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.

Last night I had dinner at the Goetz Dining Facility (DFAC) at Forward Operating Base (FOB) Walton, which is a short helicopter flight from Kandahar, Afghanistan. Before the meal, I raised a “near beer” (non alcoholic) with a chaplain colleague to toast Dale Allen Goetz, the Army chaplain after whom the DFAC is named. Chaplain Goetz died in Afghanistan on August 30, 2010, not far from FOB Walton, and is the only military chaplain from the United States killed in action since 1970, when Phillip Arthur Nichols was killed in Vietnam.

I remember when I got the news that Chaplain Goetz had been killed. I was in the passenger seat of our family mini-van, my wife was driving, and our five kids were in the back. We were on our way back from a vacation in the Adirondack Mountains of New York. I was a few months short of accessioning as an Army chaplain, and the whole family was beginning to prepare for my first deployment to Afghanistan, which at that time seemed likely to happen sometime before spring. The notification came to my Blackberry from the Department of Defense List serve: “Captain Dale A. Goetz was killed when his vehicle was hit by a roadside bomb.” The notice said nothing about Captain Goetz being Chaplain Goetz, but a quick search of his name on Google revealed a more complete story.

When I learned Dale Goetz was a chaplain my gut tightened and I wanted to vomit. My first thought concerned my own mortality: I had not until that moment acknowledged the real risk I would face going to Afghanistan as a chaplain. The next thought was about the unit served by Chaplain Goetz — the soldiers of the 1-66 Armored Battalion of the Fourth Infantry Division. When a soldier dies, the unit turns to their chaplain for comfort, hope and guidance. Their chaplain performs the memorial ceremony for the unit, and provides grief counseling to individuals.  In the horror of war the chaplain is a reminder to many of a loving and compassionate God who is present even amidst terrible suffering. But what does it mean when the chaplain gets killed? How do soldiers cope with the existential angst that must arise from such a tragedy — the very angst, which in the moment I heard the news, was making me nauseous.

When the chaplain gets killed some will face one of life’s most perennial questions: why do bad things happen to good people? When the chaplain gets killed some will question the invincibility of “the armor of God” (Ephesians 6: 10-18) which fails to protect God’s very own representative. When the chaplain gets killed some will face the dreadful realization that we are all vulnerable and nobody is really safe. When the chaplain gets killed — the chaplain who is a non combatant and carries no weapon — some will ask where is justice? Where is fairness? When the chaplain gets killed some will examine previously held assumptions: “God is on our side,” “God will protect us,” “God will not let anything bad happen to us,” and “In God we trust,” — and perhaps reject long held beliefs.

Yes, when the chaplain gets killed many will suffer moral injury — defined by Jonathan Shay as “a betrayal of what is right.” And sometimes a moral injury can be the most debilitating wound of war — the wound that is most difficult to heal. To heal from moral injury we need to give meaning to tragedy which might otherwise be inherently meaningless. I have made the tragic killing of Chaplain Goetz meaningful to me by reflecting on his death, examining some of my assumptions, and correcting false views.  I am glad for the simple memorial of the Goetz DFAC at FOB Walton, which reminds me of his death, and the sacrifice made by his wife, Christy, and their three sons.  I thank and honor Dale Allen Goetz for helping me, in his death, move beyond self deception towards a more right view of warfare and a greater reverence for life.

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.

The Army Chaplain Corps has a motto: “nurture the living, care for the wounded, honor the dead.” Army chaplains hold the sacred trust of the people of the United States to provide soul care for America’s sons and daughters. This is an awesome task which I am only able to undertake with the utmost humility and full support of my family, my faith community, my colleagues in ministry, and my God. I write this for all of the above.

My unit has been mobilized to deploy to Afghanistan. Since our mobilization orders began several weeks ago, I have searched for innovative ways to tend to the souls of my soldiers. Alas, many seem too busy to attend to this vital dimension of the self; many seem reluctant to take time for the soul, perhaps out of fear for what they may find, perhaps for no other reason than they really believe they have more important tasks to complete than be still and look inward.

Yet the high rates of suicide and sexual assault in the military are painful indicators that the greatest threat we may face in deployment is ourselves. I am convinced that soul-care is the most effective means to not only decrease suicide and sexual assault but help manage the stress of combat so that soldiers grow and not wither in the wake of trauma. And soul-care begins with cultivating self-awareness.

The Chinese philosopher Sun Tzu understood the importance of knowing oneself in battle. “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of one hundred battles. If you know yourself but not your enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.” (From The Art of War).

A more recent military leader from this side of the pond, General George Marshall, also understood the importance of caring for the soul. He put it something like this: “The soldier’s heart, the soldier’s spirit, the soldier’s soul are everything. Unless the soldier’s soul sustains them, they cannot be relied on and will fail themselves and their country in the end.”

I initiated several programs at our mobilization site in order to cultivate self-awareness and keep soldiers mindful of the soul dimension. Some of these initiatives include: morning “Soul Call,” a play on “sick call,” which is basically open chapel time each morning when soldiers can drop-in  to pray, meditate, study or meet with me; evening Zen Meditation; “Pocket Stones,”  which are small polished rocks engraved with words like faith, hope, courage, strength and happiness- I distribute them at no cost to soldiers to help them be mindful of these important qualities of soul;  Spiritual Fitness Retreats – I have two scheduled at a local Catholic retreat center; Chaplain’s Tea – where I serve soldiers tea in a traditional Japanese Tea Ceremony; I also perform worship service on Sunday evenings; and have a presence in the daily Commanders Update Brief.

Being self-aware means paying attention to the ways we shield ourselves from painful truths, deny the real horror of warfare, and morally disengage from the consequences of our actions. Yet in order to prepare our souls and care for our souls we need to pay attention to the human cost of war.

Two days ago I recommended to the commander that we include a slide to honor the dead in the daily update brief. Now we have a slide with the photographs of those most recently killed in Afghanistan. I do this to help prepare our souls for the real losses that lie ahead. When we do that, when we embrace tragedy rather than deny or avoid it, we do as my mentor Ed Tick has taught me: we keep our hearts alive. If we allow ourselves to morally disengage, if we try to insulate ourselves from pain, then we risk becoming “people of the lie,” a term I attribute to M. Scott Peck who wrote a book by that name about presence of human evil in our daily lives.

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.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once suggested the following: “Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”

Every moment, every day, holds such possibility. It holds the possibility for love, compassion, and connection with others. It also holds potential for deceit, untruths, and brokenness. Admittedly, most days are a combination of the two sides of this coin, a mixture of “good” and “bad” moments. And yes, it is important not to dwell on those moments when we are not our best selves. Perhaps it is even essential in order for us to live with intention and purpose, to focus on our positive nature and not dwell in the past.

While I appreciate the spirit with which Emerson approaches the need to let things go, I have to take issue with his message. He suggests that we forget our blunders as soon as we can, and begin the next day with “too high a spirit to be encumbered with [our] old nonsense.” But what if that takes longer than a day? Life isn’t a television show where, in 60 minutes time (45 minutes with commercials), an issue arises, blows up, and is resolved. I agree that I shouldn’t dwell on the time I blocked the intersection or sighed impatiently at the person taking too long at the ATM. But what about bigger disagreements? What about those things I did that had a bigger impact?

There are so many instances in our lives when we step on each other’s toes, overstep our boundaries, and say or do things that hurt others. We realize that our decisions, actions, or behaviors have had a negative impact on another person. We realize that we have contributed to the sense of brokenness that exists there, in that moment. Oftentimes we wish we could take it back, turn back the hands of time, behave differently, or choose different words. But, unfortunately, the time has passed and the opportunity to change that moment is gone.

So why is it so difficult to move on from that moment and just make a different decision next time? I think, perhaps, because the brokenness stays with us. We might even try to “get over it” or “let it go”. That is easier said than done.

Our lives are made up of an intricate web of relationships. As humans we are inherently social beings. And when we harm others that foundation of our relationship can be shaken, it can lose its strength. So I suggest an alternative version of Emerson’s statement. I suggest that we strive to start the next day with the resolution that we will strive for connection, take ownership of our wrongdoing, and seek to make amends. I suggest that we atone for the wrongdoing or harm we have caused, for our contribution we have made to the brokenness in this world. Sometimes that isn’t possible in a direct way, but often it is possible in indirect ways.

We cannot dwell on those times of brokenness in our lives, but we must take ownership of them. In doing so, and in being mindful of our actions, we make a commitment to strive toward healing. If right relationship is the goal in our interactions with others, we must take responsibility in maintaining that foundation. Yes, we can move on when we make mistakes, but not without acknowledging the impact they had on others, and striving to make things right.

For me, the word “joy” always brings to mind the same thing: tears.

I realize this might not be the logical thought process for most people, and some might even find it strange, but it’s the truth. The idea of joy immediately makes me think of tears. This is because I am what some might call a “crier.” I cry when I’m angry and sad. I cry when I’m frustrated or overwhelmed. But mostly, I cry when I’m joyful. I’m one of those people who cries at my niece’s chorus concerts, or when I found out my good friend had just given birth, or when watching two people make a commitment to one another in marriage. These times of joy bring tears to my eyes, and I am so thankful for that.

It’s like my heart is overflowing with emotion, and the only way for that joy to go is out! So those tears of joy are indicators of abundant love and happiness. They are my way of showing support and love for the people I care about. They help me feel connected to the joyful and happy experiences in life. I think, in some ways, those tears of joy are also reminders of the bittersweet that can come with success or achievement.

Most recently I have been watching videos of soldiers coming home and seeing their dogs for the first time. To be honest, I’m not sure why I do that! Having a spouse deployed is an emotional rollercoaster, and every time I watch one of those videos I long for the day that Susan is home, and our pups see her again. Watching these dogs squeal and jump, wag and give kisses brings such joy into my heart, and I can’t help but cry. There is such a pure love and joy in their responses to seeing the person they love after a long deployment. In those videos, the dogs and the soldiers exude pure joy and appreciation for each other.

I have moments of joy that happen almost every day. Afghanistan is 8 ½ hours ahead of Boston, so my day is essentially on an opposite schedule from my wife’s. We usually get to talk or email twice a day. I feel so blessed to have the ability to stay connected with her in this way. Every time my phone beeps with a message or email (yes, I got a smartphone specifically for this deployment!), my heart starts to beat a little faster. There is nothing like the feeling I get when she writes to me or calls. There is a solid joy in knowing that she is okay. But those times of joy are amplified because of the very true reality that she is not in a safe place right now. That’s the bittersweet I’m trying to explain.

But whether bittersweet or genuinely joyful, I am so thankful for those times in my life when I have felt wholly joyful and happy. There is a necessity in relishing in those times of joy. There is so much suffering in this world, but there is so much joy too. All too often we focus on the negative, or try to keep ourselves under control. My hope for myself, for all of us, is to live in the moment. My hope is to feel the joy, and to let those tears of joy flow. Like those dogs who are swept up in the excitement of reunion and jumping with joy, I hope to grasp the moment and be overcome with joyful emotion.