Home-body

Blogging has been at a minimum the last few weeks, in part simply because my schedule and calendar have overwhelmed me. Unfortunately, I'm not sure it will ease up anytime soon. With so much cluttering my day planner (okay, no, I don't really use one anymore, but I probably should), most of my free-time has been consumed by other responsibilities.

One of those responsibilities taking up huge blocks of my time on the calendar is travel. From March 2009 to July 2010, I enjoyed a prolonged period of homefront assignments. In other words, I did not travel once during that period for business. This was a major departure from the norm, given what I do. However, since mid-July, I've been gone from home two full weeks, and on Wednesday will depart again for a short 3-day jaunt to Leavenworth, KS. That trip will be interesting, if only for the fact that I've never been there.

What I have discovered, however, is just how much of a home-body I've become in the last year and a half. I like coming home to my family every night. A trip now and then is okay, but as I face this trip, and additional business trips in late October and mid-November, well, I get tired just thinking about it.

So all things considered, home is a good place to be.

Battle Hymn

From John Hinderaker at Powerline comes this delightful rendition of the Battle Hymn of the Republic, performed a few years ago by a combined choir representing a number of schools in the district where he lives. In this post, he shares background, and encourages its use and viewing for any patriotic purpose.

I share it with you, not merely because of its patriotic legacy, but because I have always been deeply moved by the verses that speak so directly of the triumph of the Risen Christ, who will one day come again. And I confess, there is something profoundly emotional about hearing such words and melody from the mouths of children. Enjoy.


In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us live to make men free;
While God is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! While God is marching on.

He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave,
He is wisdom to the mighty, He is honor to the brave;
So the world shall be His footstool, and the soul of wrong His slave,
Our God is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Our God is marching on.

Missing a Friend

I've been attending a business meeting here in Maryland this week. It has been a long couple of days, and unfortunately my head won't find rest with my own pillow until very late Friday night. Compared to my last trip this way, the travel particulars have gone fairly well - and I'm hopeful that Friday will afford me no new adventure tales to tell. But this is not my topic tonight, so I'd better move on.

One of the attendees at this meeting bears a remarkable resemblance to an old college roommate of mine, who passed away five years ago in a tragic accident. It took my breath away, because his appearance, his frame, his gait - all of these remind me so very strongly of Van. It is just uncanny. More than once, I've found myself thinking back ….

At first glance, it was an unusual pairing. I was nearing the end of my freshman year at Auburn, all of 18-19 years old. Van, if I recall correctly, was seven years older. Van and I struck up a friendship after serving together on the same work team during a Spring Break mission trip with the Appalachian Service Project. Van was generally quiet and reserved, while I was young and uptight and a bit too opinionated for my own good. I was still relatively new to my walk with Jesus, and it showed. But although he was often quiet, people usually paid attention to him when he spoke. I know I did. Which is why I was caught off guard when he asked me if I wanted to be his roommate. We were both active at the Wesley Foundation (we were voted co-rookies of the year together for the 1989-90 school year). But sitting there at the lunch table in the cafeteria, I jumped at the chance. First, I needed a roommate, and so did he. He had found a duplex on Oak Street down from the high school. It was a great little house. Second, and more importantly, I knew that I could be myself around him – something that isn’t always easy for guys to do with other guys. I knew instinctively that I could learn from him. I don’t know what his motivations were, if he had any. Perhaps he knew that I needed some mentoring. Whatever his reasons, God knew what He was doing. And I am blessed to this day because of it.

Both Van and I stayed in Auburn the summer of 1990. Van was in school (forestry), and I worked for the university. Both of us served on Wesley’s summer leadership council (I went on to serve the full school year). And while there should be plenty of memories from that time, as much time as we ended up spending together in the house or at Wesley, I don’t remember too many specific things. I do remember that Van would constantly be washing his Chevy Blazer. Our driveway was under a grove of sweet-gum trees, and the pollen output was unbelievable. Every night, without fail, he was outside with the hose washing off the pollen. I seem to recall one time where he remembered a little too late to roll his windows up before he started hosing it down.

We occasionally had people over at the house, but for the most part, home was our getaway place. I can’t tell you how many nights Van and I would sit in my fabulous red/orange Holiday Inn castoff lounge chairs watching television. (I still have those chairs, so you can imagine how old they are now). That was a good summer.

The 1991 Gulf War was the first major war that I was old enough to fully understand. Indeed, it was quite a personal thing for me, as my father was deployed for the air war portion of that conflict. It was during this time that I leaned on Van more than he ever truly realized. When the war started, school became very secondary to me. I remember being glued to CNN every waking hour I wasn’t in class. At least it seemed that way. At home, Van and I would sit there in silence watching the coverage of the war. We talked about it, of course, but more often than not, we would just sit there and watch. Van seemed to know when and when not to say something. And I knew he was praying for my dad, and for my family. Van didn’t offer platitudes, but he did offer understanding. It was what I needed. Looking back, I’m convinced that Van was the perfect roommate for me during that difficult time.

There are a plenty of other memories, but 20 years later, many of these have muddled together. There were plenty of laughs, trips to The Flush for ice cream, things of that nature. Those were good times. I learned a great deal from Van about how to approach life (and to be honest, I should probably remember and relearn those lessons). He was always careful about the words he spoke. Even when angry, he was very careful in his choice of words. Any critical feelings he may have had towards anybody, he usually kept to himself. He also knew when I was overreacting about something, and through his quiet approach would guide me back to reality. Then again, he may just have thought I was nuts. But if he did, I never knew it. The fact is, Van was the mentor I needed at that time in my life, whether he was aware of his role or not. I looked up to him. I asked for his opinion all the time. He had my respect, and I am certain he had the respect of many, many people. He was a good man. It is true, I don't think about him much anymore, because after all, that was a long time ago, and we were roommates for only the one year. But I do miss him. He was my roommate, my friend, and my mentor. God used him in my life. I can pay him no greater honor than to thank my Father in Heaven for allowing our paths to cross. And I am grateful that a chance meeting with a stranger this week has given me a chance to remember a good friend and brother.

Do Their Constituents Know?

One of the great things about America, indeed, one of our guaranteed freedoms, is embodied in the First Amendment. No, I'm not talking about freedom of speech, the press, or the free exercise of religion. Rather, I'm talking about the freedom we have to peaceably assemble, to gather ourselves in groups of shared philosophies, ideologies or interests.

To my knowledge, there are no outlawed political parties in the United States of America. In fact, I think the communists still operate a party apparatus. I'm sure there are a large number of socio-political groups out there. And they have a right to assemble and organize.

One of these groups is the Democratic Socialists of America (DSA). I don't have much to say about them, other than their ideology generally runs counter to what I believe, and what I believe America's Founding Fathers intended. I won't demonize people for having different ideas of society. But I do think when our elected politicians align themselves to certain ideologies or platforms, their constituents ought to know.

Yesterday, GatewayPundit at FirstThings.com noted that last October, the DSA published the names of some 70 current members of Congress that have aligned themselves to this socialist caucus. 70. Eleven of these sit on the House Judiciary Committee (almost half of the total number of Democrats on the committee).

I'm a little shocked, but I suppose I shouldn't be. Socialism has been a part of our national conversation in one form or another for almost a century. The debate is not going away anytime soon.

As I look at the list, though, I simply have to wonder: Do their constituents know?

(h/t: Claire Berlinski)

Honor of a Man

This story has quietly been making the rounds the last few days. President Bush and the former first lady made a surprise appearance at DFW to welcome home 150 service men and women from Iraq and Afghanistan.


I've never served a day in the military, but I was as moved by this as I was by the surprise Thanksgiving trip the president took to Baghdad in the early days of that war. He clearly remains steadfast in his commitment to those who once served under him.

The honor of a man is marked in part by how he honors others. There are those who seek to honor, and those who seek honor for themselves.

Do I miss the man who seeks to honor others? You bet I do.

River Walk

Far up on the northern plains lies a sleepy little town that often invades upon my dreams. To call it a town, indeed to call it sleepy, is perhaps a gross overstatement of its true nature. Yet even a walk through my thesaurus leaves me unsatisfied, so the description will have to do. Apart from the occasional car scattering rocks across the loose gravel roads, the only sound you are likely to hear is that of the open wind. A lonely little post office stands open, servicing those very few that still make their residence in this forgotten place. A railroad used to run through here, but like the long abandoned grain elevator standing vigil at the town's east end, all that remains are but shadows to what once might have been.

I've often wondered why such a forlorn place so often forms the setting for my dreams. These visits are not ones I would choose, were I able to effect such a cast. When my feet walk along the tracks, or across the gravel dust, the scene that forms takes the shape of the fantastical or the apocalyptic. These nighttime fancies are neither happy nor sad, but they are almost always overcast and dimly lit. In my waking moments, these dreams presage a sense of melancholy, although not overwhelming, that often lingers with me throughout the day. I find in such days a respite, I suppose, given to a quiet, thoughtful isolation of my inner self.

Like forgotten magic, this place features a strange juxtaposition of dream and memory. For though I have not set foot here in decades, I know every street, every house, every trailer. Here is my house, with its detached garage and basketball hoop. Next door was the old farmer and his wife, who every so often chopped the heads off of whatever domesticated fowl they happened to be raising that year. Across the road from them was yet another home, with the finished basement that served as a sanctuary for this pox-riddled teenager during a vivid midnight run through a tornadic storm. And across from that place, through a man-sized gap in the fence next to the horse barn, was the access to the river.

Turtle River, it was called. During the summer, it was a playground, my own Terebithia after a fashion. Trees walled its banks, and every so often provided spans on which to cross from side to side. These were private, precious days, a place I credit with my first awakening to the reality of self, the reality of life. Fun enough for summer, I suppose, but my memories of the river were fiercely shaped and hardened by the bitter cold of the Dakota winter.

Being fairly shallow, comparatively speaking, the river easily froze over when the temperature fell. Layers upon layers of frozen snow matted the surface, paving the meandering lane a brilliant white. Bare and brown limbs stood starkly on each bank, where coupled with the constant overcast of gray, often left one to wonder if all the color had gone out of the world. The days were short in that season, and the mercury often struggled to reach much beyond the single digits. Every exhaled breath could, in the absence of wind, literally hang in the air in front of your face. I've rarely heard such a silence as could be found standing on that river of ice.

Silence, and solitude. To this day, in my mind's eye, I can remember almost every turn, every fallen tree along the path of the river. The only sound as yards turned into miles was the sound of booted feet crunching through the icy snow. I say miles, although I'm fairly certain it was never more than a couple. Sometimes old equipment buildings would come into sight, but for most of the journey, it was just the gray, the brown, the white, and me. Step after step, bend after bend, I might as well have been the only person on the planet. I usually tried to remain mindful of the time, however, because as the day turned to dusk, the temperature would fall and dinner would be beckoning. After a number of trips, I'd settled on a turn-around point, always the same on each sojourn down the river.

That was a different time. A lot of life has passed by since those days, for me at least. Of that time, I remember a great many things, but what I treasure most were my river walks. The chaos of a newly awakened mind found a measure of serenity there, where all that mattered was really nothing at all.

I'm not certain what prompted me, but I looked up the town using an online map tool. I marked up the image and embedded it below (click to enlarge). Seeing it this way, unfortunately, steals away some of the perspective I have so firmly fixed in my memory. But when I close my eyes, I am able to walk the river in my mind, and can still see every bend from ground level view. All the way to my turn-around point. And back.

I've pondered from time to time, whether I will ever make a trip back to that town, to walk again the gravel roads, reflect upon my old house, or watch the river flow by. I will not say never, but I think that such a journey is unlikely. I've already been there. And in my memory, and in my dreams, I can be there again. I think that is enough for me.



A Portrait of Me: The Key
A Portrait of Me: River Walk
A Portrait of Me: Journey's Dawn
A Portrait of Me: I Am Prodigal

Britain's Military Drawdown

My knowledge of military matters as they pertain to geopolitics is sadly limited, but the news that Britain is considering a major drawdown in its military capability strikes me as something that should generate great concern for us, and not just strategically (emphasis mine):

In the most significant changes to Britain’s defences since the post-Suez review of 1957, ministers and officials plan to scrap large parts of the Armed Forces. ...

But the RAF will bear the brunt of the planned cuts. The Air Force will lose 7,000 airmen – almost one sixth of its total staff – and 295 aircraft. The cuts will leave the Force with fewer than 200 fighter planes for the first time since 1914. In addition, the Navy will lose two submarines, three amphibious ships and more than 100 senior officers, along with 2,000 sailors and marines.

The Army faces a 40 per cent cut to its fleet of 9,700 armoured vehicles and the loss of a 5,000-strong brigade of troops. ...

If implemented, the cuts will mean that Britain will almost certainly depart the world stage as a major military power and become what military chiefs call a “medium-scale player”.

Britain's Armed Forces have actually been in decline since WWII, relative to the role they play in global affairs. Prior to WWII, the British Empire had influence over a large portion of the world's population in every corner of the globe. Economic, political, and changing social attitudes over the latter half of the 20th Century have had a major impact to their military, but in spite of their decline in reach, the British Armed Forces retained a high-level capability that made them our most reliable partner in NATO. The special relationship we have with Britain, both politically and militarily, is the bedrock of the NATO alliance. Should Britain follow through on this reduction, the future of NATO becomes even more uncertain. The global balance of power is already fluid; the departure of Britain as a major military power will create a vacuum that someone will inevitably fill.

The fact that the drawdown appears likely should concern us. But we should also take careful note as to why the drawdown is being proposed. Britain is broke:

Britain, which is considered as one of the world’s most wealthy and powerful countries, faces the challenge of insufficient funds to protect itself against all potential threats.

“We don’t have the money as a country to protect ourselves against every potential future threat, we just don’t have it. The country is in an economic crisis, defence cannot be exempted from it,” British Defence Secretary, Liam Fox said.

Britain has a vast domestic entitlement system and astronomical national debt. They are even looking at dismantling their socialized health service, because it has become unaffordable and unsustainable. The most basic economic rule is paramount: there is only so much money a country can spend in any given year. Without going into a discussion of how our nation handles discretionary and non-discretionary spending as a budgetary matter, suffice it to say that as a percentage of GDP, the more you spend on domestic entitlements and debt service, the less that is available to spend on other needs, including defense.

The United States has the strongest, most able military in the world - today. But it would be naïve to think that we are not susceptible to the same pressures that may result in the retreat of Britain from the world stage.

Days Gone By

I do not count photography as one of my greater interests, but that does not mean I am unable to appreciate works of photographic excellence. I followed a link today to the photo blog of the Denver Post, which had on display a collection called "Captured: America in Color from 1939-1943". The photographs are the property of the Library of Congress.

Below are a few of my favorites, but I confess reducing that list to just these few was quite difficult. I may not be able to resist posting more of them. Click each image to enlarge.

Trucks outside of a starch factory. Caribou, Aroostook County, Maine, October 1940. Reproduction from color slide. Photo by Jack Delano:


Shepherd with his horse and dog on Gravelly Range Madison County, Montana, August 1942. Reproduction from color slide. Photo by Russell Lee:


Shasta dam under construction. California, June 1942. Reproduction from color slide. Photo by Russell Lee:


Boys fishing in a bayou. Schriever, Louisiana, June 1940. Reproduction from color slide. Photo by Marion Post Wolcott:


Please take a little time and go browse the gallery. These images from days gone by are a part of our own unique heritage. Treasure and appreciate each, and allow them to capture your imagination.

(h/t: Powerline)

All images courtesy of Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress.