The Call

The Call ebbs and flows. It has it's own natural rhythm, it's highs and lows. At times, the it is deafening. At times you can barely hear it, but it remains there, primal, deep, instinctual.

When I was a kid, it was much louder. It was loud enough that my best friend Steve and I ventured out one spring day to walk to the nearest golf course, through cornfields and fallow ground. We didn't get far, less than a mile, but it was far enough for us to miss supper and send my dad out looking for us.

It was loud enough that I spend hours of my days wandering through an old, abandoned gravel pit across the street from my house. A large part of my childhood was spent there, fishing, chasing frogs, snakes, and turtles. My friend Tim and I walked unseen in front of a hunter who was target practicing, and spent ten minutes sitting behind a large dirt pile waiting for him to finish shooting. I'm sure it wasn't scary deadly close, but we could hear branches above us cracking and snapping as the bullets went through. And that was close enough for two kids.

My cousins and I would play army there, hiding in the bushes with our sticks-shaped-like-guns, climbing trees and running like we thought soldiers did. We spent the better part of the night out there once, until we all went back to my place and slept outside next to our campfire.

My dad and I once tried to find the source of the small creek that ran through the gravel pit, only to discover that the creek turned and disappeared into a residential area about a mile down the road. We geared up for the expedition too, bringing snacks and a compass to find our way. We were both disappointed, I think, that civilization dared encroach on our journey, and so soon after our departure.

The call was loud on the many family vacations we took, where I would take every opportunity to find a trail to disappear down, either on bike or on foot. It was loud when I tried to ride around Gun Lake unsuccessfully. It was loud when I rode from Grand Haven to Holland and back.

It was loud on our family trip to Washington D.C., when I found an old trail along the Potomac and followed it all afternoon.

Every autumn, in fact, the call grows loud for me. I hear snippets of conversation, bits and pieces of sentences, all having to do with the outdoors, the woods, the wilderness.

The leaves turn yellow, the weather turns cooler, and people all around me talk of hunting, the future hunt, and glorious hunts of days past. It doesn't help that I, for my part, dig out my old Ted Nugent cassette single of "Hunt Music". The tape is badly worn, and the tape player in my truck is in desperate need of cleaning, but that doesn't stop me from listening to "Fred Bear", and "Sunrize" over and over again.

One of these days, I tell myself, one of these days I will make it out into the woods. I will venture out there, and I will return with food for my family.

The call is loud right now, as winter releases it's grip on the ground. There are rivers and ponds to fish. There are trails to follow. There are campsites that need a tent on them.

Last week, my Bride and I were driving up north, following my father in law to a little restaurant in Sparta. We both marveled at the landscape, the gentle rolling hills and hollows, the thick, old forested areas, and the massive space that seemed to separate every house from each other.

We wondered aloud at the idea of finding an old house in the middle of nowhere and fixing it up. We talked of ponds and lakes and summertime cottages. I mentioned cheap land in the Upper Peninsula, and my Bride laughed. Perhaps.

Last fall, we joined some friends in a cabin they own north of White Cloud. It was a wonderful time. We cooked over the fire, we talked and laughed, our son Elijah and their son Jack painted Halloween pumpkins.

We took a walk in the woods. Their cabin, which sits on five acres, abuts a large section of state land. There was an old service road that we followed until it ended at one end of a bog. We then picked our way over a small dike in the middle of the bog, where the trail picked up somewhat. We saw deer bounding away in the distance, birds in the trees, and no other humans.

I could feel the woods come alive. As I became more aware of the living woods, I began to feel the call welling up within me. I did not want to turn around. Finally, we decided we had to, as it was beginning to get close to dusk, and we did not want to have to pick our way through that bog in the dark. Well, they didn't. I wouldn't have cared much.

This call is within each of us. It may be buried, it may not be that loud. But it is there.

We have been created as part of this world, to care for it, to enjoy it.

It makes sense that we would be drawn to the wide open spaces, to woods and wetlands, to fields and grasslands. It makes sense that we wouldn't want to come back from a short walk in the woods.

When we fill ourselves with technology, with shopping malls and the conveniences of modern life, the call grows faint, until we can barely hear it at all. Until we lose the ability to hear it and heed it.

And when we lose that, we lose something important to our soul, to our being. We lose a part of why we were created in the first place.

So I am resolving to spend more time outside. To ride more trails. To fish more ponds. To fill more empty camping spots.

I hope you all do the same.


wingnut

When What You Have is Taken (OP&L two)

First Lieutenant Richard D. Winters landed alone.

Two years of brutal training, marching, drilling and general army life had culminated in this night. This was the night their training had prepared them for. This was the night that their G.I. life insurance was designed for. The night that the United States and Great Britain would finally bring their armies to Adolf Hitler's Fortress Europe. This was D-Day.

Lieutenant Winters had learned how to train and lead men. He had learned how to jump out of perfectly good airplanes. He had learned how to fight when he landed, behind enemy lines and often surrounded. He was one of the cream of the crop, the best the United States Army had to offer. The airborne army Winters was part of was to parachute in before the invasion, behind enemy lines to secure certain objectives while the main invasion force landed on the beaches of Normandy.

And he landed alone, in the inky night of the French countryside. The only light were the flashes from the many enemy machine guns that were shooting at anything that moved.

Not only did he land without knowing where the rest of his men were, but the shock of the parachute opening had ripped his gear bags right off of him. He was left with only his uniform, helmet, and his combat knife.

How many times has that happened to us?

How many times have we had everything taken away from us?

How often have we planned and prepared for something, only to have it turn out in the exact opposite way?

It could be the college that you had dreamed of getting in to all through high school didn't accept you. Or maybe your dream job disappeared. Or maybe your retirement savings just disappeared. Maybe you had to give up your house to foreclosure.

When my wife and I were trying to start our family, we had a rocky start. We just couldn't get pregnant. And then, when we finally did, we lost the baby to miscarriage. And then we suffered another miscarriage.

We had been hit hard. We had finally opened our hearts and our minds to bring another human being into this world, and it seemed that the world itself was fighting against us. We were left with nothing.

We were like Lieutenant Winters.

We had prepared our hearts, our minds, and our house to accept our new family. We had prayed about it, talked about it, dreamed about it. We bought toys and clothes. We painted our nursery when we moved into our home, thinking that we had time now to do it, we might as well.

Everything we did was geared towards creating our own family.

And when the moment finally came, when we finally stood with our feet on the door jam, and took that first giant step out into the unknown, the world reached up and snatched all of our preparations away. Our nursery was empty. Our toys grew dusty. The books we bought remained unopened.

We landed alone.

But it was in this dark night that God revealed Himself to us in powerful ways. We got connected at church with support groups. We joined a small group. We began volunteering.

We grew closer to God than we had been before.

Because He had given us everything we needed.

It's not that it didn't hurt. It's not that it wasn't difficult. But God led us through it. When all was gone, when everything we had planned was destroyed, we fell on Him.

He has given us everything we need.

Like Lieutenant Winters, when everything we have gets taken, we must rest and move forward in the knowledge that God has provided for us everything we need.

When another paratrooper landed near Winters, he helped him out of his harness. When the other trooper was squared away, Winters said simply, "Follow me." The two of them walked through the French countryside, eventually meeting up with another group of paratroopers. They were able to figure out where they had landed, and where their objective was. By days end, they had successfully secured their objective, a road leading inland from the invasion beaches.

By the end of World War Two, Winters had been promoted to the rank of Major, with a long track record of strong leadership under the worst conditions World War Two had to offer. His actions on D-Day are still studied today at military schools as textbook examples of how to command infantry units.

And he started out with everything taken from him.



wingnut

On Paint and Life (one)

The referee yells "Game On!" and we are off.

Legs pumping, heart pounding, we dash forward as far as we can get before finding cover from the hail of incoming paintballs. There are six of us on our team, against seven on the opposing team.

The field is long and narrow, diminishing the advantage held by the team with more players. No, the name of this game is volume of fire: whichever team throws the most paint will win the day. No flanking maneuvers, no fancy dodge and feint, no strategic movement. The field is bordered on one side by the actual field boundary fence, and on the other side by a two-track trail that drives straight through a makeshift village. There is roughly thirty feet between the side boundaries. No, this game will be a straight-on, force-on-force paint assault.

The two teams have thrown themselves upon each other, and I have found myself in a good position to watch, but not do much else. There is a player from my team in a bunker ahead of me, and I think he is our "front line". Ahead of him, an empty bunker and a wire spool are all that separates us from the other team's front man. I see paint flying back and forth over my head, and watch as is splatters against the white painted press-board bunkers. The paint itself is a dark pinkish red color, perfect for spotting on any color background.

The popping noise increases as the teams move closer to the center and each other. A teammate attempts to leapfrog my bunker, running on his way up to the front, and receives three paintballs for his effort. His calls of "Out!" are echoed by two people on the opposing team, as well as a call from behind me. It is now four on five, and I have yet to fire my paintball marker. It is time to get in the game.

Slowly, I pick myself up to a crouch, and hold my marker at a low ready position. I stretch my neck and shoulders slowly around the edge of my bunker to take a peek. I see nothing, but bring my marker up to fire. I hear no paint being shot at me, and so I am relatively safe for now.

The popping noises continue, and I try to follow the trajectory of my teammate's paintballs to show me where the opposing team members might be. Then I see it: the barrel of a paintball marker, sticking out ever so slightly from the side of a bunker. It moves to fire, and reveals the other player's hands and forearm. I wait, knowing that from where I am he cannot see me.

He fires two rounds, and I hear one of my teammates call "Out!". The other team member still does not see me, and thinking the coast is clear, moves from behind his bunker to advance his position.

I fire once, and my paintball smashes itself against his thigh. He stands and looks in my direction, and I wave.

The game is still very much alive, although both teams have traded blows and lost players. I try to do a mental count, and I think there are two left on my team, me and one other guy. I don't know how many of our opponents are left, so I decide to move. There is no-one shooting in my direction, so I figure it's as good a time as any.

I crouch and run out from my bunker, and fire a few shots. It's amazing to me, even after playing for so long, how many people instinctively duck at the sound of a paintball marker going off. I figure that if I fire a few paintballs, perhaps the sound of my marker might make them duck, and then I can move without fear of being pelted.

I make it to the next bunker up, without being hit. I don't know whether my shots did in fact make them duck, or if they just weren't looking, but no matter. I made it.

I peek around the corner of my new bunker, and am rewarded by paintballs smashing against the bunker from at least two different players. Now they know I'm here. And I know that there are at least two players left on the other team.

The other man on my team must be on the other side of the field, because I see paintballs flying in both directions along the opposite side from where I lay in my bunker. So is that three players? I can't be sure and so I assume that there are.

I shift my weight, in order to look over the top of the bunker rather than around the side again. The opposing player who has engaged my teammate is oblivious to my presence, and I could get him the same way I got his teammate, but I won't. I don't know where the other players are, and don't want to expose myself just yet.

As I am debating whether to eliminate him or not, my teammate hits him, and he walks off the field. My teammate must be moving, because I see and hear a flurry of activity behind a bunker ahead of me, and I know that one of the opposing players is shooting for him.

I again duck behind my bunker and wait. The paintball frenzy subsides, telling me that everyone has found new hiding spots. I peek around my bunker again, and see one head behind the bunker in front of me. I fire two paintballs which miss, but the head retreats.

I still can't count how many people are on the opposing side. I know that we are down to two, but I don't know how many we are facing. At least one, but there might be two. The lull in the action suggests that the guy behind the bunker facing me is alone, but I can't tell for sure.

His head sticks up again, and he fires his marker. But he's not firing it at me. He is firing at my teammate, who answers with a burst of his own. They begin to duel from behind their bunkers, each one firing a burst and then ducking in their turn. There is only one man firing from behind that bunker. It's two on one, and my team has the advantage.

This is it. This may be my only opportunity to move, and I need to take it.

I wait until the opposing player's head goes back down behind his bunker. I know my teammate will begin firing shortly, and as I crouch to leave my bunker, I hear him open up. I should probably call for covering fire, but to do that would give my position away, and I judge it easier to simply move rather than to try and coordinate with him. Besides, he's doing exactly what I would want him to do anyway.

I leave my bunker, running quickly, half-crouched with my paintball marker pointed at the other team's bunker.

If I run directly at the bunker, I will be right up against it and not be able to see or move. Instead I run down the field borderline, the two-track gravel road that runs about ten feet from the edge of the bunker. As I near it, I twist sideways to aim my paintball marker in their general direction, but do not stop running.

There are two players in the bunker!

One of them turns to see me as I run past, but I've got the drop on him. I let loose a pair of paintballs and watch them both impact, one on his shoulder and one on his forearm. They are still splattering as I moved to cover the second player, and another two paintballs break against him, one on his kidney area and one on his shoulder. They both call out at the same time and seem surprised to see me there.

The game has ended. I lower my paintball marker on it's sling and walk over to them. We shake hands and high five as the rest of the players walk back on to the field. Everyone begins talking about who got whom, and who went where. Many stories are shared on the walk back to the rest area, where there are bratwurst and burgers waiting for us.

The way I play paintball is the way I want to live life: aggressive, but not violent. Risky, but not reckless.

This is a theme that the Apostle Paul touches on many times in his many letters. How we are to live with a spirit of strength, not of fear, confidently going out with full knowledge of the power of Jesus.

And if we go back to Jesus, in the Gospel of Matthew he says that the Kingdom of God is forcefully advancing.

If something is forcefully advancing, there is some sort of bold, aggressive action going on. You cannot participate in a forceful advance by sitting on the sidelines. You will not advance anywhere if you do not risk anything.

Even in the Old Testament, the stories are filled with people whom God called to act out not depending on their strength, but God's strength.

Abraham.

Moses.

Joshua.

Gideon.

That's only off the top of my head, rough first draft. You've probably got a mouthful of names I didn't mention.

These people were called to live in the action-filled life of the Spirit of God, depending not on themselves for the outcome, but on God.

Now here's a thought: We have everything we need to do this.

Pastor Rob said that a while back, and it's stuck with me. Right here, right now, we have everything we need. As you are reading this, you have everything you need to live how God wants you to live.

When I play paintball, I have specific equipment that I need to use in order to be effective on the playing field. I also have experience and practice in order to be effective.

But when the whistle blows, or the referee calls to start the game, standing there on the field, I have everything I need to be effective.

In the same way, God has given us everything we need to be effective.

We are standing on the field, right now.

The game has started.

Paintballs are flying both ways.

And we have everything we need to win.

wingnut