“Bobba, Tell Us Your Story”

“Bobba, tell us your story.” That was my request to my uncle Bobby Tuggle Thanksgiving evening as we sat around the kitchen table. I knew a large part of it, but I wanted my children and grandchild to hear it from him. And so with a slice of pecan pie in the belly and a Scotch in his hand, he began. For over two hours we sat, listened, asked questions … and heard his story, recounted just as fresh and in detail as if it had happened yesterday.

Beginning with his graduating from Auburn University in December of 1956 and receiving his invitation to serve Uncle Sam in the US Army, he carried us through the next years of his “top security” clearance and assignment as a cryptographer, one who breaks coded messages, for the US government. The adventure began as he was on the parade ground at Fort Jackson, SC when an unmarked car with plain closed men got out, called “Tuggle” off the field and told him to “come go with us.” He thought for sure he was being escorted to the blockade but as it turned out, he was being taken to a distant part of the military base behind fences and high walls and then into a secure building where he sat across a table from three men who began to ask him questions, questions they already knew the answers to, letting on they knew every detail there was to know about his home and personal life.

Bobba told us fascinating story after story of his time at Fort McPherson, Fontainebleau, Paris, Germany, Switzerland and the likes as he worked secretly, sleeping on pads of grenades, transporting coding machines and carrying “the pill” lest he get caught by the enemy. And whereas my boys found those stories most exciting, my favorite one is always that of Tamara, the story of two people who fell madly in love. One a young American cryptographer; the other a beautiful Russian spy … and the separation and heartbreak that still reveals itself in the eyes and voice today.

Stories are powerful. They appeal to our senses as well our emotions, leaving a lasting impact on the next generation and forward, as evidenced by Bobba’s great-great nephew sitting wide-eyed right there next to him listening intently … asking his own good questions. Stories create a connection with that person as evidenced by my children’s desire to have their picture made with him. 

Several days later, Bobba called me to thank me for allowing him to talk to my children. Really? WE were the ones honored. He also told me that the older he gets and begins to face the end, his memories turn more and more to remembering those days … days he will never forget. “I did some things that were good,” he said. “I did some things that were bad. But they all made me who I am today.” Our life experiences do just that, don’t they?

No, we probably haven’t trucked across Germany with highly classified material in the back or skied the Switzerland slopes with a Russian spy, but we all have stories to tell. Pertinent stories. Stories that shaped us and made us who we are today. Stories that tell of the faithfulness of God; His goodness; His ever abiding presence; and His amazing love toward us … making all things work together for our good and His glory.

Thank you, Bobba, for telling us your story. We love you.

I See the Moon

I see the moon

The moon sees me

The moon sees the one

That I want to see

God bless the moon

God bless me

God bless the one

That I want to see

No doubt I learned this little rhyme as a child standing in the backyard with my mother. And I imagine that my daughter learned it from me doing the same. And just as I have wondered who my mother longed to see and who she was asking God to bless, I have certainly done my share of wishing and blessing probably beginning when my would-be-husband was away at UGA until today as I think of my children and loved ones in distant places. After all, isn’t that the job of the moon? To pull? Just look at the tides.

I think another reason I love the moon so much is not only because of the connection it gives me with those here and now but with those of the past. In fact, I used to tell my daughter Marynan, “Do you realize that’s the same moon Jesus prayed under on the night He was betrayed?” There’s something really solid about that for me and enough right there to make me stop and behold. Indeed, the sun lit His way, too, but that sphere doesn’t give me the same connection because I cannot look at it directly. 

Whereas someone who loves the stars is called a stargazer, I recently learned that there’s also a word for someone who loves the moon: a Selenopile. It comes from the Greek words “selene” (moon) and “phile” (lover). Moon lover. That would be me. And whereas many of my friends have called themselves sunbathers, I have been known to moon bathe … which means I just stand in its full glow with my arms outstretched and rotate. Or twirl. There’s no ritual dance here TO the moon, just a basking in the glory of the one whom the Psalmist writes. 

To Him who made the great lights,

For His lovingkindness is everlasting:

The sun to rule by day,

For His lovingkindness is everlasting,

The moon and stars to rule by night,

For His lovingkindness is everlasting.

Psalm 136:7-9

So tonight as I stand under the glow of the full moon, I will be reciting a long loved poem and prayer, I will be recalling the One who both created and prayed under it … and I just might be taking a twirl or two.

God made the two great lights, the greater light to govern the day, 

and the lesser light to govern the night … 

AND GOD SAW THAT IT WAS GOOD.

Gen. 1:16-18

 

Thanksgiving Morning Journal Entry

The house is quiet; the sun is slowly but very surely starting to reveal its coming. One lone bird has broken the dawn; more will follow shortly. My Divine Hours are prayed. My candles flicker.

It is good to be in the house of the Lord.

Today is Thanksgiving. I wish I were better at giving thanks and “less good” at grumbling. Of seeing God’s goodness in ALL things — and acknowledging that goodness with thanksgiving. Not just in the colors of sunrises and sunsets but in the thousands of ways He reveals Himself through the day. Even the hard places. Maybe especially the hard places, because it’s in those places I see my own ego, my own inability to cope, my own insufficiency and, therefore, often forced to fall upon Him. Shouldn’t that alone be reason to give thanks? Or at least a very good beginning.

The sky has begun to take on the color of an infant boy’s blanket. There are two cardinals on the feeders just outside my window. Squirrels scurry in the distance up a pine tree. Earth itself sits in stillness as if she can’t believe she is the tabernacle of God.

Trash Night

My husband and I have a nightly routine: every evening one of us (normally him) takes out the day’s accumulated trash. Sure, throughout the course of the day we might make a trip to the recycle bin to toss in some paper, plastic or cardboard, but for the most part, the household garbage is just tossed in the container under the kitchen sink to await its transfer, normally after we have completed our supper and the dishes are all but done. We pride ourselves on who actually removes the last pod from the Keurig, therefore robbing the other one of the joy. 

Then comes trash day, which is a Thursday for us. So on Wednesday night, the ritual is to make sure all the trash in the house is collected, bagged, tossed in the outside garbage bin and hauled to the street for pick up the next day. It is a weekly occurrence and if we miss it, one of two things will happen: either we are running down the driveway before dawn the next morning with bins in tow as we hear the trash truck approaching or our bin becomes overflowing, smelly and an attraction for the resident raccoons.

Side note: when we lived in Richmond Hill some 25 years ago, there was no garbage pick up and so we had to go to the land fill on a regular basis. They also had individualized bins for glass, cardboard, plastic, etc. We would throw the itemized bags in the minivan and my kids would ride like garbage men on the side of their trucks, jumping off and throwing the items in the appropriate containers. They had so much fun doing it that I actually became concerned they might make it their life’s calling.

Reading through Leviticus this morning, I was reminded that the Israelites had their own “trash” day, just on a much larger and more serious note. And instead of weekly, theirs happened only once a year on what was called the Day of Atonement.

We read in Lev. 16:9-10, Aaron shall present the goat on which the lot fell for the Lord, and offer it as a sin offering; but the goat on which the lot fell for Azazel shall be presented alive before the Lord to make atonement over it, that it may be sent away into the wilderness to Azazel (NRSV).

Scholars can’t agree on exactly what or who this Azazel was, but what we do know is that Azazel’s non-sacrificial “tote” goat (scapegoat) served as a ritual “garbage truck” to purge the Israelite community of desecration through this process of “transfer.” And what’s interesting to me is that the Israelites were not the only ones to observe such a ritual as other ancient Near Eastern cultures had their own rites of transfer and disposal. It seems that we all are born with some kind of knowing and desire to be “clean.”

So they took out the trash, purging themselves for whatever short period they could.

Of course, the Israelite ritual pointed to a far greater event and one that was a “once for all” kind of deal. The Old Testament ritual upheld the promise of a coming Messiah who would be the ultimate Scapegoat, One who would provide the end of all garbage pick up. And thanks be to God, that work has been done through Jesus Christ and Him alone.

So the next time you haul your bin to the street or your load to the land fill, return to your door with a lilt in your step, a heart full of gratitude and a joy beyond measure because the One who takes away your “trash” has come. You are forgiven, restitution has been made, and full fellowship is yours. 

Glory be to the One who did it all.

New Marching Orders

There are two tangible yet priceless items my Daddy left me before his passing. Much to my mother’s chagrin (as she wasn’t ready to part with it yet), he gave me the walking stick he used to climb Mt. Fuji when he was based in Japan. At every station, the stick was stamped with the date, time and elevation. It’s truly a treasure. The other jewel was the autobiography he wrote for his children and grandchildren. Beginning with his parents, he told us his story … entitled, “A Simple Life,” as he called the book. I call it, “A Simply Extraordinary Life,” and I couldn’t be more grateful that he and Mom both put their lives in book form for us. 

As Daddy started moving toward dementia, there was one thing he never forgot, and that was his army days. In fact, he would often say in those last years, “I am a soldier in the U.S. Army.” I heard the stories through the years and it is with great gratitude that I can still read about them with much detail in his book.

His first marching order was to report to Fort Benning in Columbus, GA where he took his oath of allegiance to the United States of America. From there the train took him to Fort Jackson in Columbia, SC where he was issued his fatigues, field jacket and boots … and where he got his first harassment: “down on our knees with a bucket of water and that famous six-inch brush for about three hours.” 

Daddy wrote, “After a couple of days we were standing around with nothing to do but wait on some brilliant assignment when I heard a voice calling, ‘Soldier!’ Again, ‘Soldier!’ And then again, ‘Soldier!!!’ I glanced around and spied a sloppy looking Sargent staring at me. I pointed to myself and mouthed, ‘Me?’ He said, ‘Yea, you. What’s your name?’ ‘Charles,’ I said. Charles must have sounded like royalty to him because he said, ‘I don’t give G—D—- what your mother calls you, what is your last name?’ I had to laugh and he got so mad I think he forgot what he wanted and just walked off. I learned to use my last name from then on.”

Daddy was soon assigned to Company B, 13th Infantry Regiment of the 8th Infantry Division for his basic training. While other recruits were passing out like flies while receiving their shots, Daddy was able to remain standing. When he was given tests and interviewed for skills, they found out he had IBM experience and gave him a permanent MOS (military occupational skill) and assigned him to Headquarters Third Army, Fort McPherson, Atlanta, GA. Of his original company of troops, he was the only one pulled for Fort Mac … the rest were headed for infantry in Korea.

Daddy loved Fort Mac and said it was like being a civilian just with less pay. He had a good job and lots of free time because he worked the owl shift, as he called it … and he could park his car right in front of the barracks. [Some sixty years later, I took him along with Mom back to Fort MacPherson for an amazing tour and a great time of reliving the past.] But then came the orders for about ten of them to be transferred to the Far East Command and, for the most part, that meant Korea. So via Chicago, Montana, Seattle to Fort Lawton, when finally the Navy took over and Daddy and the other nine men boarded USS Freeman troop ship in February of 1952 — but not before they were all required to give a pint of blood.

It was an arduous trip across the Pacific that Daddy wrote about in great detail and often with much humor. He even had Crow’s Nest duty in the middle of the night atop the troop ship! But 21 days later, they reached the coast of Japan and Tokyo Bay for docking at Yokohama. However, upon arriving, the guys from Fort Mac were called in for a meeting with an officer who told them there were no vacant positions for their MOS in the Far East Command. So they were all issued winter combat clothing and a rifle. As Daddy wrote, “This thing was getting serious.”

One thing many people today don’t know about my daddy is that he was quite a sharpshooter. And so that’s the direction he thought he might be going. And so they waited. But on Easter Sunday morning as he and a friend were walking to the Base Chapel for the Easter service, his name was called over the loud speaker to report to company headquarters immediately. 

Remember that little tidbit about Daddy being flagged for an MOS for IBM experience? Someone caught it and as Daddy wrote, “I didn’t get to church that morning but the good Lord gave me a local assignment to the Japan Procurement Agency stationed in Yokohama just a few blocks from where we docked in Japan.”

Daddy had gotten new marching orders. 

Upon arriving in Japan, Daddy related that he had a real distaste for the Japanese people due to Pearl Harbor, but the hate for them gradually began to disappear as he got to know them better and understood their customs. It wasn’t long before he was showing them the tricks of the trade and wiring control panels which would make operations much easier. 

Everything changed for Daddy that year he was in Japan. Yes, even his love for people.

Often times we are just going through life, doing the next thing … and then we hear our name called out over the loud speaker. It could come in any numerous of ways. While kneeling by the bed as a teenager, and hearing, “Preach the Word.” By praying for God to send someone to help the woman in need, and hearing, “You go.” The voice can come in any number of ways. “Trust me and write a check.” “Get out of your comfort zone and speak to that person.” “Go on that mission trip.” I’m not sure Isaiah was actually talking about a loud speaker, but he did say we would hear a voice behind us, “This is the way you should go. Walk in it.” Regardless of how it comes, there’s no questioning Who is giving the new order. And just like my daddy who had no choice but to obey the commanding officer, when it comes right down to it, though it might take us days, weeks, or months to get that point of saying yes, there’s really no option but to follow the order if we are to walk in obedience.

I remember a time when I got some new orders. I had been in a job for seven years, assuming I would be there at least twenty-seven more. And then I got the call, a literal one. And whereas I thought and prayed through the situation for some six weeks, I knew deep in my bones when I got the original call that it was new marching orders. In the end, if I was going to survive and thrive, I knew I had to surrender to that call. 

Daddy’s new marching orders might possibly have saved his life, quite literally, as he was headed for combat, most likely as a marksman of some sort. And who knows if our new marching orders just might save ours.

Just an ordinary moment…

Alleluia in the Midst of Loss

If this year has provided me with anything, it has been the opportunity to experience and deal with loss. Three days before the yearly calendar turned, my dear, sweet daddy breathed his last. It had been such a long journey and I am so grateful my mother was by his side just as she had been for the last 72 years. And since that day, I have received numerous calls, texts, and messages alerting me to more loss: neighbors, friends, spouses, parents, even children. Some had “died in rank;” others “out of season,” meaning they died way too young. Throw in there three loved ones who are in different stages of dementia … the slow goodbye … and the fact that I am in and out of a nursing home (which could also be called a “home of dying”) on an almost daily basis, it can be very overwhelming. Am I at that age where the graph of my life gets darker with loss or have I just become more aware of the pain and separation that loss brings? 

Each loss has brought its own dynamic and intensity; obviously, some more severe than others. Of course, a sadness of one degree or another has been attached to all of them for me, but there have been a few that if someone had gouged a kitchen knife into my gut, it wouldn’t have hurt any more than the hole left by the loss of the loved one. I am also aware that at the other end of every grief I experience is one who knows the cut of the knife just as or certainly more severely than I.

Whereas many will say “give it a year,” I know that’s not always the case. When a dear friend recently called the name of my brother who has been deceased almost six years now, I unexpectedly and surprisingly yelped in pain. He immediately apologized, but the truth is that we don’t want to forego the calling of names. We don’t want to forget. We need and want to keep their presence alive in the earth.

I stood around a table with five ladies a week ago with a beautiful mirrored tray littered with candles. (Ironically, this had been passed down from a deceased great aunt.) One by one, each of us lit a tea candle in memory of a loved one lost to death while soberly calling their name. It was a beautifully, sacred time … of remembering people who made up the fabric of our lives.

I’m also no longer naive enough to believe that loss can’t come in other ways than last breaths. It can present itself in forms of job transfers to another city or across an ocean. It can be a loss of a relationship in a myriad of scenarios. All still carrying the heavy weight that loss brings.

Yes. Loss. It’s common to all. 

If we have learned anything, even from our first breath, is that in the midst of gains, joys and successes, life also gives us losses, sorrows, and failures. 

The question begs: what do we do with that? 

May I suggest we give an “Alleluia.”

In her book, “Uncommon Gratitude,” Joan Chitterster writes, “Alleluia is not a substitute for reality. It is simply the awareness of another whole kind of reality. … One of the oldest anthems of the church, alleluia means simply ‘ALL HAIL TO THE ONE WHO IS.’ It is the arch-hymn of praise, the ultimate expression of thanksgiving, the pinnacle of triumph, the acme of human joy. It says that God is Good — and we know it.”

Later she writes, “What’s to thank God for in cases like this where nothing seems to take the pattern we devise for it: no father as you grow, no family as you age, no friend as a faithful companion as you explore the world around you? … How can anyone possibly say thank you, alleluia, God be praised for this?”

After listing a number of appropriate ways we can offer uncommon gratitude, she says, “There is a perspective that comes from loss and change, from death and endings, that can be gotten no other way. Death changes the landscape of both the present and the future. It enables us, sometimes for the first time in life, to see the things we too often miss: the value of time, the richness of fun, the balm of talk, the rarity of intimacy, the measure of enough. … We find, in death and loss, that suddenly [earthly things] begin to pale, Perspective sets in and we begin to see more clearly now. Sometimes it is only in darkness that we can begin to see the light.”

And so we offer uncommon gratitude.

May each of us who are walking a season of loss be blessed with an ability to say, whether in a whisper or with a shout, our own “Alleluia” even if, especially if, the pain and grief remain. 

“Winter, which strips the leaves from around us

Makes us see the distant regions they formerly concealed.”

Jean Paul Richter