Introduction: I had another Military Funeral Honors today. Nothing new about that. That is one of my duties I most enjoy. It is not that I am morbid or appreciate death. It is, rather, that I understand that death is a tragedy. It is a result of sin. It is a result of the Fall (Genesis 3).
But through the gospel–and through the gospel only–death is defeated for all those who are in Christ. That is a crucial prepositional phrase.
Story: I checked out the GSA vehicle from the motorpool. Our staff does a phenomenal job, and they are invariably helpful each week as I go to sign out a truck to take to the national cemetery.
I signed for my vehicle, drove to the national cemetery, got in my dress uniform, and went to put on my tie after I had put on my slacks, shoes, etc. Then . . . drama. My military clip-on tie broke. Suddenly, there I was. I had a Military Funeral Honors in less than an hour, and my little brown tie’s clasp had broken off in my fingers.
I called my wife. And I called a buddy, but got his voicemail. The message to both was identical: “Real-world issue. Need tie for funeral. Quick, fast, and in a hurry.”
My wife scoured my closet and found an old one. I threw the truck in gear and drove (perhaps over the speed limit) home. She met me on the drive in front of the house, passed the tie through my down-rolled driver’s-side window, and I pressed the accelerator again, and drove back to the national cemetery.
I made the funeral. The tie worked. I met with the family. I served as their chaplain. I honored the fallen.
But it had not happened without some, “Uh-oh! What now?” moments.
Encouragement: This is all kind of silly to some, perhaps, but not to me, and certainly it would have not been silly to my fellow Service Members or to the body of which I am a part, had I been out of uniform (even through no fault of my own). But it all worked out. I had an extra tie in my closet at home. My wife happened to be home. She happened to pick up the phone when I called. She happened to be able to meet me on the drive in front of our home. And the veteran Marine was honored before his family. It is these moments of grace, of comfort, of, how shall I say it, of trying and blessing, that remind me that it takes a team.
So, I had to take off from work to go to a medical appointment at a VA clinic. My appointment had been scheduled for months in advance. I had letters from the VA, as well as emails, telling me I was good to go for the appointment. So, again, I took off work, and drove with my wife to the VA. When I entered, showed my military ID, driver’s license, and paperwork, Ashely, the nervous receptionist at the counter, said, “I’m sorry, sir. But our doctor is not in. We don’t have anyone to see you. Actually, we don’t even have a doctor. We’ve had some recent skakeups. Please have a seat.”
My wife, sitting in the lobby, knew I’d received yet another round of bad news via the VA. Listen, let me say this: I’m a patriot. I adore being a career soldier and officer, but my experiences with the VA have created a less-than-yummy taste in my mouth for the level of ‘care’ given.
I’d received no phone call, no email, no text–absolutely nothing in terms of service to say that I was not to be seen today. So, I’ve missed work, driven around the state to a VA clinic where I received zero service, and now I’ve been given more 1-800 numbers where I get bounced around, then finally disconnected.
No accountability. Zero. The VA employees get paid to do (something?), but we vets get turned away and/or pushed aside because the VA can’t seem to get its act together.
In Jasper, GA there was a shooting at their VA clinic this year. There was another shooting at the Blairsville, GA VA clinic. And don’t even get me started on the Atlanta VA. It could have been a circle in Dante’s epic poem about hell.
I’m not a psychologist or a private investigator, so I won’t presume to know the motives of those who ‘snapped.’ However, I think any reasonable person might understand why Service Members (I’ve been in for over 25 years at this point) might be somewhat less than pleased when this is the pattern with the VA.
The 1-800 numbers should be called, “Thanks for calling the ‘No-One-Cares.’ Thanks for your service. This is about how much we care about it. Have a nice day.” Click.
We are blessed to keep our granddaughter this weekend. CJ is a natural at it all. I am not. What’s the ‘it’? Grandparenting a seven-month-old. CJ excels in feeding and bathing her. She burps her. She rocks her. She plays with her. It’s beautiful to watch. I’m less than graceful at it all. I can’t seem to ever get her comfortable when holding her. The times I do fairly well are when I take her with me outside to the burn barrel and hold her as I piddle in the yard. And she seems to like it when I water the trees. But I’ll take it all. It’s beautiful to see her smile when we sing ditties and nursery rhymes and see her eyes light up when we call her name.
I drove to the store in town to purchase a medication but the store didn’t have it, so I returned empty-handed. On the way down the hill, lots and lots of deer were munching on grasses that had turned a bright green after today’s rain. You can see the doe up close here, then another standing over her right shoulder, and see another one bed down in the trees behind them both.
I read Powers’ excellent novel Bewilderment over the last two days. It was one of those books that’ll remain with me. It’s a visceal tale of a father-son relationship in a universe that is indeed bewildering. The dizzying stupidity and greed of politics and government bureaucray, the destruction of the earth, the seemingly endless levels of human vanity and stupidity . . . and yet, the possibility of depth and of human connection. Truly a remarkable book. It reminds me of McCarthy’s The Road, one of the most powerful novels I’ve ever read.
I have another day’s events scheduled for in the morning. I have to drive to a faculty meeting for one of the universities where I teach English. But then, I long to return to see this beautiful granddaughter, to her amazing grandmother, and study more of Ecclesiastes before I herald the truth to the saints of Christ Covenant Church (3cs-canton.org) Sunday morning,
After a two-and-a-half week separation from CJ, I am back home. As Frank Baum wrote, there’s no place like home. When I got home, it was just what I had hoped for: CJ came down the garage stairs as I pulled in. And Ladybug, our Cavalier, stepped down, too, and sniffed me and cuddled as soon as I opened the car door. CJ’s pretty toes were painted bubble-gum pink, and her skin was her familiar soothing brown, her hair recently washed and in brown layers over her left shoulder.
She helped me lug my ruck and rolling duffel bags into the house, and I took Ladybug out to do her thing in the yard. CJ had laid out some of the books I’d ordered during my time away on the kitchen table. I touched each volume, eager to dive in–Martin Amis, Ian McEwan, Kazuo Ishiguro, and others. There are important writers, still.
I showerd and we patronized our favorite Mexican eatery for a shared meal of chicken enchiladas and rice, then returned home. Another book had been delivered upon arriving home. “Here’s your next one,” CJ said, laughing.
“Don’t worry, love; that one’s this week’s,” I said.
Now I’m into Ishiguro’s contemporary tale about the longing for human connection. Ishiguro gets it.
I’m beyond tired now. Enervated is probably the best word. Spent might work, too. Long days and nights with fellow soldiers. Then protracted rides back home. But we did it. Little sleep. But . . . mission accomplished. Another one down, as the saying goes. And it’s back to work tomorrow.
But not before I rejoice at the kindness of providence in my absence. When I walked upstairs to throw dirty socks and boxers in the laundry basket, CJ had long before changed the linens and made the bed and vacuumed and dusted everything. The bed was taut-clean sheets, my sundry pillows stood up like ramparts upon a castle for sleep, and the comforter fluffy and clean. I was home.
How does one express the embarrassingly simple joys of coming home to one you love? My only answer: words. Just write. Maybe someone else gets it, and cares. She’s precious–this one who labors for me, in my absence, who endures so much time with my being away–good for a paycheck but deprived of my physical presence.
It’s this connection to glorious beauty of the mundane I miss–the fluffed pillows, my wife’s pretty pink toes, the nuzzle of my dog, the brush of the family cat upon my calf. Call it sentimental, but it’s home. And as Baum accurately captured, there’s no place like it.
Another week has come and gone at Warfighter. The weather here has thus far been ideal. Daytime temperatures are in the 80s and the nights cool after the sun has descended. Our soldiers have discovered their rhythms. Many are operating on 12-hour shifts–daytime and nighttime. You can tell based upon the exposure, of lack thereof, to sunlight.
The sound waves carry the constant hmmmmm of the generators that power our military computers and electronic equipment. The intel and current operations shops in the tents are like walking into a big box electronics store, all aglow with monitors displaying maps with contour lines, lines of advance, bridges, roads, rivers, etc.
The signal guys are constantly monitoring communication assets and vulnerabilities. The future operations guys are wargaming how to react to anticipated enemy attacks. Fires and artillery are doing the same.
Our unit legal team is researching questions and answers related to queries from some of our downtrace units.
I walk amongst the troops, checking on everyone, engaging in small talk, trying to encourage them during these long days. Often they speak of their families and loved ones back home. Others are working through strains with their civilian employers.
I sit down to type a bit in order to clarify my thoughts. A few meters away is the tent entrance and the concertina wire surrounding our area of operations.
So far, so good–the long days and nights, the hmmmmm of the generators, the Chinooks and Black Hawks slicing across the sky above us, the guys leaning forward into their tasks.
As is often the case, we measure time based upon chow–hots for breakfast and supper, and MREs for lunch. Many of us are skipping meals. The chow here will keep you alive but no wise soldier eats more than is necessary. Hot sauce almost makes it edible. The coffee could double as diesel fuel.
“Hey, chappy. Services tonight?” a soldier asks.
“Of course, brother. I’m ready anytime.”
“See you at 1900, sir.”
“Roger that, brother,” I said.
And this is the way it goes.
I look over at my black notebook with my notes of what I’ll speak on this evening–anxiety and how to navigate it as a Christian.
I look over at a Hawthorne novel to my left that I’ve almost completed during the long nights–The House of Seven Gables. It’s my third time reading this one but I value Hawthorne’s insights still.
Missing my wife, I look at pictures of her I keep in my phone photos. She’s going to get her hair done today, so she’ll be prettier than ever–once again. I missed her birthday this week, and our son’s birthday, due to being away with my military unit. But they’ve endured my military absences for decades now, and are doing it again.
The days tick by, the generators hmmmmm, I type a bit more, and now it’s time to return to our guys.
My black Hoka slippers pointed toe-first under the bed frame. Just to get out of the bed was a feat. Though inches away from my feet as I worked the morning’s covers off me, it took minutes to retrieve my right leg out from under the covers and lay it down over my side of the bed and eventually fit both feet in the slippers and try to stand. In the back of my mind I was seeing snippets of “The Oldest Man” clock repair skits with Tim Conway and Harvey Corman from The Carol Burnett Show I laughed at so many evenings as a boy, where Conway would shuffle across his office floor at the speed of congealed mud. But I wasn’t laughing now, as much I may’ve wanted.
Eventually I got both legs over the edge of the bed and into my slippers. My prayer was that, upon standing, I’d not collapse onto the bedroom carpet. My right ankle was staggeringly sore and weak. This latest injury summoned levels of pain I have not experienced heretofore. Kidney stones didn’t compare. Right shoulder, rotator cuff, and torn bicep surgery didn’t even compare. And the Army doctors had put me on Oxycodone after that ordeal. But this pain was worse. Incomparably worse.
Yesterday, my wife drove me to Atlanta to a spinal clinic for an injection. The doctor wanted to send me for an MRI, too, but it was going to be days before I could even get in for that, he said. No dice. I could not wait days. We went back to my physical therapist. She dry-needled my glutes, sacrum, and right leg. She manipulated my leg muscles, my glutes, my back, and my core muscles. When I arrived at her office, I shuffled like “The Oldest Man” Tim Conway character. After the first visit, I could walk without crying. I know pain tolerance is individual, and I know some tough guys and gals, but this nerve pain was like nothing I could have imagined. It felt like electric volts were flashing through my back, right leg, ankle, and foot. My wife watched tears roll down my cheek as I curled into the fetal position on my left side in efforts to find relief. When at the spinal doctor’s office earlier, I’d had to collapse onto the floor on all fours like a baby. Meanwhile, the doc sat on a rolling stool and asked me how my pain level was on a scale from one to ten. I said, “Eleven.” But he didn’t laugh. I’m done with that guy. He may be good with spines but he’s awful with people.
Since slipping on my sandals this morning, I’ve been able to do little but shuffle like the Tim Conway character and let Ladybug, our Cavalier King Charles spaniel, sleep on my chest. She seems to sense I’m hurting, and she’s been my constant companion. I could not go to Sunday school or church today, and Sunday is my favorite day of the week. It’s when we get to gather with the saints and sing and pray and fellowship and sit under the preaching of the Word. My associate pastor at Christ Covenant Church (3cs-canton.org) preached through more of the pastoral epistles and even served the Lord’s Supper today to our people. Many from the church reached out via texts and emails to minister to me. For all of that concern I am grateful.
Since I was unable to gather with the body, I read Scripture this morning outside in the early morning sun. I read the Book of Nehemiah and saw once again how God was faithful to his covenant promises and how Nehemiah and others rebuilt the wall. There was opposition, of course, but that is the way ministry goes–then, now, and always.
I sat outside and watched the birds fly to my birdfeeder, peck at seeds, dive for sunflower seeds, then flutter off to nearby limbs to eat and watch me as I watched them. Our neighbors saw me shuffling like a geriatric outside and asked if they could do anything for me. No, I said. Just pray my physical therapy works. We exchanged small talk for a bit and I afterwards shuffled back to my chair to read some more and watch the birds and miss my wife and church family.
What’s the point? Is it to wallow in self-pity? No. It’s that I’m learning how fragile life can be. Bones give way; ankles roll; knees lock; discs move–sometimes the wrong ways. And just like that, everything can change. You find yourself helpless. People ask to help but there really is not much most of them can do but tell you that they’ve been there, too, so to speak. Everyone has a story. I guess this one’s mine.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to go to work tomorrow. I’ve already missed two days due to this injury. And my wife is the first to tell you that I need to work. I don’t do well when I’m not working. I love what I do, and if I have to sit on a couch or lie in bed, I make everyone around me as miserable as I am. Admittedly, I’m a horrible patient. I need to be doing. But here I am, trying to read, to write, watching the birds, listening to Ladybug snore on my chest.
Let me end with some encouragement, though. For the physical therapist, Kari, you’ve blessed me already. I’d never been dry-needled before but you’ve made a believer out of me. I’ll see you tomorrow evening for my next round of therapy. Joe, my chiropractor, I cannot thank you enough for your work on my back and knees. And most of all to Carrie Jane, you’ve watched me crawl on all fours like a bear because I could not stand; you’ve watched me curse my condition and beg God to remove this pain, and I’ve been a horrible grouch, but you’ve stuck with me. And to my church family, thank you–for praying, texting, emailing, etc. and for pressing on with glorifying God through all circumstances.
In my favorite book of Scripture, there are many lines that resonate with me. One of those is this one: “Behold, what I have seen to be good and fitting is to eat and drink and find enjoyment in all the toil with which one toils under the sun the few days of his life that God has given him, for this is his lot” (Eccl. 5:18).
This morning I officiated at another military funeral honors at the military veterans’ cemetery in our town. Today’s ceremony was for a Marine. I chatted with the firing team before the ceremony, the men who’d fire the volleys as taps was played. I spoke with the two young Marines, too, who’d unfurl and refold the flag. Both were logisticians as Marines, and the senior NCO, a GySgt, and I spoke of his upcoming transfer out to Washington from Georgia, and of his bride-to-be, a woman completing graduate school in Georgia.
When I concluded my remarks at the funeral honors, and told the Marines, “Proceed with honors!” and the bugler began playing taps, the next-of-kin, the wife of the deceased Marine, burst into tears. It’s not uncommon, but it’s always visceral–to see the tears come, then the shaking, then the wailing.
The Marines folded the flag and presented to the Marine’s bride. She clutched the flag and her whole body shook as she wept. The Marines and I marched back to our cars after we concluded our roles. I shook hands again with the young Marines and we all went our separate ways.
After the day wore on, it occurred to me it was Friday evening. I took CJ out to a steakhouse chain we frequent. We had a wonderful waitress, Yolanda, who chatted with us about our mutual love of dogs. She spoke of Bailey, her bulldog, and we listened and smiled.
We ate our salads and I ate my steak, and we drove afterwards to pick up a sportcoat for me from a local retail store, and then came home for the evening. I read for a bit, and then graded some of my college students’ papers, and reached over to pet our family dog, Ladybug, with regularity, where she snored on her chair beside my desk.
After a few more papers, I’ll read until I grow tired. I have an early morning tomorrow, as I’ll go to pick up supplies from a fellow pastor-friend of mine. Their church has graciously come alongside ours to support us. In ministry, such like-minded brothers are a blessing.
CJ is in the living room working on music for Sunday at church, and as I sit with papers to grade before me and listen to Ladybug snore, and my belly is full from a good meal, my cup is full. I am like the man in Solomon’s Ecclesiastes 5:18. I love my toil, the fatigue that comes at the end of the evening as the wind comes through the window screens, and CJ plays upon her piano, and as we prepare for gathering with the saints this coming Lord’s Day at Christ Covenant Church, my cup is full and I am grateful.
This morning I awoke after a good night’s sleep. I rested well. If you, too, are one who struggles to experience quality rest, a good night’s sleep is a blessing.
I was excited when I woke up, too. Excited in a good way. My wife and I met our kids in town for an adjustment by our famiy chiropractor. After three of us had our adjustments, we patronized Cracker Barrel for a wonderful meal. We had a wonderful waitress, too. (Taylor, you were wonderful.)
Our son saw one of his buddies at Cracker Barrel, and they did their cool guy handshakes that I fail to understand.
I rocked my granddaughter in her carrier, while she slept after having been fed by her mom. Lennon has that baby smell I wish would never depart. I cannot help but kiss her. My cup was full.
We came home afterwards for a bit. Three bucks were on the hill opposite the driveway. They watched us as I parked the car and we came in for a bit. I picked up my Dickens novel and CJ responded to texts from friends about church tomorrow.
Ladybug is now settled in beside me while I dive back into A Tale of Two Cities. Goob is down for a nap. And in an hour we leave to go through a maze game with friends down in the city.
As I look out from my home library window, the trees are tall and still. It is about 50 degrees outside–perfect weather, in my view. The deer are browsing on the hills and a male cardinal is at my birdfeeder.
Looking forward to an evening with a group of friends as we figure our way out of the mazes. My wife loves puzzles, so I’m sure we’ll succeed.
We have touched base with the saints for tomorrow. We will gather, pray, fellowship, eat, sing, and we’ll open the Word to 1 Peter to see what God has provided there for us.
In a word, grateful. I’m grateful to the Lord for what His providential, kind, sovereign hand is building. I am, again, grateful.
It’s the last day of 2025. Another year has come and gone.
As I walked out to the track today for some PT in the sunshine I thought a great deal about some of the blessings and trials that came my way this year. But one word kept bubbling to the surface of my mind: gratitude.
Some of the things/events/people, etc. for which I am grateful follow:
Our first grandchild came into this world. She is healthy, beautiful, and we look forward to being Godly grandparents like my wife and I had.
Friends. This year, we rediscovered–yet again–what blessings true friends are.
We went on an Alaskan cruise with friends. It was beyond beautiful; it was spectacular, in every sense of that term.
The true church. We learned once again the beauty, comfort, power, and accountability the true church is and what Jesus demonstrated in giving His life for His people.
Laughter. Yes, the world is crazy; I learned a bit more to just laugh at the stupidity and let it all go. There’s wisdom in knowing when to walk away from certain things.
My bride. After a quarter of a century together, she’s more precious to me than ever. She puts up with me, and still lets me hang around her.
Pets. I’ve always been (and remain) crazy about dogs. We had to put my beloved German shepherd, Brewster, down this year, but he and our other fur babies continually taught me the unique joys of family pets.
Our children. Our daughter and son-in-law brought their first child into this world, and we rejoice in that and pray that they would center their lives around the cross of Christ, and live in ways that please the Lord. And our son is blossoming in music ministry. He got his mom’s ear and talents for all-things-musical.
My calling in ministry. I absolutely love what I do. I am a soldier; I get to hang with fellow soldiers; and I get to do ministry for them and amongst them. I love the paths God has ordained for me in military and civilian ministry. I am so grateful.
I could go on. You likely have your own list. So here’s to 2026. Blessings to each of you for the year to come.
“Do you want to push her in the stroller?” my wife asked.
Unhesitatingly, I put down John Irving’s novel, Last Night in Twisted River, thatI was reading on the rear patio and hopped up, smiling.
CJ placed Lennon in her new black stroller. Lennon squirmed and cooed, and sucked on her blue pacifier.
It is moments like this when I hear Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” lyrics in my mind’s ear:
If I could save time in a bottle The first thing that I’d like to do Is to save every day ‘Til eternity passes away Just to spend them with you
If I could make days last forever If words could make wishes come true I’d save every day like a treasure and then Again, I would spend them with you
But there never seems to be enough time To do the things you want to do Once you find them I’ve looked around enough to know That you’re the one I want to go Through time with
If I had a box just for wishes And dreams that had never come true The box would be empty Except for the memory Of how they were answered by you
But there never seems to be enough time To do the things you want to do Once you find them I’ve looked around enough to know That you’re the one I want to go Through time with
The sun was going down through the pines. Some of the neighborhood dogs barked in the distance at deer down in the branch behind the houses.
I pushed the stroller, Lennon asleep and rocking, as we walked the nighborhood streets. Three kids at the end of the cul-de-sac were playing basketball. A girl skated down the street in what appeared to be new rollerblades. They were a bright pink, matching the ribbons she had in her hair.
I could hear traffic in the distance, the sounds of wheels rolling down I-20. CJ and I found ourselves wordlessly joyful. We just looked at Lennon Ray in her red onesie as she lay in her black stroller, as she nodded to sleep and then would briefly open her eyes as she felt the macadam beneath her stroller’s wheels.
We strolled and strolled. When we came back to our daugher and son-in-law’s home, CJ began cooking fajitas for the adults.
Taylor Ray put Lennon in a bouncing seat on the counter as CJ prepared supper, and I chatted with our son-in-law and played with his dogs.
I sat down again in the wicker chair on the back patio and picked up the Irving novel again, but then put it back down in order to write this. I know what Croce meant in his beautiful song. If I, too, could save time in a bottle, this would be one of those times. Maybe this little writing will preserve it in a small way. Merry Christmas, everyone.
MIND & MATTERS 