CJ and I drove with some friends back to where I spent much time in my late teens and twenties. We all took a few days off from work to come to Cullowhee and surrounding areas. We’re using the week to think and pray through the direction for the future of the church body we serve.
We’re taking in the waterfalls, some of the local bookstores and ice cream and chocolate shops, stopping by my old college stomping grounds where I did a couple of my degrees, walking the grounds of which I have precious memories with Ken, Wayne, Barclay, Sara, Cameron, and others.
The school’s much larger now. The student body has doubled in size from when I arrived many moons ago. And Sylva has lots of new shops, but some of the old ones are still around, just in new locations. There are small breweries and art shops, though, and it still has that lovely western NC feel.
From the cabin where I sit now, the clouds hang like carefree marshmallows above the mountains. Two hummingbirds dart to and from the feeder hanging from the deck. I can hear the creek running down below us, swift due to the morning’s heavy rainfall. As far as you can see, it’s mountains and memories.
We patronized City Lights Bookstore in Sylva. I purchased a WCU sweatshirt for my wife from the campus bookstore. I looked at the wonderful Ron Rash books for sale to fellow bibliophiles and literature lovers.
It all washes over me, and something deep within my soul returns to being a boy here, finding my way, cruising the Blue Ridge Parkway with my buddies, hiking, and dreaming of our futures.
It’s only Tuesday, and I am already excited about tomorrow, when we’ll take in waterfalls, trek Highlands, Cashiers, and perhaps drive on up to the Parkway one more time–to gaze, ponder, and feel the strings of the soul plucked by the beauty pervading this place.
I didn’t have to go to drill as part of my military duties today, so I was able to meet a friend for Saturday morning coffee. I did my morning routine, put on a pair of shorts and t-shirt, running shoes, cap, and headed downstairs to my car. I drove down the hills and finally arrived at the local coffee shop he and I frequent. We both pulled into the parking lot at the same time and walked in together and ordered our bagels and coffee.
While standing in line, a lady turned around and said enthusiastically, “Hey, Jon!”
She’d caught me off guard, because I was watching the lady behind the counter toast my bagel. “Hi,” I returned.
“How’s the church going?” she asked. I suddenly realized I had not introduced my friend to her. Picking up on the timing, she introduced herself to him, and we all swapped pleasantries and caught up while we waited for our coffee and bagels.
My friend and I took a table outside (I don’t do well when it comes to hearing if there’s a crowd), as is our custom.
He had a couple of books with him–one of Christian creeds and confessions and another volume, an overview of church history. We discussed snippets of the week we’d had–things going on at work, with church, and more. And like all of our conversations, there was a genuineness that is lacking in most interactions. We really listened to one another.
He spoke of his longing to see his congregation reach the younger generations–Gens Z and Alpha. Inside my head, I was trying to make sure I had the accurate demographics in mind. I listened. Several terms recurred in his monologue. He said that people of my generation (I’m in my 50s) grew up and church was just what we did. Literally, there were churches on every street corner. People went Sundays, Wednesdays, etc. but the results were often scant. There was little to any depth. People went out of cultural conformity and tradition. It was comfortable. “It was just what you did,” he said.
“But people my age [he’s in his thirties] are hungry for purpose, connection, and meaning,” he said.
I found myself listening deeply.
When it was appropriate for me to speak, I told him what I’d understood him to have said.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said.
I had a woman who said to me months back a phrase that came to mind and I shared it with him.
“You know, I had a woman tell me some time back that people didn’t really desire truth. What they desire is comfort.”
“She’s right, Jon. That’s most people,” he said.
I love these Saturday morning conversations with my young friend. We exchange stories of our weeks. We listen carefully to one another. We speak of books we’re poring through. We sip our coffee and munch our bagels. We enjoy the staff at our local coffee shop. We speak of our love of the gospel and the church, and of how much we need to be more faithful in reaching the outside world with the message that satisfies the longings for purpose, connection, and meaning. We are, after all, made for meaning. And I think it may, more often than not, be found not in entertainment, online doomscrolling, and light shows. I think it is found in one-on-one conversations and investments with hungry souls right across the table from us.
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,
Lonesome Dove is the main book I’m currently reading. But it is about 900 pages in length. 858 to be precise. And the font is, I’m speculating, about 10-point Times New Roman. I felt the need to get up and peruse some other books. Augustus and Deets and Call and the other fellas would be here when I got back.
“I’m going to go to one of the bookstores,” I said to CJ.
“Oh, you need another one?” she quipped.
“No, I just need to see what’s out there. There’s a Barnes & Noble and a Books-A-Million just down the way. I’ll be back in a few,” I said.
I grabbed my wallet, laced up my On Cloud running shoes, borrowed our daughter’s car keys, kissed CJ on the cheek, walked out the door, boarded the elevator, and walked towards her vehicle downstairs in the parking lot.
A summer rain had been on and off again throughout the day. The sky was that muggy FL haze common in summer. The traffic was light but constant on US HWY 98 between Destin and Panama City. I read the tags on the vehicles: TN, TX, KY, GA, and lots of local FL ones.
Fifteen minutes later I arrived at the Barnes & Noble. I walked in, eager to see how this one would be arranged book-wise. Again I was disapppointed to see there was no Classics section. Instead there were sections of Manga, Mystery/Thriller/True Crime, Romance and Fantasy, Bibles, New Age, Philosophy, a small Poetry section, and sections for what Barnes & Noble called Young Readers. And there was all manner of gifts–journals, coffee cups, bookmarks, stationery, pens, toys, etc.
Once I discovered that the classics would be hard to find, I went to the Fiction section and looked for what I took as the basics they’d surely have. I did at last find some Dickens, Faulkner, Hemingway, McCarthy, McMurtry, Powers, and Wharton, and Whitman. Hope, at last.
I pulled Powers’ Bewilderment off the shelf and read the first few paragraphs. Like his other books, I found them marvelous and instructive. Powers is focused on what’s being done to the natural world in the name of progress, and he has my ear.
A young man in his twenties appproached near where I stood reading. He kept getting closer and closer, such that I looked up to see if I was perhaps in his way, perhaps blocking his view. He never made eye contact. But he kept standing right next to me. It gave me what my deceased grandfather called the “heeby-jeebies,” so I reshelved the Powers novel and moved on to the Poetry section and perused some Whitman and other poets.
After the creeper moved on, I returned to the Fiction section and thumbed through some familiar literary friends’ books–Larry McMurtry, Edith Wharton, William Gaddis. I lost track of time. I knew CJ and the family would be making jokes of my being in a bookstore and likely would have wagered I’d return with a bag of purchases. But I didn’t give in. I simply made note of volumes I’ve yet to read, but that had caught my interest. There was one called Mailman by Grant that looked like a fun read. Plus I love the region that served as its primary setting.
Nothing really stood out to me–other than the fact that reading seems to be marketed to what sells, not necessarily what is actually lasting and good. Maybe that’s just the old codger coming out in me. That lament has probably been part of bibliophiles’ sentiment since Gutenberg blessed the world during the Reformation.
Back at the beach house now. The sun has popped out. And I’m back with McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove and saddled in with Call and Gus and the boys en route to Montana, to see what happens.
We’re going out for seafood this evening. CJ will want some (no, many!) crab legs, and I’ll be on the hunt for grouper and shrimp.
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.
When I was a boy, the house I grew up in had a black iron bell on the front porch. In the afternoons after school, and especially during summers, I would be outdoors most of the days if the weather was right. The other boys and I in our postage stamp of soil would be outside like little Huck Finns–building forts, making ramps on which to jump our bikes, fishing, camping, hunting, exploring the woods and the many fields, scouting for deer, trying to trap rabbits. On and on it went. A boy’s paradise in smalltown rural life. We didn’t have much money. I didn’t know that at the time. We were simple people with simple pleasures, and I was filling my boy soul with sights, sounds, and smells that shaped who I am.
Currently I’m away from home as part of my military duties, but at night I’m able to read Scripture and study. When I return to Christ Covenant Church (3cs-canton.org), I will resume teaching through Peter’s two epistles. The next text is 2 Peter 1, the opening chapter, where Peter writes about evidences of Christianity. He lists multiple qualities/characteristics of believers (2 Pt 1:5-7).
And then in verse 10, it struck me like Mom’s ringing the black iron bell on the front porch when it was time for me to come in. When she’d ring that, the sound would travel across the ponds, through the pines, across the fields. I knew it was time to get home. “Dark-thirty,” is the phrase that was used.
In verse 10, Peter writes, “Therefore, brothers, be all the more diligent to confirm your calling and election, for if you practice these qualities you will never fall.” There’s something about that calling that summons the soul, that brings me back to the clear sound of that bell I heard countless times as a boy.
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.
This morning, I conducted what we call chapel/religious services with my guys at Warfighter. I’d not had much sleep and was very sluggish this morning after very little rest. The enemy kept whispering to me, “No one’s going to come to your service, chaplain. It’s going to fail.” But I pressed on.
I went and ate a few runny eggs and greasy bacon at chow and labored to pray to the Lord: “God, bring your people. Use me to encourage them this morning. Glorify yourself.” But I still felt enervated. And the passage I had chosen to teach was from James, about perseverance amidst trials. I felt the internal conflict. How could I encourage my fellow soldiers when I’d slept so little and felt so insufficient? But I pressed on.
I went around the area of operations and checked on everyone and reminded them of the service in the next hour. Soon, the shelter began to see bodies. Soldiers showed up–red, yellow, black, and white, and all of us in Army green. “What can we do to set up, chaplain?” they asked.
“If y’all can set up some tables and chairs, that’d be great.” Inside, I was suddenly bursting with joy. They were showing up.
Within three minutes, about 35 soldiers were gathered. I felt like God had said, “Hey, chaplain. Watch this. Don’t doubt me.”
My cup was suddenly full.
I laid out the elements for the Lord’s Supper, opened my notebook with sermon notes, and opened my Bible, and began.
A buddy of mine snapped a few pictures of some of us.
I taught through a couple of verses from James and Peter, and cross-referenced a passage from Hebrews 12. The soldiers opened up. We talked. I listened. Then I taught some more, and tried to truly listen to our guys. God moved.
Afterwards, a lieutenant came up to me to speak. He shared about his family, his faith background, and about his military ambitions. Then another soldier came to me about his kids. Then another soldier and I spoke of his struggles and his appreciation for the homily. On and on it went. “Red, yellow, black, and white; they are precious in his sight,” is the way the ditty goes from children’s church. Guess what? That’s true, still.
It’s not about our insecurities. It’s not about our insufficiencies. It’s about God. It’s that Christ is all and he is sufficient. “From every tribe, language, people, and nation” is the way John phrases it in Revelation. Yes and amen.
