|
I
just heard we've lost some good people in Mosul.
Terrorists timed the attack to coincide with
mealtime, so the place was full.
I
mentioned that chow hall when I wrote about my trip
to Mosul. I said I had the best manicotti I've ever
eaten there. That seems like such a trivial
observation now. What I should have mentioned were
the smiling Turks who served the meal, the young
soldiers who sat beside me while I ate. I wonder if
they are still alive.
For
many families, Christmas from now on will be a
reminder of the loved ones who died in that attack.
My heart goes out to them. I pray that God will
comfort them, and that their loved ones are with
Him now.
And
that we will destroy the ones who did
this.
I
know, because I've heard this sort of argument at
home, that people will be saying, "we have to get
out of Iraq. Our boys are dying over there." And to
that I say the only thing worse than our dying over
here would be your dying over there. At home.
Remember
when you hear about my brothers and sisters dying
here that we are taking the battle to the enemy. He
has obligingly concentrated his forces from many
different nations into this small area, where we
are steadily, unstoppably, killing them in their
own back yard. Better that, than digging our
brothers and sisters out from the ruins of another
skyscraper.
Mourn
the lives we lost today, but celebrate the fact
that they died for what is right. They sacrificed
themselves for others' freedom.
And
don't let their loss detract from this special
time. Instead, see it as proof positive that
Americans, because of our heritage, have an
instinctive understanding of the true meaning of
Christmas, and it leads us to sacrifice so that
others can be free.
That's
all for now.
God
bless,
Steven
Steven's Christmas Letter:
Last
night I walked the nearly two miles from the
compound where I work to our squadron. I could have
signed out a truck and driven there, but it was a
beautiful night and the walk provided an
opportunity for some solitude. The waxing moon
outshined all but the brightest stars, and cast its
light across a far-flung layer of thin, high cloud.
My walk carried me past a large spherical antenna
shelter. The moonlight gleamed on the top and faded
down the curving sides. In the darkness, the
shelter seemed to be a planet, reflecting the light
of its small silver sun.
I
had a cigar in my pocket, and paused a moment to
light it. Then, marked by its glowing orange tip
and a wreath of silver smoke, I left the road,
cutting across a broad, dark patch of desert. Had I
not walked this route before in daylight, I
wouldn't have done it last night in the dark.
Concertina wire, which is the tinsel of deployed
bases, is invisible in the dark, and once wandered
into, is difficult to get out of without leaving
something precious behind.
Absent
razor wire though, the desert is a beautiful place
at night. Having no particular schedule to keep, I
sat for a bit on a rock, accompanied only by the
darkness, the silence, and a tiny desert fox that
flirted with the limits of my peripheral vision. On
a night like this, not far from here and not
particularly long ago, shepherds keeping watch over
their flocks were amazed by the sight of a heavenly
host. Angels shouted, trumpets sounded, and the
word went out. The world is changed
forever.
On
the distant end of a momentarily forgotten runway,
a pair of fighters lit their afterburners. They
shattered the silence and leaped into the sky,
trailing 20-foot cones of pink flame. No angels for
me this night (none that I can see) but I am no
less aware of Christmas for the lack of them. This
night, this place, my circumstances - as foreign
and as far removed as they are from the Christmases
I have known, they are somehow appropriate.
Christmas exits outside the presents, the trees,
and even the company of my family.
Maybe
that explains what happened on this day during the
First World War. The German troops, facing the
British across a blasted landscape, caroled them
with Stille Nacht. The British answered with a
carol of their own. The Germans sang another, and
as Christmas Eve wore on, the night was filled with
songs, back and forth across no-man's land,
celebrating something that transcended even war. On
Christmas day, a small number of Germans climbed
from their trenches. With one exception, they held
their hands in the air. In the center of no-man's
land, the man with his hands in front of him
dropped his burden. It was a soccer ball.
The
day was filled with games. Schnapps and whiskey
were exchanged. Men who had faced each other across
the most brutal battlefield known to man laughed
and ran and drank together like brothers. Even for
those men, whose world was bounded by machine guns,
barbed wire and slaughter, Christmas was
transcendent.
We
won't be playing soccer with terrorists over here.
We won't share any sense of brotherhood with them.
Our religions and their conduct of war preclude
that. Still, Christmas is here. This evening the
open space outside the chow hall was covered with
tables and chairs, and burgers and hotdogs smoked
over charcoal grills. We ate under the same sky I
noted last night, while the general and the chief
handed out stockings filled with gifts.
After
supper two of my colleagues and I retired to the
smoking area - a dusty corner protected by 12 foot
high concrete barriers - for a Christmas Eve cigar.
(I know, that's two cigars in as many days, but
it's Christmas.) We were surprised to find that the
camo netting overhead, through which the silver
moonlight filtered, was strung with Christmas
lights.
Someone
had spread Astroturf over the gravel and set out
chairs, and from a radio came Christmas carols. I
might have failed to notice these improvements were
we at home, or noticing them, failed to be
affected. Here though, they mean a lot to
me.
When
we finished smoking and talking to the airmen
gathered there, we wished them all a Merry
Christmas and returned to the facility where we
work. On entering, we were arrested by the sound of
a flute. On the operations floor, below the many
screens showing maps and aircraft, and video
footage from our unmanned surveillance aircraft, a
group of carolers was finishing Oh Come Oh Come
Emanuel.
Normally
I can't decide what I want for Christmas, but this
year I know exactly. To read again to my children.
To say their prayers and put them to bed. To spend
a quiet evening with my wife and, when the evening
is over, to peer into our little ones' darkened
rooms and listen to the softness of their
breathing. I will have those things. It will take a
little while, but don't feel bad about that. As
with many things, the waiting will make the
realization that much better.
I've
long been a little cynical about decorations and
carols and wishing people Merry Christmas. Not long
ago I told a friend that I wasn't sure why we made
such a big production out of the day. Easter I
understand, because Jesus' resurrection seems to me
so much more miraculous than His birth. But I've
come to revise that philosophy. The angels who
appeared to the shepherds clearly thought Jesus'
birth warranted celebration on a grand scale. I
find, now, that I am inclined to agree. That alone
might be worth the trip.
Merry
Christmas,
Steven
|
Christmas
in Iraq
(click for a larger image)
|
