Tag Archives: love

TMS – Grow in Christlikeness

I recently decided to create images for the Topical Memory System published by the Navigators, using NASB as the Bible version. I’m posting these here so that hopefully someone else who finds them useful might also benefit.

Love – Jn 13:34-35
Love – 1 Jn 3:18
Humility – Php 2:3-4
Humility – 1 Pet 5:5-6
Purity – Eph 5:3
Purity – 1 Pet 2:11
Honesty – Lev 19:11
Honesty – Acts 24:16
Faith – Heb 11:6
Faith – Rom 4:20-21
Good Works – Gal 6:9-10
Good Works – Mt 5:16

The Precious Maiden

It has been too long since I participated in BlogBattle, initiated by the wonderful Rachael Ritchey. When I used to write entries regularly, I loved the idea of writing something like an old radio serial, with intrepid 1930s adventurers and their feats of derring-do as they explored old ruins and sought answers to strange mysteries. It has been a minute — many minutes, really — since the last entry, so I wanted to get back to it.
It always gets me going down historical rabbit trails I find exciting. (Did they have denim shirts in the 30s? What storms happened in the Caribbean that year? Who ruled Spain at the time? What was that island called back then? And so on).


With that in mind, “Precious” as the inspiration, and apologies for going slightly over the word count, here is the latest episode of Grant and Teagan:


From the Adventures of Grant McSwain – Sailor of the Seven Seas, Finder of Forgotten Fortunes, and Savior of Salacious Sweethearts … accompanied as always by his hapless companion, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway.

Last week, we left our intrepid heroes stranded on the high seas as they turned their vessel toward the full strength of a tropical storm off the coast of Saint Kitts. Will they find the lost treasure of Vallarte’s final voyage? Or will they join his ship in the murky ocean depths? Find out, in “Grant McSwain and the Perilous Prize of La Doncella Preciosa!”


Rain smacked the creaking wooden ship with the stinging fury of a hailstorm and swept a yellowed sheet of canvas across the slick deck. “Don’t lose that,” Grant cried, arm outstretched toward the tattered map flapping across the wave-washed planks. “It’s priceless!”

Holding the sloop’s wheel firm, Grant’s muscles strained underneath his wet linen shirt – once white, but stained to beige by the dirt and grime of multiple adventures around the globe. The gusts whipped his clothes, loose but rain-soaked, and he clenched his square jaw as he fought the strength of the storm.

Teagan dove through the rain as the vessel lurched again, tossed in the gale. She hit with a huff and slid across the polished wood, a sopping mess of red hair and limbs, fingers grasping for the centuries-old canvas. Her drenched khaki shorts and denim over-shirt seemed like weights on her body, and her waterlogged hiking boots felt filled with cement.

The winds shifted, buffeting the sails, and the mast groaned in protest. One of the lines securing the foresail snapped with the strain and flew like a snake on the wind, cracking like a whip. Most of the sails held, pushing the ship toward the shoreline at the horizon. As if ye could see the bloody island through all this gale.

Teagan’s fingertips felt rough fabric and pressed down against the deck, pinning the map in place. Priceless, no, but precious—in more ways than one. Vallarte’s ship, La Doncella Preciosa, the Precious Maiden, was presumed lost to the ocean’s depths. What would the last known location of the vessel’s treasure trove be worth on the antiquities market?

Someone could certainly estimate the map’s value. Many had, judging by the resistance and pursuit they faced thus far.

Before Vallarte set out on his final voyage in 1577, the famed conquistador and so-called explorer had infiltrated the royal treasury and stolen Las Esmeraldas de las Princesas –the massive twin emeralds he’d brought a few years earlier as tribute for King Phillip II to honor Princess Isabella and Princess Catherine. That was the real treasure Grant hoped to find.

No wonder so many had hounded them across the Americas and into the path of this hurricane. No Krauts this time, thankfully… but something worse, the finest treasure hunters hired by the fiercest and wealthiest collectors. The race was on—fame and fortune, as always, the reward for those willing to blaze the trail.

Grant scrabbled across the deck as the small ship shuddered, his black hair soaked and disheveled in the storm. He reached out, and Teagan lifted her free hand for assistance … but instead, he snatched up the map. “That was close,” he said, heading back to the stern.

Teagan grunted and rose to her feet, gripping the rail and glaring at Grant through a mop of red. She ran her fingers through her hair to throw it back over her shoulders, but the wind immediately whipped it in all directions at once.

“The storm is getting us there!” Grant shouted, grinning as he squinted into the distance. “This will work, as long as we stay ahead of them.”

Teagan grabbed thick rope to lash the foresail to the rigging. “This won’t work,” she shot back, “if we end up sharing the fate of the Doncella.” Whether at the bottom of the ocean, or smashed along the coast of Saint Croix, the vessel of the wealthy Vallarte did not survive its final voyage.

“We won’t,” Grant called out over the storm’s fury, his grimace belying his confidence. Then he brightened, and he grabbed the line to assist her. “Think of it this way: we’re doing both our countries a favor! Supporting the Monroe Doctrine by keeping European powers from meddling in the Americas and claiming the prize, and supporting Britain by …”

Grant shrugged. “It’ll come to me.”

Teagan scoffed at the assumption of her allegiance to the crown, then caught Grant’s reference and stared dumbfounded at him. Was he making a lucky connection trying to sound intelligent, or was he actually aware of American foreign policy?

Grant must have noticed her gaze. “I do read sometimes,” he protested.

“Spicy pulps and penny dreadfuls don’t count,” she said with a smirk as she checked the other lashings. The vessel had to reach Saint Croix intact for them to have a chance at finding the treasure, and it would be nice to have a means of escape before their competitors arrived.

Most of their pursuers were stranded on Saint Kitts waiting for the storm to pass, or for new ships to arrive. While treasure hunters might maintain a certain level of decorum in a civilized community, some of their rivals would be all too pleased to find Grant and Teagan out on the high seas or stranded on Saint Croix.

Grant clamped his hands on the wheel, steering the sloop through the storm and waves. “The way I see it,” he declared in a self-assured tone, “it’s only been twenty years or so since America paid good gold for these islands. They’ll want to ensure the European powers stay out of their affairs. Maybe we’ll finally get J. Edgar and his goons on our side for a change.”

“Better to avoid them completely,” Teagan answered, but Grant said nothing in reply, his eyes fixed on the turbulent horizon.

Another hour of constant struggle to stay afloat brought them through the worst of the storm’s wrath, and after two more hours of dreary downpour, they spotted a dark shadow of land in the distance, barely noticeable in the limited moonlight. Teagan checked the compass once again — right on course for the northeast coast of Saint Croix. Thankfully, Grant proved reliable in many ways other than the intellectual pursuits.

Once near the shallows, they raised the sails and Teagan grabbed a sounding pole to guide Grant in as close to the shore as they dared. With the sloop at anchor, a short swim brought them to land under a cloudy night sky.

The skies turned soft tones of purple, followed by vibrant patches of gold, while the pair searched up and down the coast of Saint Croix. Shivering and aching, Teagan slogged on through the sand, taking only small comfort in the misery on Grant’s face as they trekked into the morning.

Then, with the first direct sunlight on the coast, they spotted a telltale ridge behind the foliage. A single black goat stood on the slope, chewing on the plants and staring at these new visitors. “That could be the southern embankment,” Teagan offered, picturing the map’s details in her mind rather than fishing it out of her pack yet again. She studied the landscape and pointed her finger. “There’s the northern ridge that forms the enclosure, running parallel to the water.”

Grant surveyed the area with a tired sag in his shoulders. “Everything’s overgrown.”

“True,” Teagan admitted as she stepped forward, toward the treeline. “Then again, assuming some of Vallarte’s crew survived the shipwreck, how much of a three-hundred year-old makeshift shelter could we really expect to find?”

Grant took another look at the sloop, a small white speck to the south. He took a deep breath, stretched, and shrugged. “If anyone does catch up to us, maybe it’ll throw them off, make them think we’re searching down that way—ait for me!”

He crashed through the thick brush Teagan had slipped through, startling a few birds into flight and interrupting their morning songs.

Teagan followed what seemed like an overgrown path, ducking under tree limbs or holding leafy branches aside, working her way into the enclosed area the map had promised. She reached out her hands to sweep some foliage out of her way and froze. “Worked stone?”

Peeking out from vines and centuries of growth, some smoothed rocks caught the morning light. Relatively sharp lines formed unnatural ridges and walls ahead, hidden within a hollow by the thick branches of the surrounding trees. Teagan studied the stones, running her fingers along them, moving from one ridge to another.

“There are proper buildings here, Grant, with mortar and masonry.” She spun about, trying to grasp the size of the site. “Several of them—far more than any castaways could manage in secret.”

The feeling of being watched tightened on her heart like an icy grip, but she knew it was just the shock of finding an ancient community where there should only be the ruins of one or two makeshift structures. She still found herself tensing at every sound, peering into every shadow.

Grant looked over the area, his face grim. “You think someone else found this place years ago, took the treasure, built themselves something substantial?”

Teagan examined another overgrown building, its rock walls covered in moss and lengths of vine. “Possibly… or perhaps this site was never what we were led to believe.”

A chill struck Teagan’s bones even as she wandered in the warm sunlight, but she shrugged it off as the lingering effects of the night in soaked clothes coupled with the unexpected mystery before her.

Grant stepped into the nearest building, ducking his head to enter the small door. He moved with surprising grace for his size, and waved a long thin reed in front of him to look for traps.

Teagan took a ginger step into a half-collapsed structure, looking for clues while searching her mind for an explanation. Could my source have betrayed us? Or could he have been deceived? He wouldn’t have sold us a map to a site already explored by a previous client, for fear of damage to his reputation.

Nothing stood out in the first three buildings Teagan checked, and if Grant found anything noteworthy, he didn’t call for her.

The fourth structure Teagan approached looked squat and sturdy compared to the others, with rusted metal bars in the two narrow windows. The door had rotted away, but the thick walls and slight elevation on which the building stood seemed to protect the interior from centuries of storms.

More than the others, at least, but not entirely. Teagan noted the rust stains and pitted metal bars that fashioned holding cells. A few skeletons lay slumped against the walls, their wrists still held by leather cuffs affixed to what was left of their chains. Two of the remains included tattered and faded fabric in the style and shape of fifteenth century women’s clothing. The others seemed like young boys of varied heights.

“Grant?” Teagan called, then turned and yelled out for him.

Stones rattled and scraped inside the structure… or were those bones?

Father … have you finally come with the ransom?

A shadowy haze coalesced inside one of the cells, like a storm cloud taking shape, with green forks of lightning crackling through the smoky form. Teagan shook at the feminine voice echoing in her mind as well as the strange sight, and backed toward the open doorway. Her left hand shot to the medallion of Saint Nicholas around her neck.

The growing apparition seemed to regard Teagan with eyes alight like emeralds held in the depths of its darkness. Or … it hissed, does another interloper seek the prize?

Teagan bumped into Grant and gasped. He stood in the doorway, hunched down to peer into the ancient prison ruins. The goat from the slope stood beside him now, still chewing. “I was going to tell you I found something interesting,” he muttered, “but of course you’d have the more exciting discovery.”

“I’d be happy to trade places,” Teagan whispered.

The ghostly image turned its glowing verdant eyes upon the pair, and waves of judgment and wrath coursed through Teagan’s mind. A haunting voice rang out, sonorous like a bell, and the figure raised a finger to point at Grant. “I am la doncella preciosa that Vallarte sought… his daughter. Take what remains of his treasure, scoundrels … and join his mutinous crew in eternal unrest.”


Tune in next time for the epic continuation: “Grant McSwain versus the Cantankerous Crew of Corpse-light Corsairs!”

Also, you can read the other BlogBattler entries here.

Potlucks and Feasts

I had the opportunity to share some thoughts at a couple of recent Chapel services, once in my capacity as the band director introducing the worship songs, and once as a lay-person chosen for the week to share for a few minutes in a “whatever God puts on your heart” style.

Maybe I have a problem with food, but I thought about potlucks–a familiar theme in church settings.

Our praise team has been arranging pot luck dinners before practice for the last two months or so, giving everyone the chance to enjoy a meal together before we work out the details of the songs for Sunday’s service.

One Sunday, we were going to start the service with the old praise chorus, “Trading My Sorrows.” Yes, the one with the most repetitive chorus of all time:

Yes, Lord! Yes, Lord! Yes, yes, Lo-ord!
Yes, Lord! Yes, Lord! Yes, yes, Lo-ord!
Yes, Lord! Yes, Lord! Yes, yes, Lord! Amen!

I thought about how we come to potlucks, and how we draw near to God. As with all potlucks, there’s a little sense of pressure or propriety that drives me to bring something. After all, that’s how it works. Everybody brings a little to share–something good or necessary–and everyone is satisfied with the variety of wonderful contributions. It feels wrong to fill up your plate if you didn’t bring anything.

Well, I just gotta bring *something* to the potluck…

 

That isn’t how we approach Christ.

When we come to church, or when we go to God, sometimes I feel like I’ve got to show up with my best offering, something I’ve worked hard on as a gift, something I can be proud of. After all, it would be wrong to show up empty-handed, nothing to offer, expecting only to receive.

Yet that is the invitation God has made to all of humanity.

If I’m honest with myself (and with what Scripture says about me), I know that all I’m bringing to Christ is a bunch of baggage–burdens, sins, failures, weakness, frustration, and all sorts of other problems.

There’s this wonderful theological concept called “the Glorious Exchange.” We bring all our junk to Christ, and we get all His best.

He who knew no sin became sin for us, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him (2 Cor 5:21).

He was pierced for our transgressions; He was crushed for our iniquities. The punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His scourging we are healed (Isa 53:5).

For Christ also died for sins, once for all, the just for the unjust, so that he might bring us to God, having been put to death in the flesh, but made alive in the Spirit (1 Pet 3:18).

There’s a trade that takes place, and we get the better end of the deal.

We are coming to a feast, not a potluck.

Our part is to say, “Yes, Lord!” and show up.

The Kingdom of God isn’t a situation of obligation where each of us makes our finest dish and brings it as the cost of entry. It’s a feast laid out by the generosity of the Father, a lavish display of bounty available to all who respond to the invitation.

When I think about God, I get caught up sometimes thinking that I’ve got to earn His kindness by doing enough to deserve His provision… but that’s not the Gospel.

When we come to the feast of God, we come broken, empty, without merit, without right or demand. We come to behold that glorious exchange in action.

Where I bring all my weakness, He gives strength that is more than sufficient (Php 4:13, 2 Cor 12:9-10)

Where I have lack, He has abundance (Php 4:19, Rom 8:32).

When I am anxious, He gives peace (Isa 26:3, 1Pet 5:7).

For my ashes, He gives beauty. In my sorrow, He gives joy. (Isa 61:3)

He has put out a feast of blessings for those who simply respond to the call, and He is ready to dish out seconds, thirds, and then some to those who ask in faith.

Now we have received not the spirit that is in the world, but the Spirit who is from God, so that we may know the things freely given to us by God. -2nd Corinthians 2:12

When I shared these thoughts as a lay-person, we were about to sing a beautiful song called Spirit of the Living God.

We are meant to know all that God has given us through Christ. When I get this idea of God’s invitation and provision, it changes things for me. It’s not about working up some kind of fervor or working into some kind of favor. I’m not meant to work myself into the ground to show my dedication and prove I deserve some kindness from the angry God looking down at my pathetic plea.

When I think of God’s arms extended in welcome, and the Glorious Exchange, it changes what I’m looking for, what I think I need, what I want, what I even see as available to me. When His Spirit works in me to know what exactly He has done, what all He has taken off my shoulders and out of my hands, and what He has given to replace the trash and mess I didn’t even want anymore, then that makes anything seem possible.

Flowers Wither

Like many couples, my wife and I have discussed the value of flowers as a gift to express love.

Of course, a good arrangement is beautiful, and it’s culturally customary, and if you do some research, you can communicate a lot of great sentiments with the flower selection and color choice.

But they’re expensive, and they die quickly, and also they’re expensive, and then they’re useless and dead.

I’m not biased at all. These are objective facts. (/sarcasm)

My wife’s Facebook post of her gift, with an added sparkly filter.

As we headed toward my retirement ceremony, I thought about what I had seen couples do during their celebrations. Usually the active duty spouse gives the other spouse a floral arrangement or some similar token of thanks for all the support that makes being married while working in the military possible.

I certainly wanted to express my gratitude for all my wife has done and continues to do. People often ask, “Does your wife work?” And it’s like, “Yes, of course she does. She deals with four children every day while I’m sitting in my office or on a jet. She handles the whole household while I go off for months to fly missions somewhere else in the world. On top of maintaining and managing a home, she homeschools the kids – because she wants to, not because I’ve ever asked. I can go to work and focus on my job because I know I don’t have to worry about what the boys are up to, or what’s happening at home.”

For over twenty years of marriage, she has stuck with me through all the ups and downs and sideways corkscrews of life. When everything goes pear-shaped or when we’re flying above the storms, she is there, supporting and encouraging no matter what.

But flowers. They’re just going to wither. They’re going in the trash a week or two later. What’s the point?

At first, Jami and I thought about using something like the platinum-covered rose I bought her. Something that says, “Yes, flowers, but actually one that will last.”

Because, hey, eternal love and “not wasting money” and all that obviously super-romantic thought put into this expression of thanks (more sarcasm, I hope you could tell).

Later, Jami said, “You know, maybe it’s selfish, but I think I want some flowers. Is that wrong?” This is my wife, who is worried that after twenty plus years as a military spouse, it’s not right or perhaps too much for her to get the spotlight and a simple bouquet of roses and carnations.

“Of course I can get you flowers. This is your celebration too.” That’s what I think I said.

“God, I hope they’re not TOO expensive,” or something similar, is what I’m ashamed to admit I thought.

It wasn’t until I was standing in the room with chairs arranged and people filing in for the ceremony that my slow and stupid brain finally clicked into gear and understood.

Yes, flowers wither. Yes, they’re temporary. You can’t buy one and have it last, expressing forever the sentiment when it was given.

But that’s how our love works. It’s not an “I said ‘I love you’ when we got married, dear” kind of thing.

Love is expressed in the day-to-day decisions, the small sacrifices and acts of service, all the little things we so quickly forget which add up to a confidence and certainty that wow, this person really does like me.

Plenty of military marriages don’t make it. I’m not judging or assuming anything about them, but I know that my wife kept choosing, day after day, to show her love for me through consistent decisions and deeds that proved her commitment.

That’s all any of us can do to build a real relationship — keep doing the small things, the messy jobs, the hard decisions, the stuff we easily ignore in favor of something flashy or showy.

Love is expressed day by day. At any point, the relationship can wither and die if left unattended, if not nurtured, if not refreshed.

Maybe flowers that wither are exactly the right kind of way to say, “I love you.” Maybe I needed that reminder that saying it once with a big gift isn’t the same as saying it every day with small but meaningful acts of service and devotion.

Building A life on the Way Maker

In conjunction with the date of my retirement ceremony and my actual final day of active duty, I had the privilege of leading or organizing worship experiences at the hospitality house near our base called The Harbor.
If you’re looking for some meaningful worship songs for contemplation, may I suggest these four:

On the 28th, we had a three-song set of Way Maker (a favorite from the Gospel Service at the base chapel), Build My Life, and Set a Fire. On the 31st, we completed a collaborative worship set, and then I played Do It Again and Build My Life for my own added moment of encouragement and personal worship.

Way Maker is one of those super-simple songs that can pack an emotional punch. It’s a song of reliance on the God who changes us and carves a path through the obstacles in our lives.

Build My Life flows easily from the end of Way Maker (if anyone ever wants to end it) and speaks to the preeminence of Christ and the desire to let my life be shaped by His love and grace.

It’s another one that could go for a while (as I believe the 10 minute video attests).

I liked ending this song about His love by transitioning into an admission that there’s no place I’d rather be, and that I want more of His power at work in me. Hence, Set a Fire…

odd side note – pretty sure I worked with the guitar player during my time in the Air Force. I had no idea they were involved in worship recordings in Monterey. Super cool!

Finally, one of the most popular praise songs today is Do It Again, which is a fantastic reminder that God comes through even if it sometimes looks and feels like nothing is changing. It’s something I needed to hear when still piecing together all the stuff of our family’s transition to civilian life, a new job, a new home, new ministry opportunities, and so on.

My wife takes issue with the “haven’t failed me yet” because He will never leave us nor forsake us, so the “yet” gives an implication that maybe there’s a chance He might.

Me, I just love the song and what it means.

I hope these encourage you as much as they do me.

If you had to choose one or two songs that capture how you want to start the new year, what would they be? Let me know in a comment!

Uprooting and Taking Root

I posted this on the new Military Community Writers page, which is a new blog for military-affiliated writers to share experiences, stories, advice, and encouragement. Active duty members, Reservists, National Guardsmen, veterans, retired service members, government employees or contractors connected to a military environment, and dependents of any of the above–all voices are welcome.

Here’s my voice for today:
When we prepared to move back to Okinawa, my kids were dealing with the all-too-frequent hardship of leaving behind their friends. I wrote this free-verse poetry, thinking of the advice I’d rather not give them, even if it applies:

Push those roots down

But not too deep

Widespread roots come up easy

Ripping away some clods of dirt

Leaving a scar on the surface

Which quickly covers over

With new grass


Deep roots don’t come up

Without violent force

Strong hands grasping,

Crushing, straining

Until everything breaks free

Deep roots leave a hole

And a damaged plant


Found a new place for you

A familiar spot to settle in

The ground is soft and moist

The air warm and damp

You’ll grow well here

So push those roots down

But not too deep.


Now, three years later, my daughter is preparing for a new life, marrying the man she loves before he goes off to Basic to join the Air Force. He arrives in a week. They leave a little over a week after that. She’s already packing and planning, excited to see him, worried about forgetting anything essential.


Didn’t I once tell you

That shallow roots were best?

That loose knots untie easier, 

And the hope of what’s ahead

May even shine far brighter

Than the light we leave behind?


Well, I’m sorry, but I lied to you

Or–more truthful–to myself. 

Because there’s no untangling

These roots dug in my heart. 

Only forceful application 

Of a weeding tool or spade

Can separate this budding rose

From all this dry-packed dirt.


And though it feels to me right now 

Like no amount of time gone by 

Will sweep away the scar of absence,

This I also know: 

That neither shall the passing years

Diminish your past presence,

Nor steal the treasured memories

Nor smooth out laugh lines by my eyes

Nor turn the gray hairs back to brown.


And if in my heart there shall remain 

The hole where once you grew and flourished,

Then know that always and forever

There’s a place for you and yours

A welcome mat laid at the door

Even if your stay is brief,

And arms extended to bring in

The luggage you now pack to leave.

I Am Not Omran

In the aftermath of the attack on the offices of Charlie Hebdo, the hashtag #JeSuisCharlie became a unifying rallying cry for those who wanted to say something against the attack. “I am Charlie,” it meant. In other words, I am with them, and an attack on them is an attack not only on freedom in general, but on me personally.

While I mourn the 12 people slain that day, there have reportedly been 250,000 killed in Syria over the last five years of civil war. Quick math in my head works that out to about 135 people killed on average daily every day for the last five years straight. 

I don’t recall seeing many hashtags. And I don’t want to. 

In the midst of the most ridiculous (read: horrifying and frustrating) Presidential election in my experience and to my historical knowledge,  we’re treated to horror stories of how ISIS might send attackers to pose as refugees, and how “swarms” of people in need are flooding into countries that permit them entry. Fear is the message, personal safety is paramount, and people in need are rationalized away as a risk or at best a sad reality we can’t do much about.

Well, a picture of this Syrian boy named Omran has been making the social media rounds… and in an emotionally gripping video, CNN reported on his situation. 

I watch this and it strikes me that “Je ne suis pas Omran.” I am not him. I don’t know his world, his life, his circumstances, or his pain. I can’t relate. I can’t claim “This is me too.”

I’m living in comfort, abundance, and security. It may not always feel that way, when the budget is tight or the news is frightening. But it’s a good bet no one who can see this post is experiencing a crisis or situation anything like his (and the millions of people displaced and affected by this ongoing humanitarian disaster).

When I look at Omran, what I see is a striking similarity to my five year old son. He’s the “baby” of the family, the darling, the youngest of four children. He entertains us all with hilarious antics and endearing, heartfelt expressions of innocence and love. He is free to do so because #JeNeSuisPasOmran. 

No, I am not Omran. And that means I likely have the power to help. 

Yes, I understand the fears people have about national security. And in my brain–fueled as it is by seasons of 24 and the like–I can see how easy it might be to slip a threat into the country posing as a refugee. 

But maybe just maybe a lot of refugees are actually people in deep, desperate need. And a lot of organizations are helping them where they are, or in neighboring countries. So fear about our safety in the US is no reason to ignore the plight of others. 

Please consider what you can do. Here are some organizations I found that appear to be helping. 

Hand in Hand for Syria

Helping Agencies

Save the Children

In the Shadows – Blog Battle

This is my last Blog Battle entry (probably) until December, since NaNoWriMo beckons and will demand my attention. The genre is sci-fi.

 Clouds blanketed the sky, but the third moon’s violet glow pierced the veil with dim but unwavering light.
Dressed in clothing like dingy, tattered rags, a mother and her son huddled in the shadow of volcanic stone jutting from a nearby vent. Thick ash fluttered through air corrupted by sulfur’s stench.
 “I may not always be here to guide you to a new refuge.” She choked on the words, and not from the fumes. No one traveled at night, when the creatures swarmed across the barren landscape. But her last refuge lay in ruins. Her love most likely lay among the slain. Scattered and pursued, the survivors fled in every direction. 
 The sense of loss hounded her, hammered at her wavering strength, screamed in her ears to give up and die. Her son’s wide, innocent eyes kept her anchored, kept her from wailing and running into the night toward certain death.

 Squatting in the darkness, she looked her son in the eye. “You must be most cautious at night,” she said in a terse whisper.

 “Because Stoneskins hide in the shadows?” he asked, barely audible. He’d learned well.

 “No, because they’re nocturnal. Do you know what that word means?”

 The boy looked around, struggling for an answer. His eyes lit up with insight. “The knocking noise they make when they talk to each other?”

 She chuckled and kissed his soot-stained head. “No, sweetie. It means they only move around after sunset. But the good news is they stay out of the shadows. I don’t think they like the darkness either.”

 A gout of steam released from the vent behind them, and the ground shook. 

 The boy clapped his hand over his nose. “Ew,” he said with a giggle. “It stinks like Dad after dinner.”

 His mother shushed him and tried to keep composure, but the boy’s infectious delight could not be stopped. 

 Laughter felt foreign, alien, after so many years on the run since the colony ship landed on Beta Kaali Two. Sensors set for organic life offered no warning that the very stones of the planet might be alive. 

 A thought struck home and swept her joy away. “We might not see Dad again.” She patted the youngster, and put a finger to her lips.

 But the crack-crack of stones slamming together on the other side of the vent silenced them both at once. A Stoneskin drew near.

 She charged her nano-pistol and checked its settings. The gun’s nanites could disassemble the creatures on a molecular level. The devices proved the colonists’ only defense against the aliens. But supplies had long since dwindled. 

 If any of the Stoneskins attacked, she’d have three shots–maybe four.

 With one arm, she clutched her son to her chest and they became still as the rocky ground. No matter what, she thought, I will protect you. With my life, if I must.

 She closed her eyes and focused on the only sound that brought her peace, the too-fast beating of his heart.

 The rhythmic knocking of his brood mother soothed Ko-Kakrik and he clawed across the ground eager to follow her voice.

 “Do not wander into the shadows, little gravel-shell,” she said with fondness. 

 Ko-Kakrik sensed the vibrations around him and felt nothing apart from his mother’s movements and voice. He clacked his mandible stones together and asked, “Does the darkness deafen us to the sounds of the earth?” 

 “No, my spawnling,” she replied, with a stuttering clack that indicated amusement. 

 The mirth vanished and she cracked out a warning. “That is where the humans often hide. If they see you, they will spit venom from their claws to eat you alive.”

 Ko-Kakrik paused and listened again. For a moment he thought he felt another sound, a pair of thumping drumbeats nearby. 

 His stones beat together in a panic. “Mother?” 

 His mother’s claw rested upon his back and she guided him away. “Come along, and fear not. I will protect you. Even with my life, if I must.”

A Lifetime of Aftershocks

  

It’s Mother’s Day, and today I find myself considering the suffering that entails. It’s not an original thought, certainly. But it is one that touches me personally.

Childbirth seems to be the physical earthquake that leaves a lifetime of emotional aftershocks. Motherhood and sacrifice appear inextricably linked–so much so that it becomes all too easy to take for granted.

Our plans for my wife’s special day fit into a crowded schedule at work. Sunday turned out to be the one day she’d have me all to herself, the one day I could get the kids out of her hair for some length of time. I worked a full week and then some. And Saturday’s duty came with bad news.

My wife was about to find out Saturday night that I would have to depart first thing in the morning on Mother’s Day for a few days’ trip off island to avoid an inbound typhoon so that my unit can still perform our missions for the United States even if our home station is socked in with weather.

There’s no doubt in my mind that–though undeniably and appropriately frustrated–she would give me a hug and kiss, tell me she loves me, make sure the kids did the same, and settle in for a few days alone with four kids in the house awaiting the storm’s arrival and departure. Four kids–three of them battling a bit of cough, congestion, and fever. Four kids who get a lot of their, let’s say, “charm, creativity, and character” from me, much to my wife’s chagrin (and occasional delight). 

That I don’t have to worry or question her commitment astounds me, and makes me all the more grateful to this wonderful mother of my children. 

We luck out, and discover that we won’t have to leave quite so soon. Mother’s Day is back on.

It strikes me that I’ve spent more of my life in the military than out of it, a threshold I crossed a couple years ago, in fact. The pressures of sudden schedule changes and cancelled plans are nothing new. And I’ve had it incredibly good over the years compared to so many of my peers in the service. So I am not complaining or seeking pity here. That said, the life we’ve chosen sure comes with its share of challenges. 

My own mother spent hours listening to me play piano. We shared interests in music and creative expressions. I gained her laid-back “Type B” personality and sensitivity where my older brother and my father both loved history books, strategy games, and argumentative debates. Mom feared my soft-spoken personality would get crushed by the bullies and jocks of high school. She often wondered how I was doing and worried whether I’d be safe and out of trouble in my first few years away from home.

Being a parent now, I can see how there’s always a level of care and maybe even fear about your precious little ones. It’s a program running in the background of a parent’s mental computer, a constant blip on the radar. When I think of how mothers bond with their babies even before they’re born, I know my experience only scratches the surface of that attachment and concern.

Over the years, my mother (and father) bore the near-constant separation of military life with the bittersweet mixture of pride and longing one might expect. My family and I have been stationed in Japan for the majority of my 20-plus years of service. Through it all, Mom dealt with the painful distance between her and her grandkids on my side with what grace she could muster. Modern tech comforts like Skype and MagicJack make things a little easier.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up at 0-dark-thirty to get ready for a few days away from home. And I’ll make a phone call back to the States to thank my awesome Mom and wish her a happy day. Then, while the kids are still (hopefully) asleep, I’ll thank my wife for her own awesome mothering and slip out the door.

The Air Force has been focused on “resiliency” over the last few years, trying to educate and help its Airmen find ways to bounce back from stressful situations and potentially overwhelming experiences in their lives. I wonder if they’ve considered everything moms go through, and what makes a mother get back up and press on each time life brings another wave of hurt or weariness. 

Seems to me there’s a lot we could learn.

To my mother and my wife, who have made so many sacrifices that I’ve seen and probably many more that I’ve overlooked, thank you. To them both, and to the many women out there who do the same for their loved ones, their biological children, or those they’ve adopted literally or figuratively as their own:

You are awesome and the world is a better place due to your part in it. Your sacrifices matter, and your profound love is appreciated. 

Thank you.  

Big Brother Turns 40

No, not the Big Brother of George Orwell’s classic 1984, although that work does get referenced below. Nope, I’m talking about my big brother, Pete.

Pete is on the left, hating the camera as always.
Pete is on the left, hating the camera as always.

I wrote a poem for my parents’ 40th Anniversary some time ago, and it was well received.

My sister-in-law called a couple months ago and reminded me that my big brother’s 40th birthday was coming up. “If you want to write something for his birthday, I know he’ll love it,” she said.

“Uh… sure,” I replied. “I can write something.” But what?

For two months, this project has nagged at the back of my mind, with no clear direction of where to go.

Then, a few days before his birthday, I remembered time spent with my brother and my mom, writing various haiku.

We followed the 5-7-5 syllable format for our haiku. My mom and brother would try to write poignant and powerful things about summer, love, the future, spirituality.

I think I wrote about really important stuff: ramen, video games, and my favorite toys.

In the spirit of those fond memories, I started jotting down some haiku about my brother and my relationship with him.

40 of them would have been too many, but 14 seemed a good number.

Big Brother, forty?
I don’t know what I should say
Past “Happy birthday”

You only enjoyed
Two and a half years without
A little brother

My entire life I’ve
Had a big brother, and I
Wouldn’t change a thing

We’d play karate
My villain, you the hero
I’d want to be like

You put up with me
Chasing you and all your friends
You included me

You introduced me
To the wonder and magic
Hidden in pages

Kingdoms like Gondor
Worlds like Narnia, Bespin
Past and future times.

Sentient robots,
Dragons and dwarves and Wookiees
Doctors and hobbits

We spent hours and nights
Combing nuclear Wasteland
Swapping floppy disks

You challenged my faith
Encouraged me to stand firm
When others gave up

You opened the door
Of my first comic book store
And I was drawn in

To art and legend,
Heroes in tales of virtue,
Overcoming flaws

I unlike Winston
Need no O’Brien to make
Me love Big Brother

So much of my life
Was shaped to imitate you.
For that, I’ll say “Thanks.”