Guest Blog: Himself "Old Soldier"

This is something Himself wrote a few years back. I thought it was appropriate for Memorial Day.

Teri

I feel subdued today... No, thoughtful is more accurate.

Visited an old soldier today--one I hadn't seen since 1979; Command Sergeant Major Luis Esparza. Upon finishing up the SF training in '78, he was my first boss--one I didn't like, and one I set out to make his life miserable. I was SUPPOSED to go to a Special Forces A-Team, but for some reason I got stuck in a staff job at Battalion level...not something a certain Tall-Good-Looking-Hard-as-Steel-Green-Beret was SUPPOSED to be doing! Nope! I was meant for the coveted A-Team.

(All this from a 20 year old kid with one year in the service--me--doing this to a soldier who came into the army in 1949, was the highest rank an enlisted soldier could be, and who had two wars under his belt.)

With this attitude, I set out to do all sorts of little things to mess with him--like put my nearly 600 pounds of barbell weights in front of my clothes storage locker so he couldn't inspect it as Sergeant Majors do. My imagination for such juvenile things had no limits. Myself and my partner-in-crime Brad would get hauled into his office while the rest of the Battalion staff grew hushed, and we would then get our butts chewed--again. He would yell & yell, and end up with an animated, "Now, got OUT of here!!".

Such memories...

But as of late different memories come to mind. I thought back that after each well deserved chewing-out, if my retreating form happened to turnaround to glance back at him, I saw a much softened look about him usually accompanied with a slight smile. Then it hit me--tho I suppose he had full rights to throw me out of his unit, he was somewhat fond of me despite all my youthful arrogance, and perhaps he was remembering another young solder of 1949. And then it hit me...

...he cares.

Caring can go both ways. Thru the old SF soldier list I found out that now70 year old CSM Esparza had a quadruple bypass surgery recently. Tho from North Carolina he had surgery in Nashville and recovering at his daughter's home here in Clarksville. Then a strange thing happened--the Lord whispered in my heart, "Go see him". I thought, "ME?!" Why, he won't even remember me. And if he does, unless senility has set in he will remember what a PITA (pain-in-the-...) I was. But the heart-felt thought wouldn't leave. So I did see him today...and when I walked into his daughter's home, I was greeted with a--"Oh, I remember YOU!"

Didn't know whether to continue into that home or turn around and RUN!

After that? I sat down and visited with a whole new perspective. Here was a man a fraction of his former size and presence--brought on by a number of ailments that age and diabetes can cause. But in this old soldiers eyes I still saw something larger. Something from before.

Now that we were both retired, I suppose that make us equals. But ya know, a part of me still felt young--like I didn't know anything compared to this man who has been thru so much. 3 hours later we were still trading pictures and stories and memories and, well...life. And when I left this time? I got a different type of send-off...

..."Come back again sometime..."

That meant the world to me. And I will.

D.

PS--The A-Teams came later--after some much needed lessons and growing up of a certain young soldier. Once again, in God's perfect timing, He put me where I needed to be. Maybe for both of us...

Guest Blogger: Himself - "Lost and Found"

Since cleaning and organizing the shed is my April goal, I thought you might get a chuckle at this story Himself wrote a while back. It shows you what I'm up against...

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‘Lost and Found’

This month, instead of writing about some exotic place we have travelled to or some weird thing I’ve done, I’m going to write about a common thing—probably familiar to all families one way or the other: Collecting things...and then losing them!

In this phase of our lives, Teri and I have decided to ‘downsize’. For men and women that can mean different things! A woman will pull everything out of everywhere, and ‘start paring down’—having two like items in her hands and deciding which one needs to go. Then follow through get rid of it. A man? He usually decides to get rid of/buy something in two circumstances; when it is time to buy a bigger (and cooler) item, or when he can’t find the old one. In this family the latter is usually the case.

And Teri finally got sick of it.

In Teri’s ‘clean fest’ she started at the top of the house and worked down. Me? I stayed out of the way. (My ‘den’ was an exception—outside of asking me to tidy it up, she says that my stuff can ‘sit there until our Lord returns for all she cares...’) Finally Teri worked her way to the garage. Uh oh... Guy Territory. But then I got to thinking, “Man...I haven’t managed to find the ol’ so-and-so item this entire year. Perhaps I will just LET Teri go for it...but keep an eye on her in case she grabs something important that she might want to get rid of.” (Men, we understand ‘important’!)

Most things in a garage have a place. Sort of. But some items are small enough that they just get lost in the shuffle. Like screwdrivers. And perhaps socket sets—at least certain socket sizes. No matter how much you promise to ‘put it back where it belongs’, you don’t (at least I don’t). “But,” you convince yourself, “it isn’t that big a deal because how much can a new screwdriver cost?” Especially at a yard sale! So you go out and get another. Over time something happens--you end up with more screwdrivers than a sane man can want. But you still lose them. You console yourself that ‘hey, look around, I’ll be able to find at least one!’ And you do. Good enough.

Socket sets? Not as cheap as lost screwdrivers. The three sizes you use most disappear one by one, or worse--roll into some part of your vehicle that you can’t get into with adult size hands. By the third socket gone you can’t stand it anymore so, after convincing your wife that ‘you just CAN’T have a socket set with the three most important sizes missing!’, you head whistling to the hardware store or down to the nearest yard sale.

(It’s best not to start whistling until you are out of her hearing range.)

Well, as happened here this summer, there came that time when Wife wanted to do that thorough garage cleaning I mentioned. To convince Husband ‘he was helping’, she had me lift the heavy stuff while she sorted and organized everything else...and in her sorting she finds every blooming screwdriver and partial socket set. Teri? She is subtle. She just piles up screwdrivers and sockets into neat little piles that get bigger and bigger and waits for me to notice. When I do, there is nothing to say. The whistling is over...

Teri, being practical, contemplates which yard sale she can dump some of these excess items on.

Trying to justify myself though, I asked her, “Is there ANY thing that women seem to have lots of lying around the home? You know--things that can get out-of-hand and that seem to multiply like rabbits? Perhaps items that even get passed around between woman to woman at social events or family gatherings?

Teri thought for a moment & said, “Tupperware”.

Thinking about it, I must say that I have seen more mismatched Tupperware rotate in and out of homes than any other item known to mankind...

...including screwdrivers.

Guest Blogger: Himself - “A Woman Named Grace”

Please enjoy this story my husband wrote about a happening during our trip to Kenya.


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Sometimes things happen that you can’t anticipate. This happened to Teri and me at a most unusual time—when we were broke down alongside a road. Actually, we weren’t even on a road; we were in the middle of nowhere in some semi-desert scrubland in the Rift Valley in Kenya on our way to see a Maasai child we sponsored thru Compassion International.



In the more remote places in Kenya, you don’t drive on a road—you just drive. And it usually isn’t you driving. You are driven by a Kenyan assigned to a vehicle who seems to know where he is going, at least in theory. Good thing he knew--I swear we passed the same anthill and wildebeest herd a dozen times! Driving along the bumpiest terrain I have ever been jostled along, we rode along in our Land Rover hanging on tight.

Too dry for mosquitoes, the land was prime for dust. No matter how clean you started out, you arrived at your destination dusty. Not that ‘your’ family would notice—they live literally...in the sticks. Their African huts were made of sticks, grasses, ashes and cow dung. (In some of the drier areas, you can’t even get mud...hence, sticky cow dung which helps hold things together.)

Moses

Besides our driver, we had a Compassion representative named Jim, and an older man named Moses who had been our driver to see another Maasai child from another organization. Though a native Kenyan, Moses was a city boy who had never been ‘out there’ seeing such stuff. He indicated he wanted to go—stating that ‘it was like being on vacation’ being out in the wilds at the bottom of the Rift Valley. All we had been requested to do was to pay his employer Moses’ daily wage of $7. We did.

Somewhere along all this we broke down. Great... Don’t recall just what went wrong but soon there were Kenyan butts sticking out from under the vehicle. All of them saying the Swahili word for, “Hmmm...” Not a good sign. Teri and I? We found us an acacia tree to sit under to get out of the sun. Once cooled off we would walk around looking at exotic rocks, plants, and things that slithered. Off in the distance we saw a small family settlement called a ‘boma’--an enclosed camp of Maasai natives and their animals—(Maasai families slept with some of their animals right in their hut.) From this boma we would occasionally see wide-eyed curious kids—but they mainly stayed hidden and would not come near us.

Running out of things to look at I fished out the soccer ball that we were to give our Maasai child, ‘Ntikoisa’. Compassion rep Jim was all for booting it around with me because one, soccer is a bigtime sport for these people, and two, he was as bored as I. A city boy also, he left fixing the vehicle to Moses and the driver, who were still going, “Hmmm...” Teri? She watched Jim and me for a moment...then her eyebrows started going up--which is ‘hmmm...’ for her. Why? Because nearly every bush on the ground had thorns. Informed by Teri that, ‘if ONE thorn punctures this brand new soccer ball, an American AND a Kenyan would be in trouble’; Jim looked between Teri and me. Recognizing the universal sign of ‘woman-with-hands-on-hips’ as trouble already arrived, the soccer ball was soon put up!

After awhile Teri noticed a Maasai woman who was slowly approaching our broken down Rover. She had being walking ‘back and forth’ for some time, finally stopping a good distance away—watching us intently. Teri had watched her just as intently. Then Teri waved. That was all it took and soon she and her infant son were over to visit. A short time earlier help had arrived from the nearest village and with the help also came the headmaster of the Compassion center. He soon found himself translating as these two woman from two different worlds...shared.

This Maasai lady explained that she had seen our crippled Land Rover and had felt helpless to do anything that could assist us. Initially seeing only men from the distance she was afraid to come closer. She then explained that she did the only thing she could—she prayed for us. However, when she saw Teri wave and realized there was a woman with the group, it was then alright for her to come over. Their talk continued on to families, children (including the baby she had strapped to her side), goats and husbands.

Too soon the village mechanic had the Rover fixed and it was time to move on. But before we left, this woman removed a beautiful beaded bracelet from her arm and, catching Teri by the hand, slipped it onto Teri’s arm with the words “remember me”. With the same words in return, Teri removed the bracelet she had put on that morning and gave it to her.

As the Rover chugged back to life, Teri quickly gave her an additional present for her husband... a red baseball cap. It was something he would proudly wear because he had been honored. As we drove off, this Maasai lady full of grace waved good-bye.

This woman’s name? Grace. A woman named Grace. Fitting.

Guest Blogger: Himself on Haiti

Himself writes a monthly column for his hometown newspaper. It's called "Rambling With 'D'". It's a bit of this and that, quite often observations he's made in his travels. In light of the January earthquake, his latest article is about something that he experienced when he was in Haiti years ago.

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“To Care a Little”

I’m sitting in my clinic on a ship anchored near the island of ‘Atka’—part of the Aleutian Island chain. Looking out my porthole I see a world of mountains, snow and water. Oh—and a tree. This island has one visible tree. (One LOST tree!) Though pleasant enough to look at, this scene is a world away from what I am used to.

To help deal with the isolation, wife Teri keeps me up on ‘news from back home’. Her daily emails mention everything from her latest home project to local town happenings to world events. With no radio, TV, or Internet, I don’t hear much from ‘outside’. We do have a small printout of ‘news’, but it mainly deals with sports and finances. Few details. No pictures. Concerning the small bit of world news in it, I have to get clarification from Teri to understand its significance...or its scope.

I was going to write ‘Part Two’ of Russia this month, but with another area of the world in the news and on people’s hearts, I will pause on Russia one month to write about a place closer to us, but in a way even further. Haiti. From what I have heard thru Teri, it dominated the news for weeks. As it should have. You have seen what I haven’t—TV news flashes & newspaper articles galore. I have a single picture from an old newspaper someone brought aboard that was already a week old when it arrived. I cut out a picture of an elderly male nurse from America comforting a young Haitian woman who needed comfort. The picture is priceless. It reminds me to...pray.

I mentioned Haiti being ‘closer to us, yet further’. That is a comparison to other countries I have visited. I didn’t think that was possible until I went there for a month in 1995 as part of the UN Peacekeepers. Up until then I had been in Europe, Africa, and the Middle East. I had see places that were poor—some because the actual available resources were scarce, and some because war had reduced the people’s very hearts to poverty. To almost no hope. (That is the worst type of poverty...) Haiti, though not in an actual war, was both. And ‘just a stone’s throw’ (so to speak), from our American shores. Until I went there, I didn’t know.

In the midst of tragedy seen on TV, yet another sad story isn’t what I have to share—but a story of comfort. And dignity. Of a Haitian woman who had little and was about to lose what little she had. Her name was Sonya, a 40-ish Haitian woman who was fortunate enough to get a job ‘as housekeeping’--cleaning our UN Peacekeeping tents & bathrooms daily. A thankless task in that sweltering heat, it was a job she did with efficiency & dignity. Finishing her daily tasks, she would give a quiet ‘thank you and goodbye’ before returning home that evening. Early next morning she started all over again. And at a rate of $7 per day, she was grateful.

I first noticed Sonya in a roundabout way. While working, I noticed she was ‘hiding something’ during her work—favoring her left arm. Turns out she had fallen two weeks earlier and cut her elbow. I didn’t notice at first because she covered up her injury for fear of losing her job. The military unit we replaced—in a hurry to leave--neglected to treat her. It got infected. Badly. By the time I noticed, losing her job was the lesser problem--I feared she would lose her arm below the joint. Being all Haitian workers had been ‘signed over’ to us from the other unit, I inquired what was to happen to her. I got the impression she would be released and another housekeeping woman brought in. Just like that.

It was incomprehensible to me that this could happen—to release an injured worker without even trying to help. To be ‘just left’ like that. What must she think? I admit I don’t understand the legalities, but there had to be something we could do for a worker who had so little, and nothing to fall back on. And now, knowing her name, Sonya wasn’t ‘just a worker’ anymore, she was...a person. A wife. A mom.

Without asking permission, I determined to treat her injury once a day. With no authorization for an anesthetic, I took a brush and scrubbed this deep wound while cringing. Sonya? She would occasionally wince, but outside of that, she was stone faced. Yet calm. I don’t know how she did it. But no matter—I scrubbed and scrapped and rinsed, giving her strong antibiotics at the end of each session while explaining things thru a translator. And I prayed.

Fearing the worst, in two weeks there was a remarkable turnaround--the deep wound seemed to clear and healing tissue started to fill in. By now Sonya’s hide had been punctured from injectable antibiotics and her diet included oral ones. Many bandages had been used--subtly, as this wasn’t supposed to be happening. Sonya, with impassive face, gazed off into the distance through it all.

Then I noticed a change. It was in her face. More—it was her eyes. As treatment came to an end, Sonya watched me wrap her elbow one last time, and then looked up to my face. In her eyes I saw...gratitude. It is like something else had been healed. Her faith. That someone noticed. That someone...cared.

Shortly after this I returned home to Tennessee. Before leaving I asked thru a translator if I could get my picture taken with Sonya. I found out Sonya’s English was better than she let on--at the mention of ‘photo’, Sonya’s hand whipped up to her head wrap as she exclaimed one word, “Oh!” Then I heard one other word—“Tomorrow!” Well, tomorrow came, and Sonya, even though it was her day off, showed up in the cleanest & whitest rough cotton dress you have ever seen. Her best. She also gave me a beautiful wooden mask her husband had carved. It was all she could give. She then stood next to me for our photo together—me smiling, she with that steady & dignified look of hers. But if you look carefully, you can see something else in her eyes.

Hope.

Using One Word to Fight Your Personal Spiritual Poverty in 2010

An interesting blog from the Compassion blog sight.

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Using One Word to Fight Your Personal Spiritual Poverty in 2010
Written by: Chris Giovagnoni
Posted using ShareThis

Do you talk with God? Or do you talk at Him or to Him?

How much of your prayer life, your conversations with God, is about you? You talking. What you want or need. What you think should happen.

When you’re listening, are you interested in what’s on God’s mind? Or are you really just listening for God to talk about the subjects you choose?

I mostly talk at God. That’s a 99-percent most. God usually can’t get a word in edgewise in “our” conversations. I’m talking. And I’m talking about what I need and what I want, as if they are somehow different, and as if I know better than God what I need.

“Hey God. I’m not interested in that subject. Why do you keep bringing it up?”

But once a year, at the beginning of December, I make an extra effort to get over myself. I ask God, “What do you have planned for us next year?”

It’s like asking your father, “Hey, Dad! What are we going to do this weekend?”

2010 in One Word

So, even though I’m not your father, you should do this:

Ask the Holy Spirit what He has in store for you in 2010. Ask Him to give you a one-word theme for the upcoming year. Not a phrase, not a statement, just a single word.
That last sentence is more for you than for the Holy Spirit. He knows what’s going on.

But this is for you – One Word. It’s a document for you to download, written by Dan Britton, Senior Vice President of Ministry Programs for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes.

One Word contains suggestions to help you make this “one word” thing a spiritual discipline rather than some nifty hoot of an idea that will quickly fade away like a worn out New Year’s resolution.

This practice of asking God for His yearly theme in my life gives me strength in the tough times. It renews my spirit, giving me a sense of purpose when I feel hopeless, annoyed, angry, afraid … anything but in control and confident.

It helps me stay connected with Christ and His plans for me throughout the year. Not perfectly, but definitely in times I probably would not.

Every year, with a little prayer time, I have found God eager to tell me what He has in store for me in the following year.

Remember this, and I can’t emphasize it enough, you’re not choosing a word. The Holy Spirit is giving it to you.

In 2009, the Holy Spirit laid the growth card on me. And when I told you about it last December, I said it sounded painful.

Well, 2009 wasn’t really painful. But it wasn’t easy either. I got to grow through a lot of old habits and immaturity.

And even though 2009 is almost over, the growth isn’t. The words the Holy Spirit shares with us each year establish the foundation for the words we get in the future, which means I’m going to be growing the rest of my life. Duh!

For me, 2009 was a year to begin getting beyond my “only child” behavior, which tells people the world revolves around me and they should wise up, stop resisting and get with the program.

It seems I’ve made a little progress, because for next year God’s word to me is:

SHINE

It sounds promising.