Moonshine and Foxholes

I spent four years in the army. Before you pass along what seems to be the obligatory, "thank you for your service," let me explain, I was much more like Beetle Bailey than G.I. Joe.

We were walking back to camp late one night after some training. The moon was full and brilliantly lit up the meadow we were hiking through. Like good little soldiers we were spread out across the field as we walked, but the moon was so bright I could see each one. As we approached the woodline, someone asked if I needed a flashlight. With the moon, I obviously didn't need one, so I declined.

That was mistake number one.

The minute I hit the trees I realized my mistake. The full moon is great at illuminating an open field, but penetrating the canopy of a Virginia forest in the Spring... not so much.

I knew the general direction of my shelter-half. (Apparently the Army could only afford to give me half a tent. If I was Air Force, we would have been staying in a hotel will a fully stocked mini-bar, but that's a blog for another occasion). Since I knew which way to go, I decided to shuffle along until I found it.

That was mistake number two.

What I failed to remember was,we dug foxholes earlier in the day... yeah. The thing about foxholes is, you dig them armpit deep to the shortest man. The one I "found" was dug by two dudes who were about 6'5.

I'm convinced I could have gotten out of that hole by myself, if I hadn't torqued my ankle so badly.

It's kind of embarrassing to yell for help after you've fallen in an empty foxhole, especially when it's happened because of your own foolish choices. What you find though is people respond with concern. They help pull you out, carry you to rest and even take you to a medical professional if you need one.

We've all fallen in foxholes from time to time. It's OK if you're stuck in one. Just remember, there are people who care more about you than the spot you're in or how you got there. Help is available. You don't have to sleep down there. 

The Hidden Price of Missions

I've been in a member care roll for our missionary staff for about five years now. It's been a gift to walk with our people through celebration and pain. I expected that. We'd been in "the business" long enough to know missionaries are people. And people have issues.

But something happened I didn't expect. I got calls from retirees. Some needed help. Some needed to talk. Some needed to inform us of the death of a spouse. All of them, still felt connected to the organization.

It seemed strange to me. Folks who retire from the government, GM or Walmart don't do that stuff, do they? If someone retires from Boeing at 65, would she still call the front office 20 years later and expect the folks there to know who she is? 

There are a number of reasons for this, but I think the key issue is an inability to truly reengage with their home culture. Lots of folks transition when they retire. They pack up and head to Florida or Arizona. So why can't missionaries make the leap? 

Well, because 30 years outside your home country makes you... um... weird. After 30 years, the country has moved on, the culture has moved on, friends have moved on and they just can't connect. They feel like  I did in my father in law's barn. 

They don't have a job where they can engage. They're pushing 70 so they don't have the energy they used to. They try to engage at church but, to them, many folks seem shallow. And the folks at the church don't know what they're capable of. 

Like the hobbits return to the Shire after an unexplainable adventure, some are like Sam, who can can reengage and can move on. Others, like Frodo, have gone too far. 

This is the price you'll probably never hear about from your missionary friends. Missing home, missing family, missing friends, raising your kids in a strange place are all things you'll probably hear and understand. 

But home isn't home anymore. It never will be, especially for those who have spent the better part of their lives outside in overseas ministry. Like Frodo, they have to wait for the final trip home, our true home where we will all feel like we belong. 

Do The Superman

I came across this video the other day. It's of Braylon Beam, a young cancer patient, dancing after a game with the Carolina Panthers. I think I've watched it at least 15 times since then.

You can watch more of Braylon's story here. Something about this video moves me. It took me a while to figure out why. I've seen these stories before and sure they're touching, but as a dude, they're not supposed to bring you to tears, right? (The sheer ridiculousness of that last statement, what it says about me and our society in general is something for another blog)

As I thought through it, I decided it's everything. I love all of it.

You have the vulnerability of a young boy surrounded by the safety of large strong men. He's a little white kid who really can't dance, being celebrated by black men with moves, race and culture aren't issues.

Then there's Braylon's final pose. It's what Amy Cuddy calls a "power pose" in this Ted talk. It's celebratory, victorious, triumphant. He's Superman.

Then it finally hit me. The video crushes me, because I think about Mom.

Alzheimer's has taken her. Her mind is gone. Her body is bound. She's been defeated. But some day, God willing someday soon, that won't be true anymore.

She'll be safe from disease. Free to dance again. And as all of heaven welcomes a saint who lived life well, I'd like to think Jesus will say, "Come on Jeannette... let me see your Superman."