The Saga of Shooting

My parents did not allow toy guns in our household. Actually, no toy weapons, period. No suction-cup bows and arrows, no plastic knives, MAYBE a neon-tinted water gun or two, and eventually, two super-soakers. (Interesting… pretend combat seems to have escalated from finger guns to cap guns to water guns, paintball guns, and airsoft guns.)

I can vaguely recall my father hunting with my grandpa when I was quite young, and my oldest brother hunted in high school. By the time I was old enough for a hunting license, however, we lived in an urban area and hunting was no longer a part of my father’s life. 

I should mention a little bit about my personality as a child. I was non-violent. Passive. I can only recall one punch being thrown with my hand, and it missed its mark, mostly. As far as a childhood dream of being an Army-man or hunter, it was quite the opposite. I was an unusually patriotic little boy, so I told myself the only way I’d join the military was if there was another Civil War or something. As for hunting, I thought I’d have made a terrible Pilgrim, because there was no way I could stomach shooting a turkey. 

I think I did want to shoot a gun once I was climbing in my teens, though. More for the experience, than anything. I didn’t want to enter into adulthood not knowing how to handle a weapon. On a trip to visit my grandparents in North Dakota, my opportunity came. I must have been 16 or 17 at the time. My grandpa owned several guns, including a little .22 rifle. At the time, I thought it was like a hand-held cannon whose firepower could crush through any armor. My dad and brother and I took the rifle, bought a small box of ammo at the grocery store in town, and drove out to the city dump. 

After a brief lesson on weapon safety, we began shooting at stuff. Microwaves, stoves, refrigerators, anything with glass. We shot at a cinderblock, which is when I realized the rifle may not have the penetrating power I thought it did. After being sprinkled with pellets of block, I grew much more selective in what I shot at. Shooting was so much fun. I remember being nervous at first, but the fears were shattered, along with an old tv tube. After a while, we wrapped things up, and my dad said maybe after lunch we could go to some fields to look for chipmunks to shoot. I did not like the sounds of that. I dreaded the thought in fact. When I was 8 or 9, I saw a squirrel run over by a car. I mourned his death the rest of the afternoon, and held a grudge against that yellow cutlass around the corner for some time. 

Anyway, lunch ended and we headed into the fields north of town to look for innocent critters we could shoot through the head. After driving around a bit we stopped at a field and my dad said something to the extent of, “Do you guys want to hop out and see what we can find?” I seized the opportunity to nonchalantly say, “Not really.” I was relieved.

But now another thing happened on that same trip. There was a woodchuck making a home under a neighbor’s garage. My grandpa had seen it and shot at it a few times, but the woodchuck thrived. He was a bit of a nuisance, because woodchucks can chuck a lot of wood. I saw him once, but by the time someone grabbed the rifle and ran outside, the critter was under the garage. Then something in my competitive spirit took over. The woodchuck was under the garage. He couldn’t stay there forever. And when he came out, I’d be waiting for him. So I took the rifle, two rounds, and sat on a stump maybe 40 yards from the garage. And I waited. 5 minutes passed. Then 15, 30, 45 minutes, an hour. Nothing. An hour and a half. Nothing. I waited. My mom came out. “I’ll eat later”, I told her. Finally, the woodchuck appeared. My heart rate spiked, and I lifted the rifle sights to my right eye. I squeezed (probably jerked) the trigger. Dirt sprayed. The woodchuck kept moving. By the time I loaded the second round in the rifle, he was gone. No slowing down, no blood spilled. I missed.

A couple years later, I joined the Marine Corps. This is not the time to unpack all the factors that contributed to that decision. Entering bootcamp, all of my shooting experience was wrapped up in that little .22. I didn’t know how shooting was going to go for me. I hoped to qualify, and not be kicked out of bootcamp for my inability to shoot. As our rifle training week began, I was eating up all of the intricacies of shooting position, controlled breathing, etc. Then came the day to zero our rifle sights. 10 rounds at 30 yards, with my M16. Would it hurt? Would I get a good shot group? Would my shots even be on the page?  My first three shots were a tight group, but fell in the lower right corner of the page, well off the target. I made the appropriate sight adjustments, and hoped for the best on the next three shots. “Okay, Jonathan, seven factors of a good shooting position, let the shot surprise you, pull the trigger during the natural respiratory pause, relax.” 3 shots center mass. No adjustments. 4 more rounds center mass, shot holes stacking on top of each other. My drill instructor looked at my card as I walked off the shooting line. “Did you grow up on a farm or something?”, he asked. “No sir, this recruit has hardly ever shot before.” 

A few days later was qualification day. 50 rounds: 20 @ 100 yards, from various shooting positions, 20 @ 300 yards, and 10 @ 500 yards. There were 10 round courses of fire that were rapid fire, meaning all 10 rounds needed to be fired in 60 seconds or less, as well as a magazine change in the middle. If all ten shots in the rapid fire were in the center of the target, it was called shooting a possible. (All possible points) Our marksmanship instructor said he would get a Snickers bar for anyone who shot 2 possibles on qualification day. I never did get that Snickers bar I earned. 

I did shoot well enough to earn the Expert rifleman shooting badge, the highest badge awarded. I continued to gain confidence in my shooting at the range, in tactical scenarios, and in combat. To me, though, the penultimate application of my ability was to try out for a scout sniper platoon. The Marine Corps definition of a Scout Sniper is, “A Marine highly trained in field skills and marksmanship, capable of delivering long-range precision fire at selected targets from concealed positions, in support of combat operations.” I passed the indoctrination, and was invited to join the Scout Sniper platoon.

But I’m bored of writing, so where am I now? After firing around 30,000 rounds in my military career, I’ve shot 24 rounds since, and that was to qualify on the shotgun for my current job. For all the rounds fired, and all the hours spent cleaning rifles and machine guns, my proficiency with shooting them hasn’t translated into an expensive hobby, post military. Why is that? Well, I just said it’s expensive. Also, it’s fun to play the piano, until you begin taking lessons and HAVE to practice the piano. Shooting was my job. It became burdensome to go to the range and shoot barrels 5,000 feet away with our m102 Barrett .50 cal. That should never be burdensome. I’ve had very slight pangs of desire to shoot sometimes, but time by myself or with my family has always won out. I’m also hesitant to keep trying to live in the Marine Corps years as my life goes on. That was then, it’s over, and I’ll continue to shoot, but only when I need to. Oh, there’s also the immense pressure and expectation that because I was in a sniper platoon, I will shoot better than anyone, always. Nope. I can’t. In fact, I’ll probably never be the best shot in the given group of people. But my pride so desperately wants to be, that I’ll sometimes avoid shooting. 

I’m realizing I wanted to focus on how I went from mild-mannered boy to expert Marine rifleman, and I suppose I did that, so I’m done. Thanks, woodchuck, for flipping a switch in me.

Blogging

(This was written while in prison)
Even in Triad it’s hard to focus on the computer screen… It’s wildly diferent from the west units, but they’re still all convicted felons. So it’s hard to just take your eyes off them. But maybe I could. I will miss petty things, though. But if you enforce the petty things, you get a unit like this. I think the therapists help, and the peer accountability is huge. They may pull one over on the CO, but the other offenders will see it and hold you accountable for your actions. That’s a difference-maker. So blogging. Is it just me, or is it dying? And if it isn’t just me, why is it dying? Why does it seem that if people want to communicate opinions, it is less and less in the form of a manifesto, letter to the editor, or blog. Oftentimes, it is summarized in a 140-character thought-byte, with a few hashtags to follow. Is that bad? Is that good? Is that of no effect? And if it is just me? Why is it dying in me? What has changed in me that has taken me from thinking more critically about nuanced ideas to coasting through life and finding intellectually dull activities to be some of the most pleasing ways to spend my time. Well let’s see… Marriage has changed in my life. A lot of things that I used to process by myself while I sipped on tea is now processed with my wife. However, more often than not, it’s not processed at all. I don’t intentionally suppress the things, but they just don’t spring up as much. Ooooh, there’s so much that contributes to this, it’s gonna be ridiculous. What I read (and don’t read) contributes to it. What I listen to contributes to it. What I expose my eyes to contributes to it. So to say that all of my deep thoughts are now processed with my wife is a cop out. I can tell that my thinking is more shallow. I haven’t been reading as many of those books where you set them down and just think about what you just read. Maybe I should re-read some of those same books. (The Pursuit of God, Crazy Love, Forgotten God) Back to 140-character thoughts. I don’t have a twitter account, so that’s not my problem, but I am a part of the culture that has warmly accepted twitter and attention-grabbing headlines and quick emails and faster arguments. If you can’t grab a listener in the first 7 seconds of a song, a reader in the first paragraphs of the book or sentences of the article, the watcher in the opening minutes of the video, you’ve lost them. Just watch me listen to Spotify or itunes radio or read USA Today and you’ll see that in action. For myself, I don’t like fragmented thoughts. It’s ineffective for deep study of any subject, but especially the immeasureable depths of God’s Word and wisdom. I don’t like that my mind no longer trends toward catching a thought in the web of my mind and examining the different sides of that thought or concept. It doesn’t. I could spend time considering how this unit of the prison runs so much differently from other units, but I just stare at my computer screen and hope there a co-worker on IM who I can type 140 character messages to. (Fortunately, I HAVE been considering the contributing factors of different unit cultures, and it has been like Febreze for my brain.)The practice of critical thought is so… critical… for lectio divina. Deep study of God’s Word. Not just rushing through it because you need to. Taking those 5 verses and literally ruminating over them. Repeating them, verbalizing them, pondering them. Rolling them around in my mind and in my heart. Pulling segments out that are precious. Praising God for His Word. I used to fight against mentally disengaged reading of the Bible. Just this typing, while it has been fragmented due to my typing in the midst of 76 felons, is a fight against 140-character thoughts. Although, because I probably won’t polish this up much at all, you’ll be able to see that my train of thought struggles to stay with one thing for very long. This will return with time, I trust. I think I will see the benefits of these practices in numerous areas of my life. And my family will benefit. And maybe I can train my daughter to sit still for more than 4.3 seconds! (That’s a generous estimation.)Lord, light these idle sticks of my mind, and let it ponder, wonder, and resolve for You. Consume my mind, my God, for it is thine.

I want to write

Funny, I don't feel like going for some profound "song-like" title to this blog. I just want to write. I've discovered some things in the past couple years of staggering change in my life. One of them is that I am a bonafide introvert. Meaning, I am refreshed and invigorated and able to better love and cherish those I love to be around when I am alone. I am alone now. The one I love to be around most is learning with me how to best express love, and she encouraged (insisted) that I go to Caribou to be alone.

Another thing I've learned is that certain activities of mine seem to be special avenues through which I can experience pure joy-filled worship. Not necessarily worship in a verbally expressed way, but worship in a, "This is pleasurable, and God designed it to be" kinda way. I'll skip the 'activity' that most makes me delight in God's love for us, and mention music and writing. I love playing the guitar, elementary though I may be in my technical skill and understanding. And I love to write. I LOVE to write! I want to write a long review of my moped trip still. I want to write questions that tumble around in my head. It's a good practice. It keeps my thoughts worthwhile. If I know I'm going to write  about things, I may not spend a half hour at work thinking, "Boy, this mousepad is filthy... I wonder how you clean a mousepad? Oh look, there's a sunflower shell on the ground. I wish my chair was taller." When I wrote regularly I thought more clearly and critically. I allowed my thoughts to stretch beyond the initial question or observation and ponder it further. It takes time, though. And quiet.

If I were blogging consistently, what would I have written about in past months? Dandelions, daughters, the moon, desiring God, not desiring God, going to the moon, Louis Zamperini, not being dumb, landing on the moon, the USSS, my life behind bars, coming back from the moon, marriage, wallpaper, biking, Lone Survivor, John the Baptist, baby names, not going to the moon (Apollo 13), climbing half dome, not climbing Mt. Everest, the power of urushiol, Henry York Maccabee, Rowena, family "planning", guns, my grandpa, my other grandpa, my other grandpa, my other grandpa, cars, corporate worship, Saturday night church, annnnnd coffee in a mason jar with a straw. And Michael Oak, my former supervisor who is now my barista at Caribou, mopping under my feet.

So do I have an application point? A conclusion to my paper? I just want to write. I need to. I need to re-check my pulse. I need to think things worth writing, I need to do things worth writing. I need to read things worth writing. I need growth worth writing. This was begun as an accountability to myself that I would not waste my life, my singleness, and that God would, "Light these idle sticks of my life and let me burn up for thee. Consume my life, my God, for it is Thine. I desire not a long life but a full one, like you, Lord Jesus." We all have full lives. When it goes up in flame will the light and heat display the light of Christ in us, or will the flame be choked out by the soggy, self-centered priorities that we heaped upon the pyre of our lives?

I love that person that wanted me to come to Caribou. She's the wife of my youth, and God-permitting, the wife of my.. oldth. Time to go home to her. 

A Farewell to my Dog

I've been away from the blog for almost two years, and THIS is what I come back with? Yes. I have never written anything more tear-stained than this letter to my dog. It was written in 2005, near the close of my bootcamp experience. Although I would like to make some changes, I'll keep it the way it was originally written. It's good to be back.


I received a phone call home today, puppy. I'm sure mommy told you I was coming back soon. Everyone in my platoon things I'm strange because I tell people I miss my family but my dog more. I was looking forward to seeing you, puppy. I wanted to see your reaction. I was nervous about how much hair you'd get on my uniform but I was going to hug you anyways. Then I'd let you smell all the new stuff I brought home and go sit in your corner, satisfied that your boy came home. Then later I'd play some ball with you. Maybe throw your tennis ball in the dryer and hide a treat from you, too. And of course I'd have a conversation with you, mom as the interpreter. We'd talk about Fairbanks and Brownie, and of course persistence. I'd flik marshmallows and watch you fall over yourself. I'd probably even go in the front yard and chase you in circles for no reason. Then, with you happily panting and me tired out, I'd rub your tummy and take a nap with you in your corner. But I won't be able to do that, puppy. Because you were feeling bum and didn't tell me. My childhood officially ended this Tuesday. Somewhere ages and ages hence, I shall be telling this with a sigh, the greatest memory of my childhood was you, puppy. You were my best friend. Other than Aaron, you really were my closest friend. I loved you like a brother, puppy. I told dad if he put you down for whatever reason this summer I would never forgive him. [Editor's note: I would have] He's lucky God took you away peacefully. I hope you enjoyed your last couple months of life. The last time I saw you, you were sitting on the front porch watching me drive away to boot camp. I'm glad I kissed you on the nose on my way out the door. You left at the right time, Roosevelt. I wish I could've seen you and said goodbye one more time. But you knew I was turning into a man now. I wouldn't be your boy much longer. God put you on this earth for a reason. To bring immense joy to one boys and one family's lives for 11 years. You and I grew up together puppy. We were bums together, we shoveled snow together, we slept together, we played together. But I'm about done growing up. You raised a good boy, puppy. Mission accomplished. I relieve you of your post, Roosevelt. I love you and will never forget you. 

Semper Fi,
Love,
Your boy

It was a surprise to be able to call home, and my dad thought they let me call because I received the letter with news of Roosevelt's death. I hadn't received it yet, but I knew before he told me that Roosevelt had died. Cancer had returned, and my dad prayed that the Lord would take him, and that he wouldn't have to put him down. My dad checked on him in the night and found him. Roosevelt died in the laundry room, in one of his favorite sleeping spots.

A Gargantuan Spoon

I've lived in Minneapolis for a little while now, and yet I never have been to this mythical sculpture park. Until today. I was able to enjoy a nice bike ride before the clouds came in, but that's completely irrelevant to my story. I rode my scooter to the sculpture. I've officially ridden her over 4,000 miles since my purchase last June.
So yeah, the park.
There were a lot of wedding parties taking pictures, and a lot of couples walking hand in hand. Others were laying on a blanket or sitting on park benches. Families were also there. I saw a grandma point out a rabbit sculpture. Then her granddaughter began imitating a rabbit hopping down the sidewalk. I also saw a dad quickly backstepping to take pictures of his daughter running toward him. A minute later the daughter was walking backward across the park. I thought that was cool. I also thought is was kinda daunting, knowing that children notice everything. And imitate it.
Of all the people at the park, though, I felt that I related most with a goose. A Canadian one. He just sat quietly by the park while people steered clear. Seemed pretty content, though.
After a while I saw two kids with bags making a beeline for the content goose. They stopped about 10 feet short and began lobbing chunks of bread the size of the goose's head at him. They both kept throwing bread with impressive rapidity until their bags were gone. I'm not sure if the goose managed to eat any of the head-sized bread rolls because he retreated to cover behind a small berm by the spoon.

The last verse of Ephesians speaks about believers who love Christ with a love incorruptible. Incorruptible love for Christ.

A statistic

It is estimated that 40% of women born in the 80's will never marry or have children. They reference women because of the child-bearing, but that number would obviously affect men as well. I read this statistic a couple months ago. I've thought about it a lot. I don't have a lot to share, though.
Is it a good thing?
Is it a bad thing?
Is it indifferent?
..and then I wonder about that whole.. Area of life. Relationships. Marriage. At a get-together a while back somebody in a game wrote that they wanted to be, or thought they would be a good mother. Someone commended them on their courage to say that.
Isn't that normal, though? To want to be a wife and a mother, or a husband and a father?
It's just something that seems to be taboo to speak about openly.. The fact that you may be unmarried and deeply long for a spouse.
Why is that?
Do we feel guilty for longing for something other than the supremacy of God?
Do feel that we aren't at peace if we long for that?
It's interesting.
Maybe I think and pray about it more than most people do.. Maybe more than I should.

Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him.

The sun is setting. I need to get home. I might regret clicking 'publish post'.

Lessons From the Marine Corps. Part 1: The Meaning of Life

“Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” Matthew 10:39

I have hesitated writing about, or even mentioning my military experiences for several reasons. You should know I have a rather immense level of pride when it comes to my Marine Corps career. From day one the Marine Corps seeks to instill pride and arrogance into their members. I’m proud of the blessing and experiences God gave me these past 6 years. However, keeping the pride and confidence that I gained but filtering out the arrogance is a tricky, slow process, and not speaking or writing about it seems to help. (Or does it? I debate that. With myself.) Since moving to Minneapolis I have experienced great success at kicking the identifier that the Corps has been for me. Nobody has yet to introduce me as, “This is Jonathan. He’s a Marine.” I’ve been able to remove the moniker so well, though, that I’ve begun to miss it. I miss recalling and talking about it, anyway. Part of the longing feeling is also related to my inexplicable year-long vacation from training, receiving my final promotion, and entering the final month of my six-year contract.

It’s strange not to speak about it because of the HUGE impact it has had on my life. I still think about it a lot, especially as I reflect in my final weeks. So, to not speak about it is a challenge. Well, I’m writing about it.

I also waited to write because I try to keep this pretty ambiguous and aloof, but I’m not divulging any great military secrets here. Sorry. A third reason I’ve not written is because I prefer to speak about it. (To whom it may concern, if you ask me a question about the military, I probably will not dive under a table, weeping uncontrollably. Probably.) God has been teaching me some very valuable lessons from my experiences, though, so I thought it would be good to formulate my thoughts a little better. Umm… yeah. Down to business. (If you’ve read this far, I am impressed by your patience.)

I was 20 years old when I went to Iraq for the first time. I don’t remember my 21st birthday, which is what I generally preferred for birthdays and holidays away from family. This deployment was in no way voluntary for me, but I was still excited to go into combat and apply what I had exhaustively trained for. I was a rifleman in the infantry. The tip of the spear. The grunt. The boots on the deck. “The guys busting down doors.” It’s exactly where I wanted to be, for some very-difficult-to-explain reason.

I was a Christian at the time, but it would have been a stretch to call me a follower of Christ. In my mind, there is a difference. Revelation 3:15-16 However, I knew my salvation was secure, and I could not be confident of the salvation of any other Marine in my 30-man platoon. With that knowledge, it was my sincere prayer (first prayed at my favorite prayer spot on planet earth) that if anyone died in my platoon, it would be me. With knowledge of this prayer in my heart, I was prepared for it to be answered. I had a nice little letter written to my family tucked into a red devotional book, and just this week I came across what I wanted for my funeral in an old notebook. I had some really good hymns picked out.

The deployment itself was not overly intense, but it was also far from boring. There was enough danger present that each new day with breath in my lungs was a blessing. My journal from that time accounts well the growing frustrations during the span of my time overseas. Without sharing too much, there were many things occuring that I was finding to be challenging to justify. Needless to say, I left Iraq eagerly, with no plans or desires to ever return.

By the way, God did answer my prayer. My platoon was the only platoon in my company to return home without a Marine being killed. You can say praise God right about now.

The return home was all I imagined and more (and I thought about it every day) My family was there, Nick was there, I cried in a tv interview, Marines made fun of me, it was great. Nick and I found a nice apartment together, God providentially closed the doors of other colleges, funneling me to Kuyper and Cornerstone, He brought influential friends into my life, and He blessed me with the joys of an active, growing relationship with Him.

A few months after my return home I caught wind of a voluntary deployment and something very surprising happened: I wanted to go. After prayer, counsel, and weighing the pro’s and con’s, I decided not to take this opportunity, but the inexplicable desire to return remained for months and years until I finally found another opportunity to go in 2009.

But hold on, why did I want to go back? Because God, in his unsurpassing wisdom, began a good work in me before I even cared about my relationship with Him. I wanted to go on another deployment because of what a combat zone has to offer: risk, a surrender of safety, sacrifice, suffering, fear. As a result of those traits, though, two more things are offered: an aliveness and a sense of meaning and fulfillment in life like you would not believe.

…I don’t remember if this was something I said or something I read, but I don’t have to cite in this story, which is something I dread. (yeah.. sorry.)“You never feel more alive than when you are risking your life for something.” I was living and fighting and planning on dying for something I cared about more than my own life. (Not America, but for Chad, Roy, Tom, and the other Marines on my right and left) God, through my experience in my first deployment, gave me a small taste of the joys of intense sacrifice. So if the joy of service can be that meaningful when serving an earthly kingdom in a conflict that I have no for-the-record comments on, how much more so will I find my life when I lose it for HIS Kingdom?!?

I try to imagine where I would be right now if God had not sent me on the Marine Corps adventure. I have no idea what I would be doing but I would be like the walking dead. Worthless and ineffective. (not that I don't fall to that status on a regular basis anyway) It's irrelevant to dwell on that anymore, because it's not what God did. I know that not everyone needs to go to a combat zone to understand the value of a surrendered life. I am just a bit more stubborn, and this was the way God chose to draw me into desiring to serve Him with my life.

We have the testimony of others, too. There was a group of Korean missionaries who were tortured and some killed several years ago in Afghanistan. Later, back in Korea, one of the Missionaries who lived was speaking with another and said (paraphrasing, here), “Don’t you ever miss it? It was terrifying, but wasn’t there a supernatural peace and intimacy with God as He saw us through that.” I can relate with that completely. Because of all of the trying, sometimes terrifying moments, I was very alive, and I missed it. That's why Marines become adrenaline junkies. I love a thrilling, heart-pounding hedonistic adventure, but I am trying to focus this desire into effective servitude as well.

How can someone else learn from my experiences? Take my word that there is incredible joy and fulfillment in radical sacrifice, even true willingness to die. Lord willing I will someday be able to write about radical suffering for the name of Christ in my life instead of for the United States. I pray (sincerely) that you will too. Suffering produces steadfastness, patience, and maturity.

“God, I pray thee, light these idle sticks of my life, and may I burn up for thee. Consume my life, my God, for it is thine, I desire not a long life, but a full one, like you, Lord Jesus”

This is my deep, humble praise: I have a pulse, and it belongs to God.