I’m a Supermodel

That’s right!! I said it.

It seems the purpose of the runway walkers, and I do not mean FOD walk down, is to provide us an example of the fashion designer’s vision for their latest clothing line. In that same line of thought are the fitness and body building models. I’m thinking the marketing folks use these as examples of what we should look like and if we use their products or read their magazines, we will be like them.

“Bro… what on earth made you want to write a post calling yourself a Supermodel?”

Good question!!

Kids and I

So there I was, sitting in Row R, section 20 something, at the Paramount Theater in Seattle with my wife and my 2 older kids watching The Piano Guys… great show too, by the way. At one point in the show, one of the fellas starts telling a story about his development as a musician. He says that one of his music professors said something pretty powerful to him one day. Something akin to,

“I cannot teach you a passion for music, I can be passionate about music in front of you and hope you catch it.”

Then he tells us about his parents. He said that his parents had a deep love and passion for music. They would listen to classical music in their cars and talk about the composer, they would play instruments and dance, they would listen to music as a family. His parents were passionate about music in front of him, and he developed a passion for music because of them.

Is this a fail proof way to ensure my kids love music, or enjoy the outdoors, or become passionate readers? I do not think so. Will me being passionate about the things in my life tilt the scale, or encourage my kids to enjoy, consider, and maybe even develop a passion within them for the things I value? Possibly… and I think more likely than not, the things that I am passionate about will end up defining who they are in the future. Good and Bad.

This is where it gets kind of scary as a parent… with my attitudes and shortcomings… and my volatile past… and the stuff I still carry… with 4 kids watching me…

I feel a pressure to persuade them to fit a certain set of expectations. Are these expectations appropriate or healthy? If they are healthy and appropriate, is it wise for me to “persuade” them to live up to these expectations? Am I living up to these expectations? The thing about this is that, though these are the questions that resonate deep in my heart sitting around campfires drinking a glass of wine, I am not so sure that these are the questions I should be asking.

If my children will be greatly influenced by what I am passionate about, the expectations don’t really come into play. My desire for them is that they live peaceful and fruitful lives experiencing fulfillment and joy.

And this is where I start moving down the runway.

I feel deeply fulfilled in my life right now. I have finally started experiencing a peace and joy that I have not ever known before. Do not get me wrong, I am still pretty mixed up, deeply conflicted, and carry a heaping load of sorrow, but mixed with all that is a soothing rest for my weary soul. This… This is what I want for my kids. Garbage is going to come to them. I cannot prevent the garbage that is inbound. They have already taken some and, at times, it has come from me.

I can try to persuade my kids to be like me and think like me and believe like me in a hope that, as they grow up and start experiencing the ruthless, painful world on their own, they will one day experience the peace in the middle of it all like me. I can try to demonstrate the actions, disciplines, and philosophy that readers and thinkers say lead to this peacefully fulfilled life.

But the musician did not become a musician because his parents told him that music is important and that they would like to see him become a musician.

This is what I choose… I choose to let my kids see that I am passionate for the things that I value. I will try not to make these things expectations upon their shoulders, or lessons for them to remember, but vibrantly lived life demonstrating with gusto that I am deeply moved by, devoted to, and a disciple of the things which I value.

Of the 3 options, expect… persuade… demonstrate, I choose demonstrate. Is there a chance they will not pick up on my values, or will see what I value and choose not to adopt those things as their values. Yup. There is a chance. Is there a chance that not living up to my expectations will leave them with crippling insecurity. Si Amigo. Is there a chance that my kids would see me trying to persuade them to adopt certain disciplines and values that I do not submit to and have not adopted and, in so doing, drive a wedge of distrust between me and them? Sigh… So from my perspective, in this little cramped cockpit, I have 3 choices here, and two of them hurt my kids or hurt my relationship with them. One option allows them to choose what they want as adults and allows me to love them fully while maintaining my relational integrity with them.

All three options have a risk of my kids being hurt. But no option I know of will keep that from happening. My eyes get wet often when I think about this.

So there it is. I am a model. I think I am a Supermodel. My kids see me as an example of what a man is and what a man should be. Regardless of whether or not I am a model of a good man or a bad man is not the point. The point is that I am a model… so the question stands… What, exactly, am I modeling for my kids?  … and why?

A friend of mine told me almost 12 years ago that one of the best things I can do for my kids is to let them see me spending time praying and reading my Bible in the mornings. He seems to think that this will have more impact on them than if I try to teach them the things to believe or set my expectations on their shoulders.

Do I read my Bible and pray in front of them because I want them to do this as adults, or do I read my Bible and pray in front of them because I am passionate about my time with Jesus?

Do runway models and bodybuilder models walking the runway and giving photo shoots because they want to persuade me, or because they are passionate about their art… and the cash that comes from it?  Did they come up with their own fashion line and marketing strategy, or did they submit their talents to a designer and publisher in order to enjoy the fruits of their labor?

I am a Supermodel!!

… and I really hope I am modeling well

Will you be my friend?

(Click here for the beginning of the story)

That was really the question in my heart.

I did not have many close friends from my high school days.  Joining the Navy, moving away, and saying goodbye to my previous life was actually really easy for me.  I had a couple close friends, but they kind of held on to me with an open hand mentality.

I did not want to be in somebody’s open hand.

I did not want to be in an open, all inclusive group.

I had nothing to offer anybody nor did I give any group a reason to include me in their exclusive circles.  I was right where I deserved to be.

On the outside.

I had just returned from my first deployment.  I had toured the nation of Iraq from the Kuwaiti border to Baghdad and then come home to soothing Tennessee.  I spent a month home on leave and started hanging out pretty often with a small group of folks my age.  We went hiking and to get burgers, bicycle riding and to sit around picnic tables talking, going through motions to be friends but I was always trying out, never making the team.

As much as I cared about being included, the things in Iraq which I had seen and done made me feel as though I could never be a part of this college aged social crew.  The truth is I wanted to be accepted but did not want to invest the time or take the risks required to develop these relationships.  I was content, at least superficially, to enjoy the month hanging out with the folks and then forget about them when I went back to Camp Lejeune.

I remember hiking and biking with this group and spending my time chit chatting and flirting with a couple of the girls who came along.  That cute girl in the perwinkle sundress kept hanging out with these people.  I really dismissed her pretty quickly.  She was young.  She was cute.  She was smart…she was soon to be fully enrolled into the Feminazi Training Indoctrination Program, and my mom and sister liked  her.  I was not interested in her.

At one point during a ride around Cade’s Cove, I pulled my bicycle up next to a girl with long brown hair and started talking.  She was sweet and intelligent, fit and refined, and seemed to enjoy my company.  While talking and pedalling she said,

” There is no way I would ever go camping for more than a couple days…”

And before she could finish her statement the little girl with the periwinkle sundress, who happened to be riding next to the girl I was talking to, chimes in with,

” I would LOVE to go camping for days at a time…”

And then she pedalled away.

My thoughts…”Who cares what you would like to do.  You should go home and play with your dolls.”

There was something about her attitude that caught my attention though.  She seemed to never stick around long enough to see what my response was.  She seemed to not pay very much attention at all to the opinions of the guys around her.  It was like she was in her own little world, oblivious to the rest of us.  She interacted with us, but almost as though we were just characters in a big play and not like we were the ones around which the world pivoted.

I kept trying to flirt with this brown haired girl, but I kept an eye on that sundress girl.

She really was in her own world in a lot of ways.  She really seemed to either be completely and totally out to lunch or driven by a desire to please the play’s unseen director.   As much as I wanted to deny it, I was deeply attracted to that kind of confidence.

As the month started to draw to an end, and the lazy days in the mountains numbered in the single digits, and my normal routine of living in the barracks and training for war crept upon me, I found my thoughts drifting back to those hazy, sunny days and the interactions I had with this enigmatic young lady.

The last interaction I remember from this period was back in the same church in which I had first seen her.  I was being goofy and stood in a doorway and would not let people through the door until I had a chance to pick on them.  I know, I know, such a bully kind of thing to do.  These weren’t old people, they were  my age and it was fun.  When I did this to the girl with the periwinkle sundress, she just stood there and looked at me, then delivered a curt, gentle, and fiery, “No, move please…” and walked right by me.

I have experienced that before, but it usually comes with a lot of posturing.  There was none of that.  She conducted herself with the quiet confidence of a queen and glided by as though she wore glass slippers.  I stepped out  of the doorway and watched her walk by…  and I really liked what I was watching.

I left a couple days later.  For the duration of my 8 hour drive back to my home in Jacksonville, NC, my mind raced.  Other than thoughts about firing RPG’s at cars that cut me off and how much trouble I would get in if I drove through the  median of the interstate to get around traffic, I was fixed on her.

What I really wanted to was to connect with somebody in a lasting, meaningful way.  What I did was dismiss everybody in that group.  What I was left with was a few small memories, a flutter in my heart, and the name of a girl and her email address.

I returned to Lejeune and started hanging out with the guys who were quickly becoming my new family, but I did not tell them about this girl.  In a moment of loneliness one night, sitting in my barracks room, I decided to send her an email.

“hello,  I just wanted to drop a quick line tellin you…”

(Story continues here)

Road March to Groton

We hope to be wheels hot no later than 0800, 01APR2014, en route to Groton, CT.

We also hope to still be on speaking terms with each other, well rested, well fed, and excited to start the drive from one side of this great nation to the other.

And by we I am referring to my wife, my kids, and me.

I will be going to school for a little more than  year in Groton in order to become a Submarine IDC.  An IDC is an Independent Duty Corpsman.  A Corpsman is a beastly creature composed of the essential elements of power, strength, and intelligence with a side helping of awesome and gliding with a swagger which cannot be duplicated and inhabiting the nightmares of those who would do harm to the Marines and Sailors entrusted to their care.  We are a proud breed… maybe I should do a post dedicated simply to that…

Anyway, a Corpsman is a medical “jack of all trades” for the Navy and Marine Corps, most commonly filling the role of a combat medic or hospital nursing staff.  After I graduate from the school in Groton (If I graduate), I will be the sole medical provider for the crew of a Submarine.

Pumped… Yes

Intimidated… Absolutely

I am not sure if I am really mature enough to accept the responsibility of the health, the lives of so many men and women in such an austere environment.  Talk about a heavy burden of responsibility.

Sooo… between now and a little less than 2 months from now we have a lot to do and a very little amount of time to do it.  We need to get our household goods packed up, our house cleaned enough to pass a military cleanliness inspection, close up all the business like things we have going, resolve whatever local tasks are still outstanding, load up our cars, and then punch out.

We plan on Visiting family and friends in Portland, Salt Lake City, Colorado Springs, Altus (Oklahoma), Dallas, Lake Charles (Louisiana), Knoxville, Jacksonville (North Carolina), Washington DC, a little town in Maryland, and then stopping in Groton.

I will try to put up a post and some pictures every couple days during the trip.

Until then…

Never Perform CPR in Combat

At least that is what I was told.  That is not, however, what I did.

I don’t know if it was good or bad.  I feel like my soul was caught inside the insidious meat grinder of hell.

On the one hand, I had my brothers’ piercing eyes, seemingly judging my every move, their very sanity and composure hanging on the effectiveness of my actions and the sincerity with which I applied my craft.

On the other hand, I had my own precarious psychological state evaporating like ether on a hot day as my actions invited the demons and nightmares to prey on my heart and soul at will.

I knew performing CPR in this moment was futile.  My brother was dead.  The more time I spent with my lips on his, my nose blending the boundary between my vitality and the burnt flesh of his face, and little bits of that flesh being swallowed by me each time I took a breath throughout the ordeal, I knew I was doing irreparable damage to me.

But I could feel the eyes of those around me.  I am sure they were just watching.  I am sure they were just hoping for all the good in the world that their brother would open his eyes, cough and sputter, and breathe on his own.  I knew as sure as I was kneeling there, that, should I choose to do nothing else, I would never be able to recover that image in their eyes.

Doc.  Kneeling next to a dying brother.  Doing nothing.

This… This I could not do.

This brother of mine was a really small guy with South American ancestry from New York City.  Significantly different from me.  The guy had heart.  He was one of the smallest guys in the platoon, but he never used that as an excuse for not being able to perform.  He never needed an excuse to be honest… he was simply a verifiable little beast.  I held a deep respect for him.

He was a “comm guy”, one of the Marines who takes care of the radios and taught the rest of us how to not sound like morons when sending messages across the net.  In our living area (hooch), the Corpsmen and the Comm guys had our racks (beds) in the same area.  The teams had their own areas around us.  Unless there were missions which kept us out of the hooch, I woke up and saw him every morning, shared tuna and protein with him for breakfast or lunch, and talked about culture, religion, and movies before bed.

We were doing a joint team operation in Ramadi, and we staged at one of the combat outposts.  Around 2 in the morning the two teams departed friendly lines in order to execute justice in a city in which order and honor were severely lacking.

We were good at what we did.  I remember feeling like a ghost.  We would drop off the trucks, and disappear…  nobody had any idea where we were, and then we would appear when we would choose, get on a truck, and go home.  Man, we were good.

So we are slithering around the city, making our way to our destination for the next day’s mission, when all of a sudden the night sky lit up really bright.  I remember this happening sometimes while we would be out walking.  They sky would light up, a resounding boom would roll across us, and we would find out later that some poor platoon had taken casualties from an IED.  I remember thinking that life must be really hard for the guys in that platoon.  I mean, they just got blown up.  I do not remember ever hearing the explosion.  The next thing that I noticed was the debris that started to rain down on me.  And then it clicked.

Life got really hard in that moment.

Chaos was ringing out on our radios as each team tried to gain accountability of the team members.  “Doc’s good” and then I went silent in order to let the other guys communicate.  I looked up and saw that a couple of my Marines were already at the end of the street, gaining entry to a house.  We were all right there with them so fast, and the house was secured and being searched.

One of the guys was counting the members of his team and calling out their names as they came through the door.  Then the horror set in.  We were missing one.  And then I heard his name.

I went busting out of the house with my team leader, running without any regard to what could be happening around me, looking for my brother.  We found him.  He was in a bad way.  Really bad.

And I got to work.

I ended up in the back of a truck that was not meant to be used for QRF (Quick Reaction Force).  The “rescuers” grabbed the wrong truck.  Power steering had failed, the driver’s Night Vision Goggles did not work.  We were on such a tight street that the troop carriers could not turn around.  I got in the back of one of the small trucks with 2 more guys and off we went.

By ourselves.  No gun truck support.  No truckload of killing machines in a troop carrier behind us.

I did all I could do and the last thing on the list was CPR.  I started.  Shortly after that I looked up out of the back of the truck to see where we were and I recognized one of the bridges which took us to Camp Ramadi, home of the Fleet Surgical Resuscitation Team (FSRT).  These guys were sharp.  Really solid surgical team that set up right in the backyard of “this is where everyone dies” alley.  I started to relax a little bit because I knew we were just minutes from the front gate and we would be safe once we crossed that line.

I did not cross it in that truck.

There are these barriers set up in random places in order to control the flow of traffic and prevent vehicle IEDs from making contact with the Marines and Soldiers who guarded the gate.  The ones around us at the time were about 6 or 7 feet tall, solid concrete, and shaped like a capital “T” sitting upside down.  We hit it.  Hard.  Both of the Marines who were riding with me were ejected.  The driver broke a leg, and his passenger dislocated a shoulder.  I slid out of the back and landed on the body of the Marine on which I had been working.  I could hear the screams of the injured Marines coming from the front of the truck.

And then it was really calm and silent.

I looked up at the sky.  Crystal clear and full of stars.  I’ll never forget that, how intensely peaceful and beautiful that sky looked.  I cried out from the very pit of despair.  I was alone, the dead and injured around me.  All that came out of me was a little chuckle and, “Okay… what next?  What do I do now?”

The truck with the rest of the team on it came around a minute later, the Marines who were ejected from the back got on the truck with me and the Marine I was working on, and off we went.  I performed CPR all the way to the FSRT.

As soon as we pulled up, the FSRT staff unloaded my patient.  I got off the truck, took a couple steps, and doubled over on the ground.  I don’t know how long I cried, but it had to have been a while.  I stood up in time to see one of the FSRT staff coming out of the Operating Suite to tell me that my Marine had passed away.

I was ashamed for crying.

I was ashamed for having had my hands so bloody and having done nothing to keep him alive.

And I was sick.  From the stress of what had happened and the little bits of my brothers lips and face which had been burnt and then swallowed by me.

That smell, that taste, those feelings still linger deep in me.  I smoked a cigarette that night and got a dip from one of my Marines in order to get that flavor out of my mouth.  I cannot smoke a cigar to this day because of that.

Maybe I am weaker than my Marines.  Maybe they can carry these kind of painful things and be okay.  Not me.  I am fighting back the tears as I sit here and recall these memories.

I don’t mope around and I am not depressed.  I genuinely love and enjoy my life, but I do have days that are harder to get through than others.

I forgot where I wanted this post to go…  For that I’m sorry.

Hopefully some of this helps you understand a little bit better what it feels like…

Thanks for reading.  I’m sure I’ll talk more about this night at some point.