What will you wear for Halloween?
The trees are changing faces, and the
rough chins of chestnut burrs
grimace and break to show their
sleek brown centers. The hills
have lost their mask of green and grain,
settled into a firmer geometry
of uncolored line and curve.
Which face will you say is true—
the luminous trees or the branches underneath?
The green husks of walnuts, the shell within,
or the nut curled intimately inside,
sheltered like a brain within its casing?
Be careful with what you know,
with what you think you see.
Moment by moment faces shift,
masks lift and fall again, repainted
to a different scene. It means,
the cynics say, there is no truth,
no constant to give order to the great equation.
Meanwhile, the trees, leaf by leaf,
are telling stories inevitably true:
Green. Gold. Vermillion. Brown.
The lace of veins remaining
as each cell returns to soil.
Lynn Ungar’s book of poetry, Bread and Other Miracles, is available at www.lynnungar.com
Like many people in North America, today I am watching the weather maps anxiously, wondering if the people I love in various places will be safe and sound. Though I am personally far from any swirling images, I wonder whether people I know, and those I have never met, will have a warm place to sleep and food to eat.
Extreme weather is such a clear reminder that we’re not in charge. Sure, people can and do buy batteries, generators, milk and bread, if they can afford to. People go vote early and take in their lawn furniture. People move to a home in a safer place if they have the opportunity to. They adjust their schedules, confer with their neighbors, stay close to pronouncements from public officials. But underneath all of this activity, what is fundamentally clear in these times is that people are not in charge of our planet.
Knowing that we’re not in charge is scary, as are these major weather systems. And yet there is fundamentally something positive about it as well. Someone tweeted today that Hurricane Sandy is saying, “Ignore global climate change in the debates, will you?” The truth behind that humor is that global climate change doesn’t care whether or not it is mentioned. It is on its own trajectory, as all weather is.
So, I pray that everyone is safe this week, that all have food to eat and a place to stay dry. I pray that houses and freeways, libraries and airports are not damaged. I pray that these storms pass over and quickly become nothing but a distant memory of another calamity that did not befall us.
But I also pray that the alertness we are all feeling, the clarity that we’re not in charge, the realization that we need to look out for everyone and hope that they will also look out for us, stays in place whether Hurricane Sandy blows by or hits land. These are life-affirming pieces of awareness, most vivid in times of crisis but useful every day of our lives.
For those of us in the U.S., it feels particularly important, in these last days before the election, to realize how much we are all in it together. Whatever the slogans of parties and candidates may be, in times like this, we all need each other to make it through—the practices of various parts of various levels of government, the generosity of business and churches and civic organizations, the ingenuity and initiative of indviduals.
May we all be safe, and may we all remember how much we need one another in these times, and in all times.
Let’s be fair, here. I’m sure that Richard Mourdock did not in any way mean to defend rape when he said that he thinks that God intends for babies to be born who are conceived through rape. I would hope that no one could believe in a God who intends for women to be raped. But I’m sure there are brave women who have borne their rapist’s baby, whether that rapist is a husband, boyfriend or stranger, and who regard their child as something precious that managed to grow from a terrible beginning. Such is the amazing resilience that can come to the human heart, and wouldn’t God be present in that beautiful redemption?
But let’s get real here for a moment. One could certainly imagine a God who could redeem even something as terrible as rape through the love of an innocent child. But when did it become the government’s job to determine on God’s behalf that this is the necessary outcome? For every woman who has chosen to keep and love a child conceived through rape there are probably many more who choose a morning after pill or abortion to end a pregnancy that they never wanted, and which would be an intolerable life-long symbol of a great violation. Why would you assume that God is not in that decision as well? Why wouldn’t God be there at the side of a woman as she struggles to reclaim her life and her strength and her ability to move forward in the world? Is God not in that woman’s choice to restore her own integrity and wholeness as she understands it?
I won’t presume to speak for God, but I will tell you what I think. When a woman is raped, God’s body is torn as her body is torn. When a fetus is aborted, some piece of God’s potential is lost. But God’s potential is infinite, and a woman reclaiming her life is no less a part of God’s potential. Indeed, every moment when every person chooses life, whatever that might mean to that person at the time, is a part of the potential of God unfolding.
It isn’t the job of politicians to decide which bits of potential God finds most precious. It is the job of each us, day by day and minute by minute, to decide what will constitute life more abundant for ourselves and the world we inhabit, and to act as the body of God in living out that choice. The role of the government is to support those decisions or get out of the way.
Back before the Twin Towers fell and the Pentagon was attacked by plane, before there was a US Department of Homeland Security, way back when ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) was known as the INS (Immigration and Naturalization Service,) – a lifetime ago and yet still less than fifteen years have passed – I served as a Legal Tech for an immigration law firm in Washington, DC. I was a twenty-something white woman, with southern working class roots and a damned fine Midwestern liberal arts college education, figuring out if I wanted to go to law school.
In addition to filing forms at the law firm, I was a narrative gatekeeper. In search of asylum, an HIV-waiver, a work visa? Sit down in that chair and tell your story to me, in all its intimate and gory details. My job was to take your story and craft a narrative that would compel government officials to consider your case favorably (or at all, in some cases).
It was extraordinary work. I met families from Iran, the Philippines, Malaysia, El Salvador, Nicaragua, the United Kingdom, Sri Lanka – from all over the world. Each had an extraordinary story – some that were exciting, some that made my stomach turn, some that broke my heart open. After just a few months of working with the firm, I added Tums® to my requested office supply list and I went through them by the bottle.
I was angry that any human being had to share the excruciating details of their torture and their trauma to a recent college graduate and pray that she told their story well enough for an officer or a judge to grant them grace. I was angry at how much harm was inflicted by my country on people who had already suffered much harm in their country. Soon I figured out that I did not want to grow up to be a lawyer. I did not want to risk growing immune to the power of these stories or becoming complicit in the process. What I wanted to do was work for systems change.
Many years later down the winding road of my life, I found myself standing in an ICE office for hours. I was bonding an immigrant – the friend of a friend of a friend, ripped away from his family and hauled out to detention in rural Louisiana.
Memories of dozens of stories from the cases I had worked on flooded over me as I waited in the reception space during the long stretches between each step of the ICE process.
I remembered the proud father terrified that his extremely Westernized daughter would be stoned to death if deport to their home country.
I remembered the gay man who had seen his friends killed for daring to hold hands and who had fled his homeland in fear of his own life.
I remembered the woman raped by an elder of her church and denied the letter of good standing that would have allowed her to become a citizen.
I remembered the sweet faced Latino youth who was infected with HIV while in detention in the US and then denied status because he was HIV-positive.
I remembered their stories and the stories of so many others who struggled to create a better life for themselves and their families here in these United States.
Because I know their stories, immigration will always be a moral issue for me. Because I know their stories, I will not buy into the dehumanizing stereotypes being peddled to me and my fellow patriots. Because I know their stories, I will stand – in an ICE office, in the pulpit, in the voting booth, in the interwebs – on the side of love. I invite you to stand on the side of love, too.
I wrote this prayer sitting in a military chapel in Afghanistan. The prayer was inspired by my encounter with a service-member I met. She was on her way home after a difficult tour as the lead officer on a joint theater trauma team. Among the experiences she shared with me was the memory of five Afghan children who were burned and blinded by an improvised explosive device. After I wrote this prayer I sent it to her. My hope is that these words may help her and others progress along the journey home.
Oh Gracious God,
Spirit of Life,
Source of Love
What has become of me — I am broken!
Deliver me from the dread of memory,
hatred, cruelty, and revenge,
meaningless loss,
and betrayal of trust.
Lift me from distressing dreams,
regrets, doubts, speculations,
the violence that fills my eyes and scars my soul,
and questions that have no answer.
Grant me courage
to feel my pain and grieve my loss,
and serenity to accept that the past is done;
I will never return to my old self.
Still, let gladness, faith, and hope return to me,
and let me remember the love for me that endures
even when I cannot love myself,
and even when I cannot love you.
Help me to lay my burdens
into your compassionate and forgiving hands,
and open my heart to see goodness and feel joy,
wherever it is to be found.
Guide me from isolation to beloved community,
where my anguish can be heard and felt,
where trust and wholeness can be restored,
where I may carry this new identity — this sacred wound — with honor.
Strengthen me in the ways of the Warrior,
the ways of justice, kindness and humility,
so that, knowing death, I may more fully live,
with gratitude for each moment, and reverence for life.
Amen
Disclaimer: All entries to CLF/Quest Military Ministries page reflect the personal views of the contributor. The views expressed here are in no way to be construed as an individual or individuals speaking in their official capacities for the agencies, departments, or service branches they serve in. This is not an official publication of the Department of Defense, the U.S. Army, U.S. Navy, U.S. Coast Guard, U.S. Marine Corps, U.S. Air Force, any government agency, or any other organization.
Truth be told, I don’t feel like writing a blog this morning. I just feel like watching Katy Perry and an 11 year old autistic girl named Jodi DiPiazza perform Perry’s song, “Fireworks,” over and over. Having watched it about eight times now—and forced everyone who has been near my Iphone or computer to do the same these past couple of days—I still get weepy each time and feel as if I’ve seen a glimpse of The Holy. (And yes, thanks for asking, I did donate money, too.)
The people I’ve forced to watch it include my own Very Sophisticated Sixteen-Year-Old, who, when instructed, “Come and watch this and cry with me!” sneered when I put it on: “Katy Perry? Seriously, you think Katy Perry could make me cry?” –having listened to Katy Perry Years Ago and all!—but then pleaded ‘something in my eye’ midway through the video. I was glad, because I had posted the link on my facebook page with the words, “Call 911 if this doesn’t make you cry. Your heart is not beating anymore.” Whew. #Notatotalfailureasamother.
I love knowing that all over the country, people of every political persuasion are weeping to this video. I think watching it helps us to remember why we’re on the planet, and who we are as a people, and that it’s not about dueling ideologies. It’s about helping each other ‘ignite the light and let it shine’—helping each other to flourish, to shine brightly as fireworks, no matter who we are.
“Do you ever feel like a plastic bag, drifting through the wind?” Jodi sings to us, and those of us who did not learn the lyrics Years Ago are knocked over by the message and the messenger and how completely they merge. The crowd roars delight, and we see this amazing, brave, child receive the cheers completely in her body and take a deeper breath from the transmission.
“Boom, Boom, Boom, Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon” we watch Katy singing to Jodi, describing the beauty right before her eyes, love pouring off of her whole body right into that child, overflowing, and pouring into us as well.
And, how much do we need that message ourselves right now? Dealing with her autism, Jodi and her family have clearly overcome obstacles most of us can only imagine. But which of us hasn’t felt “like a house of cards, one blow from caving in?”
How much does this country need to believe, as we wade through the rubble of what’s left of our common life together, “If you only knew what the future holds/ after a hurricane comes a rainbow”?
This song’s power has been making me think that we’ve got the communications thing all screwed up. It is with humility as a preacher/ writer that I say music is exponentially more powerful than words. No spoken message could have millions of us watching this video over and over, drinking in its energy as if we have been wandering in the desert for too long and stumbled onto an oasis.
Just thinking: Maybe instead of, or in addition to, political ‘debates,’ which are increasingly less about policy and more about posturing anyway, we should have “sing offs” before the elections. Let artists and musicians sing out their dreams of who we could be, and let the people decide which candidate is more likely to take us there.
But for now, we have Katy and Jodi to help us remember. And I’m grateful for that! (Want to watch with me now?)
Katy Perry and Jodi DiPiazza sing Fireworks
“Love is the spirit of this church, and service is its law.” So begins a well-beloved passage adapted from the words of the Rev. James Vila Blake, a Unitarian Universalist minister in Evanston, Illinois. These words are often spoken in the life of our faith. Several of the congregations I’ve served spoke them communally every week as part of their worship.
When we say certain words or phrases over and over again, there are several possible effects. One is that our brains tune out the repeated stimulus. I suspect most schoolchildren have this kind of relationship with the Pledge of Allegiance. But another effect of saying things repeatedly is that they become deeply engrained into who we are. Are the words of this statement engraved into the souls of those who speak them?
“Love is the spirit of this church.” This is a powerful statement. If it is true, and we all hope that on some level it is true, it obliges us not only to walk together in love, but to think deeply about what it means for us to love.
Too many churches embrace the fallacy that caring and inclusion mean the absence of conflict. This is a horribly destructive falsehood, because it stifles the creative and transformative confrontation of conflict. Caring and inclusion mean that conflict is addressed in a caring and inclusive way. An environment in which the tacit agreement is that we will avoid saying or doing anything somebody might disagree with is not one of caring and inclusion. If we assert, explicitly or implicitly, that controversy is not welcome, that disagreement is against the rules, what we are really saying is that we don’t actually trust each other. Dissent and disagreement, when they are expressed respectfully, are an expression of trust. We are saying to that other person: I trust you; I trust that you will take these remarks in the spirit of good will in which they were intended; I trust that you will engage in this dialogue with me in a respectful and thoughtful way.
Most churches aren’t real enthusiastic about dealing with conflict, and frankly, while it’s not healthy to be conflict-avoidant, some folks make a fetish of conflict — they relish fussin’ ’n’ fightin’ so much that that’s the only way they know how to be in relationship with others. It’s not impossible to find Unitarian Universalist congregations that fit that bill, though of course it ain’t just us. Every human group has its conflicts, whether it’s a family or a factory workforce or a town council or a church. Crises are a part of the nature of things, and crises create conflict. Such conflict can be addressed in any number of ways, but where there is a crisis, there will be a conflict. Stasis is not the nature of the universe; things change, things move, and predicaments arise, and with them, conflicts. Conflict is a part of life. The question is not whether or not we have to deal with conflicts, but how we respond to them, and how we may respond to the inevitable conflicts of the future.
“Love is the spirit of this church” means that we are going to disagree, and that we stay at the table even when the going gets tough. “Love is the spirit of this church” means that we are going to trust one another with our differences of opinion. “Love is the spirit of this church” means that we are going to be honest with one another and with ourselves — even when doing so is uncomfortable, especially when doing so is uncomfortable. It’s important to understand the thorny and complex meanings of “love is the spirit of this church,” but just as important is understanding what it doesn’t mean. It doesn’t mean that we place stability and appeasement and familiarity over courage and honesty and a sense of adventure. It doesn’t mean that we think our interpersonal connections are so fragile that anything that could disrupt their perceived stasis needs to be avoided, especially since that perception of stasis is itself an illusion. Relationships are alive, and all living things grow and change. “Love is the spirit of this church” means that we as a faith community have to have the courage to grow and change together. And it does take courage, it does take courage to do that.
You know what I find most fascinating about this week’s presidential debate? What they didn’t talk about. There was a lengthy back and forth about energy policy and who would drill where and who would get the most oil out of US public lands, but no mention whatsoever about climate change. There was some discussion of clean energy technologies in terms of jobs and economics, but never in terms of the urgent issue of climate.
How is it that what is perhaps that largest issue of our time and for generations to come, an issue that affects all beings of this planet, an issue that we could actually do something about if we had the collective will, never manages to even make it to the floor? I think the answer is pretty clear. It isn’t a winning topic. People don’t want to know that the earth is changing, and that we will have to change to deal with that rapidly altering world. Either they deny the reality so that they don’t have to deal with it, or they plug their ears and go “La la la la la” so as to avoid the topic.
When in doubt, our natural inclination is to step around the topics that we don’t want to deal with. For a certain period of time we can manage to pretend not to notice Dad’s drinking, the cracks forming in the roof, Aunt Ellen’s diminishing mental capacity. Of course, as with climate change, dealing early and effectively with major problems diminishes the damage. But that requires the courage to step forward and take away the car keys or call the long-term care facility or give up things that we want now in order to pay to fix the roof in the not-so-distant future. And those things are hard.
So we just let it slide for another day. Perhaps it is too much to expect our politicians to exhibit moral courage when they know the voters won’t reward it. Perhaps it is the role of leaders to, you know, lead—to use the bully pulpit to remind people of what needs to be done and to offer a plan on how to do it. I don’t know.
What I do know is this: the best chance that any of us will have rests in a nation of truth-tellers. I don’t have a problem with fantasy. Fantasy is good. Each of us should carry a dream of what exactly we would like our lives and our world to look like. But you can’t just dwell in the fantasy world. Reality will, inevitably bite you in the end. Far better to start with a clear-eyed look at the world as it is, dangers, flaws and all, and figure out what next step might tilt the real world in the direction of the dream.
Maybe one person turning to their neighbor to ask why the emperor isn’t wearing clothes won’t be enough to stop the parade. But if enough of us dare to speak enough of the time, telling the truth of our lives and the truth of our world, then there might just be hope for us after all.
I am a big fan of the separation of church and state. I do not believe that it is appropriate for the government to privilege any religion, or impose any set of religious beliefs on its citizens. I don’t think that anyone’s religious views should be allowed to determine who may or may not get married. I don’t think that anyone’s religious views should be allowed to determine laws around abortion or access to contraception. I don’t think that we need to set aside time in schools to pray, and I don’t think that “under God” should ever have been inserted into the Pledge of Allegiance. There is no reason at all to teach “creation science” in biology class, as if any science were involved in the religious stance that all the overwhelming evidence for evolution should be set aside because the Bible says something different. It is not the place of a free, democratic government to impose the religion of some set of people on other people who may not share those views.
On the other hand, I’m absolutely in favor of people making political choices based on their religious views. How would you not? If your religion matters to your life at all, surely it has to inform your decisions about what laws and which individuals will work for the things that matter to you. If you follow the one who said “ For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me….Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me,” then surely you will vote for the candidate who seems the most likely to provide for the poor, care for the ill and have compassion for the immigrant and those in prison.
If you call yourself religious, it is your job not only to hold a core set of values that you understand to be at the heart of your religion, but also to go out and practice and advocate for those values in the world.
As a Unitarian Universalist, I would say that freedom is a central value among my religious peeps. But it’s not at the very center. At the core, the value we hold most dear is ever and always love. That’s why you see UUs in bright yellow t-shirts that read “Standing on the Side of Love” at rallies in favor of marriage equality and compassion for immigrant families. Love is where it’s at for us. When I vote, it’s on the basis of the practical application of the principle of love. Love for our neighbors, love for citizens of the wider world, love for the planet which we share with so many non-human beings. I am Voting on the Side of Love.
What values are at the very heart of your religious life? Where do you see those values taking shape in the political sphere? How will you vote for the heart of your religion?
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FOB Jackson is an effort to remember now. Two weeks ago, I was sitting on a hescoe sipping a coke and watching the sun go down over one of the most war-torn places on earth. Rumor is Genghis Kahn went around – instead of through. I can see why. It’s gotta be a pretty rough place for Ghengis to avoid it. The short wall of Hescoe barriers make for an interesting sort of bus stop. I took my cue to pull up a seat from one of the First Sergeants who was waiting for his trucks to run him back up the 611 to his company outpost. When it comes to outdoor furniture, the Hescoe barriers are about the most ergonomically optimized places to sit that we have – a wire cube full of dirt. With a lot of effort and a few good tools, the thick wire of the hescoes can be formed into nice garden chairs. Few went to the trouble – war is always a compromise among priorities. A few days later, I went around the camp saying my good-byes to people and the place.
At Leatherneck, we get music in the chowhall – an eclectic mix. This morning at breakfast it was Abba’s Waterloo followed by the Bee Gee’s Staying Alive – no kiddin’. Somebody’s gonna have to let the DJ know about the war.
I ran into some guys I knew from my flying days – one of the pilots I went to Iraq with and a crewchief that I flew with in the Reserve squadron out of Norfolk. My friend, Chris, may come to visit from Kandahar. Apparently one or both of us has connections. I even ran into a British doctor that I had been on the HMS Ocean with for a couple weeks. War is an interesting place to meet up with old friends. At every one I come to, I run into buddies I haven’t seen in years.
Warrior Transition training should be complete tomorrow. Hopefully everyone feels more informed about their stress response system and why it doesn’t automatically spring back to its pre-combat state when we get removed from the stress environment. We have been practicing with our limbic systems for seven months – we can focus some intense energy on a moment’s notice. Most of you have probably not been practicing your stress response as diligently – at least, I would hope you haven’t been. Out here, our bodies have been pouring Omega-3 fatty acid on the neural wires of our survival system – thickening up the myelin sheath of the most-used circuits. This tiny physiological difference will likely be a source of disruption as we try to re-connect with family, friends, and a place that doesn’t have IEDs.
Most everyone in my tent is coughing. Those who aren’t coughing are snoring and will be coughing soon. I made it six and a half months without getting sick. The combination of finishing the cruise book and warrior transition training caught up with me. Self care has been very good and intentional up to this point. Somehow I got the book project. Good place for my creative energy, but hard for me to organize it all not knowing how the software works and having the battalion spread out over four locations. I got behind and now have to play catch up.
When I was walking around FOB Jackson in Sangin, my knees and ankles attended to the large gravel that was everywhere. We have gravel at Leatherneck, but more on the scale of miles rather than yards. Here it is distance that my body attends to. Force protection makes everything difficult. The heads have to be outside the concrete blast barrier where the rows of billeting tents are. Same with the garbage cans. You can’t go to the bathroom or throw away a piece of gum without putting shoes on. Everything is far away. Apparently the place is much improved over a few years ago when the roads were un-paved. It’s harder to put IEDs under a paved road. Highway 611 through Sangin was recently paved. Commerce is on the move – trucks and fleets of little white Toyota Celicas zip along anxiously waiting their turn-off onto the dirt roads. The occupants of a few of those little white Toyotas know where many of the IEDs are.
One of the civilians in the tent just said these are the worse beds he’s ever seen in his life. That guy can go sleep on a sharp rock. They are packing up to go live in metal cans. Weenies. War is a big experience and there is a temptation to compare how bad it was or to scoff those who suffered less. I am not immune from the impulse. On the one hand, this is a rather silly temptation. On the other, we’ve had an experience that is new, big, and hard to understand. It is a challenge to put words to it, and we may be leery that the effort will be misunderstood by those closest to us. When our limbic systems are dialed up to high, and our pre-frontal cortex is dialed down to low, we tend to think in terms of basic categories – something like, “it sucked” or “it was good.” At warrior transition training, I try to explain to the Marines and Sailors that it is not enough to say that it sucked; we have to be able to name the details – the heat, hunger, exhaustion, pack-straps, and all the rest. The skill is not to compare who had the most dramatic deployment experience or to compare our experience to that of our loved ones back home. It was difficult for all of us. The skill is to name the differences.
When you hang out with aviators you learn to see the world in a certain way – from way high up. What Marines call micro-terrain matters a lot less from the aviation point of view. When you hang out with the infantry, your feet become more observant – micro-terrain matters. And of course, perspective changes from one military service to the next. I’m now at Manas Air Base in Kirgizstan. Turns out the Air Force has much nicer gravel than the Marine Corps. The stones are much more uniform in size from one to the next, and they are smaller – less apt to turn one’s heel on Air Force gravel. I like Manas. It’s not dusty and stuff seems to work here. It’s not fancy by North American standards, but the chow hall is open 24/7 and you can choose your own food. Like a lot of military bases, things are set up communally and foster gatherings – the chow hall, the internet café, the gym. Manas is nice, but I’ll be happy to go home. The first few months went very quickly. The last two sort of dragged. For weeks I have been mostly successful at not thinking about going home, but I can feel it now. I think some sailing will be in order, and I should be home in time to catch some fall colors with my camera.
Before I deployed, serendipity orchestrated an unexpected gathering. My friend and fellow UU military chaplain, Chris, and I wound up scheduling ourselves at the same Buddhist retreat event. I thought the retreat was just what I needed. The icing on the cake was a warrior blessing that put me in touch with the spiritual legacies of Odysseus, Sitting Bull, the Samurai, King David, and fellow warriors of the US military. To Chris and all of you, who were there, thank you for the sustaining energy of that blessing.
Before we left the retreat, Chris also bought me a gift – a Japanese tea set. I read a little bit about the tradition on the internet and was vaguely aware that the tea ceremony was part of the Samurai tradition – fulfilling the warrior’s obligation to attend to beauty and creative forms as a counter balance to the destructive forces of war. Chris, barely in country for a week, managed to pull off a trip from Kandahar to Leatherneck. A friend here at Leatherneck picked him and his assistant up at the fixed-wing terminal and Chris invited us all to tea. Just like there is a way to do everything in the Marine Corps, there is a way to do everything in the tea ceremony. Like the Buddhist retreat eight months ago, the tea ceremony was powerful in its simplicity and form. It challenges my western sensibilities to discover how much richness there is in drinking tea, but there it is. For 20 minutes, my attention was on the movements and textures of the ceremony rather than war. When the bowl was emptied the last time, I realized that my mind and heart had been skillfully cared for. The ritual of tea happened my last full day in Afghanistan. I feel ready to come home.
See you all soon,
Thanks for all the support you’ve sent my way,
Disclaimer: All entries to CLF/Quest Military Ministries page reflect the personal views of the contributor. The views expressed here are in no way to be construed as an individual or individuals speaking in their official capacities for the agencies, departments, or service branches they serve in. This is not an official publication of the Department of Defense, the U.S. Army, U.S. Navy, U.S. Coast Guard, U.S. Marine Corps, U.S. Air Force, any government agency, or any other organization.
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