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.

Roosevelt, My Dog

I have decided that it is time to write a little bit about my dog, Roosevelt. From the years of 1994 to 2005, Roosevelt was a highlight of my life. In 1994 my oldest brother Jim brought home a little furball from one of his many adventures. My mother said that it absolutely was NOT staying and that the 'thing' had to be gone the next day. The furball slept in Jim’s room that night before being taken away in the morning. Jim put him in a small kennel in his room until his eviction the next morning. Jim is a heavy sleeper. Heavy enough that he apparently didn’t hear the yelping of the furball that was audible throughout the 701 area code (The entire state of North Dakota). My mother could not sleep with this racket so she grabbed said furball to quiet it down. Needless to say, love was forged, the furball stayed, and the name Roosevelt was bestowed upon him in honor of Teddy Roosevelt, a famous former resident of North Dakota.

Floods of memories, very good memories, come pouring over my heart when I think back to the experiences Roosevelt and I had together. Jim bought him, but moved away to college a year later. My dad trained him, so he was Roosevelt's ‘master’. I think the family can agree that he was my dog, and I was his boy.

Roosevelt grew very large very quickly. I remember when he scared himself with his first deep bark. He never did find the big dog that barked at him. I remember when I dropped to my knees in the backyard and this 'puppy' jumped on me with such velocity that he pinned me on my back with my knees stuck under me. We also discovered Roosevelt's inherent love for little spheres that he could hold in his mouth. Baseballs, softballs, tennis balls, he'd try to chase them all, even if it was during a little league game of mine and he wasn't supposed to come on the field.

On road trips in our old family van I would sit in the back seat and Roosevelt would sit with his head next to my shoulder, sniffing the wind through the crack of the window, smearing slobber all over the glass. Or, if my mom had given me some pickled three-bean salad concoction to eat, Roosevelt was the gracious recipient of all of the kidney beans, and the van was the not-so-gracious recipient of, well.. you know. But seriously, why would you try to pickle kidney beans? It cannot be done.
My brother AT and I would sometimes throw pieces of angel food cake to Roosevelt. After conditioning him to catch the tasty treat, we would toss a crumpled napkin (looking deceptively like a piece of cake) his way. He never should have trusted me.

I have never seen a living thing more terrified of the doctor than Roosevelt. The vet wasn’t even in sight and his entire body would be trembling in the back of the van. I have also never seen a living thing display more love and affection that when I would pick him up from the vet or groomers, which were cruelly placed in the same building.

When Roosevelt was 7-8 years old some lumps were found on his leg. After removing some of the tumors, it was discovered that they were cancerous, and radiation therapy would need to be performed to stop the spread. For us, there was no question of what needed to be done, although this was not a time of great financial wealth in my family. Every couple weeks we would make the three-hour drive to Pontiac, MI to take Roosevelt for radiation treatments. The staff naturally fell in love with this gentle giant, and he was dearly missed when he returned home for the last time with no traces of cancer.

On May 21, 2005, I left my parents’ home to begin my journey to bootcamp in San Diego. My family prayed together and were hugging each other goodbye. I was headed off to become a lean, mean fighting machine (or so I thought), so crying was out of the question. Until I saw my dog. In a scene I will forever have etched in my memories, my family parted and I saw Roosevelt sitting at the base of the stairs, looking at me with the saddest, most faithfully loving eyes I may ever see. I cried. I kissed him on the the nose and said, “Goodbye, puppy. I love you.”

Bootcamp was a bustle of activity that now mostly remains in my memories as a very long, bad dream. In the final weeks we were granted one of our two phone calls of the three months. My parents were my call. My dad answered, and after realizing that it was me he said, “You must have received the letter.” I hadn’t received the letter he was referring to, and to this day I do not know how or why, but I immediately knew that Roosevelt had died. His cancer had returned aggressively, and with his age, little could be done. My dad brought him home from the vet and prayed that he wouldn’t have to take him in to put him to sleep. The next morning my dad found Roosevelt in one of his favorite spots in the house; he had died in his sleep. I found out in the phone call a few days later. I was initially devastated that I was not able to see Roosevelt to say goodbye, but I quickly realized that I was blessed to have the goodbye with him that I did, and that I was spared from some devastating final days with him.

Roosevelt’s death coincided with the beginning of a new chapter in my life; one that is now about to close. The innocence of a boy and his dog was about to depart, and I would be exposed to more harsh realities of a fallen world than I ever expected to witness in a lifetime.

Roosevelt was an excellent example of love. Unconditional love. There were the rare occasions when I would be furious with him, but even in my visible, sometimes unjustified anger, he would show me love. He never held a grudge. He never showed partiality (well.. there was that one salesman). He never lashed out in anger. He would lay prostrate on the garage floor sticking his nose under a crack we left for him in the garage door, waiting for his family to return. His whole body would wag when I would come home from school. On my first day to school in Michigan, Roosevelt rode with us to school. When my mom opened the back gate of the van after returning home, he didn't move. He stayed in the van all day until we came home. He would stay in the snow to play with me until his paws bled.

Roosevelt also taught me about persistence, faithfulness, and sincerity. He definitely couldn't tell a lie. His tail between his legs was his tell. He brought my family closer together, helping us to grow in our love for each other. In some challenging years for my family, he remained a stalwart beacon of fun and levity for our home life. I praise and thank God for the blessing and lessons and memories that I was able to draw from one of my closest friends.

Have I mentioned that Roosevelt was a Golden Retriever? That should explain a lot.

Grandpa Tom

On March 21, which was earlier this week (when I typed this), my grandpa turned 88 years old. Grandpa Stockeland. I visited my grandpa and grandma two days earlier at their home in Binford, North Dakota. There are some things I feel compelled to share about my grandpa. Two things, I suppose.

Thing one:
My grandpa served in the US Navy during WWII. He never speaks much about his service, but I know it has had an impact on him and the generations that have followed. When I was in early high school my family watched an old, rather patriotic movie. I was on the front steps of my parents house reflecting on the movie (I was an odd little kid), and my parents were having a conversation inside. They weren’t aware that I could hear them. My dad was talking about the movie, and he became emotional when he began talking about his father and his generation and the sacrifice that he made in WWII for his country. I don’t remember exactly what was said, but it was clear that my father had a profound respect for my grandfather. That night I became a very patriotic young man.

In a journal that I kept during my first deployment to Iraq I noted several reasons that led to my joining the military. One of the reasons was, “All of my grandfathers served our country in WWII. ...I joined because of/out of respect for my grandfathers and the sacrifices they made for this country and for the future generations of their family.” June 6, 2006. (June 6 is the anniversary of D-Day)

Thing two:
In mid-July of 2008 I visited my grandparents, also at their home in North Dakota. It was a beautiful sunny day with a light wind. As we sat down to eat dinner Grandpa prayed. My Grandpa’s prayer was the most reverent, sincere prayer I have ever heard. There was an evident weariness in his voice from his age and the work that he had been doing around the house that day. It made his prayer barely audible, just above a whisper. The bits that I remember vividly were his gratefulness for the sun, for the warmth that it provides. He also thanked God for the meal He provided, and that it would give us the strength needed to continue to serve Him.
I just assume that when I eat a hearty meal, I won’t be hungry. If I’m in a workout mindset I may consider the energy it provides, but that’s rare. At his age, however, my grandpa was dependent on the calories of this meal to go back outside and continue working in the yard, all to the glory and honor of God. That day I became sincerely grateful for the most expected, yet undeserving blessings from God.

That is all. Happy Birthday, Grandpa.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

I'm not sure what to say about this. I have a growing list of writing ideas and a shrinking amount of free time, but writing about the redemptive value of sports is one of those topics. I don't think I'll try to tackle that here, save for a few sentences, maybe.

The above photograph is every male in my family aside from my middle brother, AT. I am the only one in the family to have been to the new Target Field, so it was a great opportunity to get all of us together from our three different states of residence to enjoy this time together. I've taken my nephew to several minor league games, but this was his first major league game, and a Twins come-from-behind win, at that! (At the outset of the game, his favorite team was the Texas Rangers. Not no mo')

Baseball. Before I left for boot camp, I made sure I played catch with my dad. Before I left for both of my military deployments, I made sure playing catch with my dad was one of the last things I did. While I was in boot camp I received a photograph of my brother playing catch with my nephew on the field where the movie "Field of Dreams" was filmed in Iowa. It increased my resilience.

I enjoy baseball. I appreciate that there is no time limit. I appreciate that in over a century of play, the rules are virtually unchanged. I appreciate that I can go to a game by myself and just enjoy the sounds, sights and smells of the ball field. (Permitting that there are no drunk grown men nearby) I appreciate that they play the national anthem before every game. I appreciate baseball because is ties the generations of the men in my family together. I visited with my grandparents a few weeks ago, and I had a conversation with my 88 year old grandfather about the Twins then-upcoming season. My dad has told me about how fondly he looks back on his experiences of playing catch with his father, explaining why he cries during the last scenes in the "Field of Dreams" movie. Now I cry at the same place.

The Twins went down 0-1 in the first inning. The score remained that way until the bottom of the 8th, when the Twins put together a string of hits and Harrison's (my nephew) favorite player, Joe Mauer drove in the winning run with a line shot down the first-base side. He doesn't even understand all the rules, but he was EXCITED. That made me happy.

After the game I expressed with my dad some frustration, though, as Joe Nathan was trying to finish off the last batter to secure a victory. With every pitch, I realized that a home run from the opposing team would be devastating. I sometimes wish I could watch a sporting event without getting emotionally involved, but I realize that good or bad, it is a very quickly fleeting emotion. There used to be a t-shirt slogan for various sports that read, "Baseball is life. The rest is extras." Somebody bought my dad a shirt that read a little more accurately, although still very extreme, "Christ is life. The rest is basketball." A good reminder of our perspective, anyway.

America does have an obsession with sports, I realize and confess, and I thank God for breaking some of the past compulsions I've had toward sports. With this picture, though, I cannot help but see some of the redeeming value of sports, and the need for fun.

I just realized a church service begins in a half hour. I suppose I should practice what I preach and stop writing about sports and instead worship my Savior.

Sincerity

I have begun and deleted, or finished and decided not to post at least a dozen writings in the past weeks. This one may survive my apparently rigorous screening process.

The word 'sincere' can be defined as being without hypocrisy or pretense; pure; unadulterated; not feigned or affected; genuine.

***I should offer up this disclaimer: ...this is not aimed toward any person in particular. This is a general observation I have made about my little world, as well as a challenge for my own behavior.***

Sincerity.. I was driving the other day.. wondering how I would define sincerity. I think I would use words like consistency.. and honesty.. a tendency to be unchanging, regardless of the various circumstances or contexts you may find yourself in.

Am I defining a different word? I don't think so. It seems like I'm just using different words to describe the same definition.

So people are called sincere, very sincere, extremely sincere, etc. For some reason, that reference always makes me very apprehensive and cautious. Well, I know the reason. It's because sincerity seems misused. Ugh.. I'm on the verge of deleting everything I've written.. How do I save these thoughts?? It seems sincerity and insincerity are so similar.

Please, let us be consistent. Let us be unwavering in our actions and words and behaviors. I think it was Bill Hybels who wrote a book titled, "Who you are when nobody's looking." (I'm not even going to google that for accuracy, so feel free to correct me.) In one of my first blogs I expressed a curious thought as to how the world would be if our worst discrepancies were written on our shirt for all to see. That's not what I'm promoting here, otherwise I would have no friends except for my all-forgiving Savior.

**side-thought inserted here**
It seems to be okay to have certain conversations with some people, and not with others. For instance, A friend of mine who was a follower of Christ said that is was okay to curse around him (this was years ago) because we were both Christians. Or, just this week a gentleman was leaving the DMV complaining about some fees he had to pay. I chimed in with some random complaint, but I tried to have a positive attitude about it. (hard to do when you're complaining) Put me in a different environment, speaking to a different person, and my speech would be disturbingly different. Should conversations be that much different between close friends and family or casual acquaintances? Of course, there would be a different level of openness, but what about your attitude or demeanor when you're talking? I don't feel like there should. Even in writing this post, I am taming my true frustrations with 'sincerity' down quite a bit. ... side-thought adjourned.

I'm suggesting.. honesty. Terrible acting. An elimination of false persona's. Maybe it would help to provide a few examples from my life:

Smiling. Sometimes I have a tendency to be infrequent in my smiling. I assure you, it is not because I am not happy. Well, it sometimes is, but smiling simply is not natural for my facial structure. My somewhat intimidating bearing has served me well in certain lines of work, but if I'm at church or with a group of friends I just seem really sullen and unhappy. (It's fun to hear people's first impressions of me. My lack of smiling is always mentioned.) Anyway, sometimes I think I should smile more, and be, or act, more cheerful. But I don't. Because it's not sincere. If I smile, I'm happy. And if I don't smile, I'm probably still very content, but I'm thinking about something.

One more example. Trafficking. I care about trafficking. But I sometimes wonder if I didn't just jump onto the recent social justice bandwagon just to be accepted and respected. By people. I've been praying lately that this IS a sincere concern on my heart, something that is from God, and not just an act.

Paul mentions a sincere faith in several of his letters. There's another issue for me, and I'm sure every other believer.

There is no rhythm or flow to this rambling, but I shall not worry.

I pray (sincerely) that we can be genuine in our interactions and relationships, that we won't be striving to impress people, but to please and glorify God.

SDG