Just about every week, I speak to someone who has served our nation in the military. Some were career. Some enlisted. Some were drafted. Some were deployed. Some served stateside. I have listened with great interest to those who fought in World War II, Korea, Viet Nam, and the Gulf wars. It is a life and a world I’ve never experienced.
In 1975, as my eighteenth birthday approached, I was under the impression that I still had to register with the selective service. Even though there had been no draft lottery since 1972, there was still registration. Up until March 29, 1975, when President Ford ended registration.
I remember calling information and asking for a number to call, to find out what I needed to do to register. The man who answered told me that they were in the process of packing up and cleaning out the office. There was no more registration.
Registration would resume a few years later, but I fell into a narrow window of time — those born between March 29, 1957 and December 31, 1959 — who were exempt from Selective Service registration. At one point during my senior year in high school, I had entertained the idea of pursing an appointment to the Air Force Academy. But my eyesight was poor enough that I wouldn’t qualify to fly, so I pursued other college options.
Our church’s ministry to veterans and their families has given me the chance to meet and talk with many who have served in many different ways. From infantry to pilots to helmsmen to electronics specialists to gunners to intelligence to chaplaincy to accounting to medical corps, they all have stories to tell. And some they do not tell. Some have killed. Some have lost friends and family. Some suffered physical or mental injury. Others were discharged unharmed.
I sometimes wonder how my life would be different had I been drafted or enlisted. What would I have learned? What would I have experienced? Would I have good memories? Or nightmares?
My father was in the Army Air Corps from 1943-45. He flew with a B-17 rescue team in the South Pacific. I recently asked him how many rescues he was a part of. He said, “None.” They never actually had to rescue anyone. With the dropping of two atomic bombs the war came to an end before he experienced combat. My dad wrote down a very detailed record of every place he went while he was in the service. I have able to find them all using Google Maps. Some of the places were nothing more than atolls in the middle of a very large ocean, where makeshift airstrips had been constructed.
Many of the youth I’ve worked with enlisted for military service upon graduating from high school. A few of our current youth are hopefully waiting for an appointment to a military academy. We pray for them by name each and every week. We know there is no guarantee of a safe return. But we are very grateful for their service.
“Hey honey, what do you want to do this afternoon?”
A few months ago, I realized that almost everyday, I glance at a clock at exactly 7:22. Sometimes it’s am. Sometimes pm. It might be my watch, the clock in the car, the microwave in the kitchen, the cable box under the TV, to the lock screen on my phone. On a daily basis my eyes see the digits 7-2-2. By the way, that’s my birthday, July 22.
recent regional pastor’s conference, the guest speaker, Mark Wood, made me aware of a segment of the population who identify as Christian, but know little if anything about the faith.
When my office administrator reminded me of an appointment the other day, she added, “We need to arrange an interruption. The last time they were here visiting for ninety minutes!” And so we did.
I headed out the door to make a few hospital visits the other day. As I was just about to merge on the interstate to head south, I saw a fleet of fire engines, ambulances and sheriff’s cars along the side of the road. Traffic was moving, just very slowly. As I passed I saw a car on its side in the woods and people being carried out on stretchers. They must have rolled a number of times to get that far back. It looked bad. Couldn’t have happened more than a few minutes ago. Dodged that bullet!
As I sat and visited with them, a few others arrived and I suddenly found myself immersed in Jamaican culture. The conversation was filled with references to jerk seasoning, where to get the best jerk seasoning, plantains, rum, reggae music, Rasta, and cities and towns in Jamaica. As I listened and learned, it seemed like there was a running competition among them about who was still the most “Jamaican” among those who had lived in New York and now in Palm Coast for twenty or thirty years or more. 
It’s counter-intuitive. At least it is for me. When I see a great opportunity, or when there is a need or when I just have the next great idea, my heart and soul tell me to get to work. When I am not getting the results I want, the logical response is to put more time and energy into that effort. Or when something needs to be done and I’ll be around it’s just too easy to say, “I’ll take care of it.”
Waite for it... 