Grandpa Stories: Shipping Out

On Monday, March 10th, Robert E Patton went home to be with Jesus. I, and the rest of my, very large, extended family, is blessed that my grandfather put together a small book full of stories from his life. Some of them are absolutely incredible stories of God's saving mercy and I wanted to share a couple. 

The tide of the war was beginning to change. The build up of US forces in Europe was in full swing; convoys of Liberty ships were carrying men and supplies to the European Theatre in huge quantities and American planes were decimating European cities in Nazi hands. Battles in the Pacific were intense with immense casualties for both the Japanese and Americans. But the Navy was winning naval battles and the Marines were taking one island fortress after another; Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Pelilu, etc.

I wanted to do my part as a patriotic American. Thew result was far from a forgone conclusion. Our national survival was at stake. I enlisted as soon as Dad would allow. Now, boot camp at Parris Island was over and four months of infantry training at "Tent City" in Camp Lejune was coming to an end. There had been months of obstacle courses, jumping over things and crawling under others. There were many overnight bivouacs in the chilling cold. This place had been built in a hurry to handle the training of thousands of marines. Only the mess halls and churches were heated. We lived in six man tents and from January to April, were cold most of the time. One break from the cold came when we were loaded on to a troop ship, went to the Caribbean and practiced assault landings on the island of Vieques, near Cuba.

Every few weeks I would pull out of my "seabag" a letter that I had received prior to enlisting that said I would be sent to Radio School at Great Lakes Naval Training Center when my basic training was complete. It never happened, even though I showed that letter to each Personnel Officer as I was transferred from place to place.

Finally, time came for us to "ship out" We knew that we were to be assembled with a large group of Marines somewhere in the Pacific. It would soon be our chance to prove our manhood... or otherwise. We were to pack our seabags and carry our rifles and full marching packs. We were marched to the train platform and after the normal wait of several hours, loaded on to coaches for the trip to California or the Pacific.

The train pulled out and went for several miles and stopped. No one knew why but there were all kinds of rumors. Eventually, after hours more, the train reversed and we backed to the platform from which we left, unloaded and sent back to our tents. No reasons was given. "Ours not to question why; Ours but to do or die".

Several days later, it was the same "drill" all over again. Pack up as instructed, march to the train platform, wait, get on the train by the numbers, then wait. The train pulled out slowly, gathered speed, then slowed and stopped. More waiting. The train backed up almost to the platform; then stopped. Before long, it backed up the rest of the way and we were again sent back to our tents. It took all day. What a way to run an organization. But the unofficial "scuttlebutt" was that these actions were to confuse any enemy spies about troop movements.

Again, we got instructions over the loudspeaker to "fall in". (A Marine Corps term that means to get in a three row formation where you are supposed to be!) The Sergeant gave us "the word", but this time he called out some individual names: "Bronder, Patton, Smith, Williams". The four of us were told to stay in our tents and wait for further instructions. Then the order was given... "Right Face; Forward March" and off went the friends we had made during the last eight months. They boarded the same train again and left Camp Lejune. We never saw them again.

Our platoon from Parris Island and Camp Lejune were sent to California, then to Guam for more assault landing training from large LCI (Land Craft Infantry) ships. They were being prepared for a major attack "somewhere in the Pacific".

Bronder and I were shipped to the Marine Corps base at Quantico and assigned to the Field Arto;;dry Training Battalion, Smith was discharged for bad feet and Williams went to San Diego to bugler school. I had joined the Marine Corps to "fight Japs", not teach school. Why was I left behind?

Some time later, I heard through the grapevine that our platoon had been on an LCI ship headed for the attack on Okinawa when it was sunk by a Japanese suicide bomb. All of the platoon were lost. Maybe God has something for me to of in life! Make it count!

Postscript:

Many years, after my parents were killed together in an automobile accident, I found a copy of a letter which indicated that Dad had contacted someone with influence in the Marine Corps who had been responsible for my being assigned to the Marine Base in Quantico, Virginia.

When I get to heaven I'm going to have to thank Great Grandpa Patton for stepping in and saving Grandpa's life. When you think of the ripple effect that would've happen if he hadn't, it's pretty incredible. My dad wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be here. My baby wouldn't be here in September. Thank you Lord for using Great Grandpa!

Want/Need

Rain pelts the window like a thousand metronomes clicking out of time with each other. I roll over. The clock reads 4:23 AM. I'm wide awake. Sleep is my enemy tonight.

I leave the room, shutting the door softly so my wife can sleep. I fill up the tea pot and turn the stove top on high. I'm not ready for coffee but tea will keep me company at this early hour. I walk to the record player and put on Brian Eno's "Discreet Music." A light soundtrack that won't wake those still asleep. There's a bible on the coffee table and I open it up to my earliest memory verse.

"The Lord is my shepard. I shall not want...."

More like I shall not need. I have not contented myself in the Lord enough to not want. I have been taken care of and been without need, but want... I still want. My selfishness has not been purged and my heart is nowhere near as grateful as it should be.

I get to the kettle before it's whistle sets off an all too early alarm. I let the bag steep while holding the mug in my hands. The warmth feels good in the quiet hour. I pace slowly back and forth, ignoring the light background soundtrack I have chosen for myself.

I pray...

"God forgive my stubborn, ungrateful heart. Restore my faith. Restore my trust in you. Father purge this bitterness that's taken over. Let your grace wash over me in a fresh way. I'm sorry."

It's simple... But its enough.

The Struggle Is Real #FirstWorldPains

I wanted dessert last night. I mean, I want dessert most nights, but yesterday I had a hankering for something sweet. We have a giant bag of pancake mix that we bought at Costco. So I figured I'd google desserts that one could make with pancake mix.

The first link I clicked on was for pancake mix sugar cookies. Admittedly I'm not a huge sugar cookie fan. But it looked easy enough to make and sounded good enough.

Cooking is an art. Baking is a science. I've always been good at artistic things. Science... Yeah, not so much. I followed the recipe. I didn't deviate. I know better. The cookie dough didn't mix all that well... I checked the recipe. Double checked it. I had done everything right.

My first mistake was not getting out the kicthen-aid mixer. That would have helped the mixing process. But the kitchen-aid involves a lot of pieces that need to be hand washed and I wasn't interested in having to hand wash a bunch of stuff. So I just mixed it myself. And it was not well mixed. I almost just threw the mix out.

But I didn't. I put that dough onto a tray and into the oven. The cookies didn't look very attractive. A lot of odd shapes and sizes happening. I expected to be disgusted and throw out all the cookies and the rest of the dough.

But hey, it doesn't have to be pretty to taste good. The cookies weren't half bad. And smothering those bad boys in Nutella takes them to a whole new level!

So that was a little insight into making cookies with Bryan. Happy to have wasted a little bit of your time today!

A Writing Exercise

Sometimes you're in the middle of meaningful conversation. The back and forth of engaged dialogue, where no one feels left out, but everyone is enjoying this moment to share and be a part of something special. Other times you're the facilitator, the moderator, keeping the conversation moving, but never engaged or adding to the discussion. At Kristen's, I was always the moderator.

Politics, art, religion, music... The brunch crowd was always saying something provocative, trying to one up the person who just spoke. They'd say things like, "If Jesus were a woman who fronted a rock band people would cry themselves back to salvation every Sunday." What the hell does that even mean? After one too many bloody mary's, I excuse myself and step outside.

I light a cigarette and walk past the line of boutiques. Jewelry, cloths, knick knacks, all over priced for their recently gentrified clientele. The politicians have kept their promise; no more crime in the city. It's been pushed one zip code over. It's someone else's problem now. Our city is beautiful, "cleaned" up.

I walk over to Omar's, a small cart that sells used vinyl and draws a minimal crowd, the hipsters all choosing to buy their records at the new shop across town. Omar's selection is varied, mostly jazz and soul, the good stuff. Billie Holiday, Al Green, Otis Redding, Dizzy Gillespie... I slowly leaf through this week's collection of "new" records. Somehow Carole King's Tapestry found a home at Omar's. I grab it and give Omar a five, even though the sticker says fifty cents. Omar doesn't make much and he's always been fair. He's the kind of guy who does what he does because he likes interacting with the people who share his interests. He's the kind of guy you want to see succeed.

I walk the couple blocks back home and put the record on. A couple of scratches that add more character than I care for, but as the music starts I forget all about the static coming from my speakers. This is the anniversary of my move across country and "Home Again" feels like the right song for the occasion.

I decide to find a church with a Saturday service. The bar scene has worn me out and there're no good bands playing tonight. I walk slowly, looking for a quiet reflective place to pray and put my mind at ease. I walk past an abandoned looking building where I can hear a woman singing "Come Thou Fount" while banging on a piano desperately in need of a tuning. I step in and witness what appears to be a makeshift church service. It's beautiful and I begin to cry. There's nothing flashy or special about what I see in front of me, but the off key passion and honesty reminds me that God still hears. That this sound could only be pleasing to him, and I'm sure it is.

This is what I've been waiting all day for. A moment of pure beauty and reflection. Something honest and innocent in this city of people trying to gain an advantage over their neighbor. This was God in the chaos.

Moscow Is In The Telephone

In October of 2012 I started the S section of my iTunes library. It's March 2014 and I'm listening to Rachel's Systems/Layers, the last album of the S section. Since I started the S's, I got engaged, got married, and am preparing to have a baby. You know... Lots of life changes. Lots of albums starting with the letter S. Did I learn anything? Eh... Mostly that I like High On Fire, but I'm not in love with the band.

So... On to the T's.

Next 5 albums up:

Tail Swallower and Dove by These Arms Are Snakes
Take A Spin by The Kreepdowns
Take Care Take Care Take by Explosions In The Sky
Take Me To Your Leader by Newsboys
Take Off Your Pants and Jacket by Blink 182

"Ten Things I Have Learned About the Sea"

Defining Church...

Don Miller stirred up one hell of a storm by stating he doesn't connect with God in a traditional church service setting and so, he doesn't attend church regularly. I have very good friends of mine who don't feel comfortable or connect in traditional church services. I've been in bible studies and home churches with them. They are great people who have challenged and help me grow in my faith. And I love and am extremely grateful for them. 

Kevin Miller wrote a piece about how sad and how far Don Miller, Brian McLaren, and Rob Bell have fallen. There were a couple points in Miller's piece that bugged me more than others. 

(Kevin)Miller has a problem with Don's story about a communion experience he had with some friends of his. 

As a movement, we treasure the individual getting right with God, the religious born-again experience, the innovative way to do mission. Sounds good, but when individual trumps communal, experience trumps received teaching, and innovation trumps the Great Tradition, you get exactly what we've all just lived through. It can go no other way. How else can you explain Don Miller's nostalgic delight in do-it-myself Communion: "I remember pulling over on the side of the road with friends, climbing into an old abandoned building that we thought looked interesting and doing communion on a loading dock using hot chocolate and cookies. … It was a fantastic bonding moment between us but also between us and God." The same soil that grows create-your-own sacraments feeds create-your-own moral teaching."

Isn't (Don) Miller's experience with his friend, the essence of communion? Isn't it a beautiful picture of what communion can be? That communion doesn't have to be limited to inside church walls eating stale mini crackers and grape juice past its best by date. I'd take hot chocolate and cookies any Sunday morning. Communion is a meal of remembrance. Isn't stopping, taking a moment to recognize God's goodness, and celebrate what's He's done in your life , with whatever elements you have? Why should this beautiful expression of communion be frowned upon? How did we get from a communion that features hot chocolate and cookies to create-your-own morals? That's quite a leap...

My other big issue was this statement...

"yet that Scripture was written by the church to the church for the church, so it must be read within the church."

Uh... Say what? On certain levels I understand what Miller is trying to convey... But it's a little offensive. I love my church. Our teaching team is phenomenal and I love them! But... Most of what God has shown me and taught me in the last year has not been in a sermon. It's been in my own personal reading time. In fact the message with the most impact on my life in the last year was given by Don Miller. If the only place the scriptures are being read is the church... That's a problem. And I know this isn't what (Kevin) Miller meant, but it sure sounds like he's suggesting that our spiritual fill of scripture should come from the church alone. 

Why are we trying to define and limit what a church is and should look like? 

The church is you and me. It meets in beautiful church buildings, movie theaters, coffee houses, bars, wineries, abandoned warehouses... Heck, have church on a baseball diamond (why not!). The church is Keveil Miller, and Donald Miller, and Rob Bell, and Joel Osteen, and the right wing gun owner, and the tree hugging democrat, and all of us who proclaim Christ as our Savior. We are the church. We need to work together and love each other. The world will know we belong to God by our love for one another (John 13:35). Shouldn't we be focusing on our common ground and strive to work together to bring the love of God to everyone? Isn't that what matters more?