The six days in Iraq came and went very quickly and soon Mike and I were waiting together for my C-130 back to Kuwait, standing outside the small wooden flight operations building at the Al Taqaddum airfield. I had been overwhelmed by Mike’s kindness to me throughout the visit. As we waited the several hours together, Mike shared some things from the bottom of his heart. With undisguised emotion, he described what it had been like for him to say good-bye to Jen and the kids. It was a tender time for both of us and very hard for me to say good-bye to him.
During our time together in Iraq, I wondered how Mike had been experiencing my visit. I prayed each day that I would not cause him any embarrassment or put him in greater danger by my presence. What I didn’t know at the time was that Mike had been regularly writing his thoughts on a personal blog site during his deployment, and had continued to write even while I was there with him. Recently, he shared with me some of the reflections he wrote on his blog shortly after our sad farewell. With his permission, I share them now with you.
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“In case you didn't know, my Dad came out to visit me in Iraq. Most of us in life are a chip in the mosaic, a ripple in a sea of faces. When we walk in the rain, hurrying down the street, all of us get wet. Yet every once in a while, someone walks through the rainstorm and sun shines on their head and they don't get wet. Sometimes the crowd just falls away and we receive a miracle just for us. That's what happened to me.”
“My Dad made me a promise a long time ago when I joined the Marines: Son, if you ever deploy, I will find a way to get to where you are and visit you. Well, I totally forgot about that. Right before I deployed, he reminded me, and I was like, ‘Sure, Dad, that's awesome.... but it’s Okay if you don't make it’.”
“Wow. He did it. Got media credentials, bought his ticket, ballistic armor, everything... I went to Baghdad, picked him up and even went on a convoy with him into the Green Zone which was amazing. Then we flew over Baghdad at night in a helicopter on our way to my current Base. It was surreal sitting there in the dark helicopter, looking out the open back door of the Helo at the lights below and the darkness of the desert farther out. Right next to me, there is Dad, giving me a ‘thumbs-up’.... Honestly, even though I was having a great time, it was strange b/c out here I am not really living. It’s like a roller coaster ride when you are too young and it’s still a bunch of unpleasant jolts and shocks. It lasts forever, and you can't relax, and you feel like you're not even there, but all of a sudden you're done. I'm not scared out here, but for my Dad, yes. In BIAP, when we thought a mortar hit... BOOM!... In a split second I realized my vest and helmet were still in the vehicle too far away and all of a sudden I had my Dad's vest on him and his helmet. Everyone quickly realized it was just EOD blowing some old ammo up outside the wire. Everyone stopped halfway to their gear, but there was my Dad with all his stuff on. I guess I didn't know I loved my Dad that much. But, the kicker was after the BBQs, the war stories, all of a sudden it was time for him to go.”
“The whole time, I was almost kind of numb because it was surreal having him here. This place is the half way place, the wood between worlds. For me, this place has been an existence out of existence, if that makes sense. I live here, and for a pretty long time, but there is no permanence, no attachment. So everything is transient. You want time to go fast because it is overwhelming. So like a marathon, you run to mile 7, then say ok, I'm at 7, now 5 more to twelve, 12 miles etc. So all of a sudden, part of the real world, my Dad, shows up and then I am dizzily sharing my world with him.”
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“When it was time for him to go, we waited for his C-130. We said good bye, I gave him a hug and he stood in the long line of troops going back home. It was only when the long line began to walk to the plane, my Dad, a tall distant figure turned around and waved. All of a sudden I felt really sad and really happy and the reality hit me. My Dad came out here just to see me. All the coordination, money, and time, all just to let me know he loved me. I watched until the plane was a little black speck against the red sky of sunset. I think the reality honestly hit right after he was gone. Weird how that works, that sometimes we don't realize our happiness or appreciate our situation until we realize it by its vacancy. My memories are great from this. But somehow it was stark “Army of One” reality out here, and then the brief appearance of someone from home that reminded me I've got people in my life who are pretty awesome. I'm glad I'm so loved. Even if I am 29 and an Army Officer, I think I'm lucky to have a Dad like that....”
As I reflected on Mike’s words, I became aware that it was his birth that allowed me, for the first time, to be called father. It is a gift that God the Father shares with us. Because of this gift we fathers share in the terrifying task of trying to reflect, in some small way, the image of our heavenly Father. I think most of us fathers live life burdened by how we fail in this task. We say, “I won’t be like my father!” and then are horrified to see his failures in us. But every once in a while, usually unawares, we get it right. We actually, by God’s own grace, succeed. In a recent email, Mike described the result. While he was in Iraq, Mike had never mentioned to me that his faith in God had hit rock bottom. The long months, the violence, the heat and dust, the family separations, had all ground him down.
I will close with Mike’s words as an encouragement to all of us fathers. His words are a sign to us that, in spite of all our failures, the Lord can still use us to reach our children. In the email, Mike wrote: