quality stone ones that kept the exercise visually stimulating. Rosaries are relatively recent idea within the Anglican Communion. The Episcopalians are open to innovation in the practice of the use of the beads, so I altered my practice to include the Jesus Prayer as the "weeks" in the cycle. It works in bridging East and West for me.

Finally, there is even a rosary style prayer for those who would never dare touch beads: The BLESS prayer in which each letter of BLESS corresponds with a finger on the hand. The BLESS prayer can be used as intercessory prayer (on behalf of others) or for one's self.

The BLESS Prayer
B Body – health, protection, strength
L Labor – work, income, security
E Emotional – joy, peace, hope
S Social – marriage, family, friends
S Spiritual – salvation, faith, grace

“I urge that requests, prayers, intercession
and thanksgiving be made for everyone.”
I Timothy 2:1

Peace to you.

Ministry of Meanwhile

2005-01-10T17:10:00.000-08:00

Several soldiers and officers were surprised to see me back during drill weekend. Many knew that I was to be deployed. I had more than a few conversations explaining the situation. Most could relate to the Army way. One soldier said that I should "take it as a sign." He is about to start student teaching at McCaskey High School. The Army training will come in handy, was my reply. I can say this since I'm a graduate of J. P. McCaskey.

I lead a brief worship service at 2 P.M. on Sunday. Attendance was more than usual--eight all in all. My homily was remarkably similar to Rev. Hunsicker's which I heard earlier that morning at St. Andrew. Thank God I know where to find inspiration when I'm not being visited by the Spirit myself. During worship, I had individuals introduce themselves. Although this might seem simplistic, it helps to quickly create a sense of community when people are seeking some sense of connection in an institutional environment. This was taught to me by a good mentor and I often use it. Some of the prayers of the people included prayers for tsunami victims and prayers for those who are left behind when soldiers deploy. A Major who was in attendance and I agreed that we feel positive and psyched to go, but noticed a wide range of responses from our family and friends.

The Joint Command is planning to use me as a chaplain for the PA ANG for the time being until I go to chaplain's school on Feb 20. Basically, I will be conducting Family Reunion Briefings for family members of soldiers who are returning from deployment. I have presented one of these before and found it to be satisfying and a feel-good type of event. The program is about having realistic expectations as people reunite and learning to cope with change in others during a time of separation. Now I am waiting for the go-ahead as the position is being funded. It will probably be a day or two yet. After school (April 8) I will attach with the 228 FSB in Mississippi and proceed from there.

In the meanwhile, my spirits are good, the house is in order and I have a little more free time than usual. (And I like it!) Sherman (my first dog; a 6 y.o. bullmastiff of 135 lbs.) and I are becoming reacquainted and are getting more walkies in. One of my greatest pleasures is watching Sherman move. He's beefy, yet light on his feet. When he stops to sniff at the base of a tree or to lift his leg, his mass is resolute and firmly planted. Sherman gets many reactions from others as I walk. Most people see him for what he is--a big doofy loveable dog. I like to think of him as the canine mayor to Lancaster. He makes friends quickly and looks like he should walk around with a cigar in his mouth.

Last night I watched Scent of a Woman for the first time ever. I loved it. I especially liked the tango scene, the blind Colonel driving the Ferrari, and the redeeming ending. The kid saves the jaded war horse. And then officer stands up for the kid's integrity. I'm surprised I never saw it before because it is completely my kind of film. Al Pacino is amazingly intense and versitile. I think I will tackle doing the taxes next. It would be kinda nice to go to school with a refund check in the bank. (I should be so lucky--I think I've paid additional taxes for at least three years in a row.)

Waiting for Orders (Godot)

2005-01-07T14:12:00.000-08:00

The goodbyes were said, the send-off party given, the mail was forwarded, the dog was sent to his relatives, and the bags were packed. (Not completely to Army standard.) No sooner did I return from the six hour trip to drop off a sea bag and a trunk, the phone call came, "We have no orders for you." The issue was that I have not completed chaplain's school. This issue had been worked out months ago. Another chaplain shares the same status as me, but left on Tuesday. So, we're not to sure where the glitch occurred.

As of Friday evening, I am still in Lancaster. I spent the day giving Mom's dog, Fuji, a bath and leaving information for my sister to handle my financial matters in my absence. "Hurry up and wait." is the unofficial motto of the U.S. Army--I'm livin' it. Tomorrow I drill at Ft. Indiantown Gap. When I called my superior officer to check if I should find work with the church conference in case orders don't come through until school (Feb 20), I was told that I could be on a plane to Mississippi as early as Monday. So, I wait.

Although I feel prepared to deal with many different potential hardships, the one that didn't cross my mind was the possibility of having to sit in my house like it's a motel room by the beach on a rainy day. Welcome and peace to you.