MEMORIAL DAY FEATURE: Remembering Dad

NEVER THE SAME

Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. – John 15:13 (NIV)

My father was wounded on the pitiful island of Attu in World War II. Shrapnel imbedded in his spine left him paralyzed, recuperating in a VA hospital for a year. He was never the same.

The spinal injuries he suffered defending a little spit of volcanic rock hanging on the tail end of the Aleutian Islands off the coast of Alaska left him with recurrent back pain for the rest of his life. When the first symptoms of stomach cancer appeared 30 years later, he thought it was his troublesome back. By the time the cancer was discovered, it was too late. He died a month after surgery.

My mother was never the same. I was never the same.

War does that. It changes lives, steals dreams, shatters hopes. But the men and women who returned from World War II were stalwart characters. They got on with life, building families and communities. They were the first in line at the polls on election day, first in line at a Red Cross blood drive. They understood duty, loyalty, courage. They didn’t preach it, they lived it. Their priorities were—in order—God, family, country.

Dad refused to talk about the war. So when I discovered his Bronze Star hidden in a dresser drawer, I was surprised. I didn’t think Attu was significant enough to warrant a medal for bravery. One World War II writer described it as “the lonesomest spot this side of hell.”

But, unknown to the American public, for 15 months—from early June 1942 to the mid-August 1943—US forces fought off a Japanese invasion in what one writer described as “arduous operations hampered by shortages afloat, ashore, and in the air...not to mention the almost insuperable obstacles of weather and terrain.” When it was all over, American casualties added up to 3,829 (25 percent of the invading force—second only in proportion to Iwo Jima): 549 dead, 1,148 injured, 1,200 with severe cold injuries, 614 with disease, and 318 to miscellaneous causes. The Japanese lost 2,351 men; only 28 were taken prisoner. (Source: http://www.hlswilliwaw.com/aleutians/Aleutians/html/aleutians-wwii.htm)

Attu didn’t get much press. It was only as I looked up information for this article that I discovered the real significance of this historic battle.

We still were reeling from Pearl Harbor, as the Aleutian Island invasion took place a mere six months later. Perhaps it was to protect the public, to prevent a panic that news about the battle raging in the Bering Sea was blacked out. How many outside the military and the government knew at the time that the enemy was that close? Our military was tied up in Europe and the South Pacific. Little Attu paled in comparison.

Yet history would have been different had we lost Attu and the rest of the Aleutian Islands.

Never once in all his pain did my father ever complain or protest war. He knew the price that must be paid for freedom. Whether in Vietnam, Bosnia, or the Middle East, liberty’s price is the blood of our sons and daughters—no less than what God paid for our freedom from sin and its consequences.

Our eternal history would have been different had the battle for our souls not been waged and won 2,000 years ago on a God-forsaken spit of land called Calvary. But this war, unlike human wars, changes lives for the better, restores dreams and renews hope. Once we decide whose side we’re on, we are never the same.

For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life (John 3:16 NLT). Thank you, thank you, thank you, God! Amen.

When They Come Home

Melanie Rigney's own return to faith after decades inspired her memoir, which, she says, "will likely never be published." (see Christian Writers Page for an interview with her). So she went on to help others who were finding their way back to God by getting involved in her church and by coauthoring When They Come Home: Ways to welcome returning Catholics.

Catholic or Protestant, we all could use the words of wisdom in this book as we, too, reach out to those who are finding their way back home.

AN INTERVIEW WITH FEATURED AUTHOR MELANIE RIGNEY ABOUT HER BOOK, When They Come Home: Ways to Welcome Returning Catholics, coauthored with Anna LaNave

What is it about? It’s a book for Catholic parishes about how to help those who have been away from the Church but are making their first stumbling steps back.

What inspired it? I’m a cradle Catholic who was away from faith for a very long time. I went through a program for those exploring a return to the Church, and my dear friend and coauthor, Anna LaNave, was the facilitator. We were asked to do a proposal for this book by the publisher, Twenty-Third Publications, which also owns Catholic Digest magazine and the devotional for which I write.

What is its purpose? To help parish leaders model the Good Shepherd and prodigal son’s father.

Why did you write it? Because I was asked. I said no, feeling a bit underqualified to tell parish leaders what to do, and suggested the publisher contact Anna. Anna said she’d only write it if we did it together.

What do you hope readers will get out of it? I pray they will be kind and nonjudgmental to folks who are in the position I was… who want to be Catholic, but don’t know how and don’t know that being with God is the easiest thing in the world. You just have to believe He loves you. Some folks in my Church think there’s more to it than that.

Any special, memorable stories associated with it? Lots of stories about my own return, but they’re not in the book. I think for me, the most special thing was the way in which God blessed this coauthorship. Anna’d be the first to tell you writing isn’t her gift; one-on-one ministry is, and she’s also very knowledgeable about Church doctrine. She has a master’s in pastoral studies. While writing is my gift, I know about 1 percent of what Anna knows about the Church. I was briefly concerned that coauthoring could damage our friendship! But it was beautiful. We each honored the other’s expertise.

(To order When They Come Home, click on the book cover above or click here.)

The case of the flickering screen

In Him we live and move and have our being. – Acts 17:28 (NIV)

When the monitor on my laptop darkened, I knew I was in trouble. Well, not me, exactly, but my trusty 17-inch notebook that I’ve used for six years. I jiggled the power cord, then the jack that plugs into the computer. The screen brightened. OK, I thought, I’m back in business.

But when the problem recurred more frequently as the months passed, I knew eventually I’d have to either repair it or get a new computer. Neither scenario was welcome. Repairing it meant taking it to the repair shop for a spell—and you know how those things go. Buying a new computer meant having to deal with all its new-fangled features.

I don’t like change. Give me the same-old, same-old so my life could run smoothly. But even the same-old, same-old gets worn out and needs replacement parts to run right. So I opted to fix the laptop.

After examining it, my computer guy diagnosed the flickering screen problem as a faulty internal jack—the one that connects to the motherboard. Motherboards, like mothers, run everything. You know the saying, “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.” So you keep the motherboard happy with a secure, dependable connection to the power source.

But the internal jack isn’t the only thing wrong with my laptop. It’s got a burned out battery and runs like sludge through a sieve. That’s because over time, the 512 MB of RAM (Random Access Memory) that came with the computer filled up, slowing down all the processes. Adding 2 GB of memory would help to speed things up—if—and this is a big if—the jack can be fixed and if I want to spend the money on something I’ll have to replace eventually anyway.

My old laptop’s a lot like me. I, too, run slow these days. My memory ain’t what it used to be, my battery’s shot, and my motherboard flickers if I don’t have a secure connection to the Power Source.

Unlike a computer, though, I can’t add more memory. I’m stuck with the one I’ve got. But I can make sure that what it contains doesn’t sap my energy, like worry, grudges and criticism. I renew, or “upgrade,” my mind (Romans 12:2) by filling it with God’s Word, by fixing my thoughts on what’s true, good, right, pure and lovely, by dwelling on the good things in others, and by thinking about all I can praise God for and be glad about (Philippians 4:8 LB).

I avoid burning out my battery by recharging and renewing my body, mind and spirit with adequate rest and relaxation. I accept the Good Shepherd’s invitation to “come with Me by yourself to a quiet place and get some rest” (Mark 6:31).

But this will be all for naught if I don’t stay connected to the Power Source. So I pray about everything (Philippians 4:6) and I pray continually (Romans 12:11, 1 Thessalonians 5:17).

With renewed memory, recharged batteries, and a constant connection to the Power Source, I figure I’m good to go until the Maker calls this model home.

Remind me often, Lord, that You are the source of all that I do, think, and am. Amen.

Special-Tea: Psalm 62:1–2, 5–8

Water of life

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. – Psalm 42:1–2 (NIV)

After three trips to Colorado Springs, elevation 6,035 feet above sea level, I’ve learned to drink a lot of water.

The first time I went it was winter, and the air was drier than at other times of the year. My eyes burned for the entire writers’ conference. Just walking from my classroom to an editor’s appointment left me gasping for breath. Now when I’m in Colorado Springs, I carry eye drops, pace myself when walking, and drink at least 64 ounces of water a day.

Sixty-four ounces is a lot of water, you say. At that altitude, the air is thin and dry. Thin, meaning less oxygen than I’m used to breathing here at home in Smithport, elevation about 1,800 feet. So to get the oxygen I need, I’m taking more breaths.

The higher altitude also means lower air pressure, which causes moisture to be wicked away from my skin and sucked from my lungs with each breath faster than here at home. And since Colorado Springs ranks thirty-third in the top 101 U.S. cities with the lowest average humidity—at 51.9 percent—I’m not getting a whole lot of moisture in the air I breathe.

On her “High Altitude Living” website, health writer Laura Wheeler notes that “at 6,000 feet above sea level, you exhale and perspire twice as much as you do at sea level,” which “can make a difference of a quart or more (of water) a day.” Whether or not I realize it, when I’m in Colorado Springs, I’m breathing more, perspiring more, and losing more body water. And if I don’t drink enough water, I’m going to get dehydrated.

The funny thing about dehydration is that, unless you know the effects of high altitude on the body, you don’t even realize what’s happening and pass off the headache, fatigue, shortness of breath, dizziness and nausea as a bug or travel lag. Folks have been known to collapse and be rushed to the hospital, where they were back to normal after receiving much-needed water.

Just as my body needs water, my soul needs God.

Jesus illustrated our need for Him when He told the Samaritan woman at the village well, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks of the water I give him will never thirst” (John 4:13–14).

When I take time to drink of the water He offers—by spending time talking to Him, listening to Him, and reading and meditating on His Word—my flagging, life-dried spirit is refreshed and revived. When I need rest, He leads me to green pastures and quiet waters. When trouble abounds, He’s right there with His rod and staff. When the way is dark and fearsome, He guides and comforts.

Are you spiritually dehydrated? There’s plenty of water to refresh and revive your soul. All you have to do is come.

O God, you are my God, earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you . . . in a dry and weary land where there is no water (Psalm 63:1 NIV). Amen.

Special-Tea: Psalm 23; John 4:6–14

Waypoint

Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path. – Psalm 119:105 (NIV)

Last Christmas, my husband received an extraordinary gift from our eldest son—a hunting trip to Colorado. My gift to Dean was a handheld GPS unit to take along with him.

We ordered the GPS in March and received it a couple of weeks later. We should have ordered it right after Christmas. Talk about teaching an old dog new tricks!

Now, Dean is a fantastic fix-it man—mechanically minded and skilled in figuring out how things work—things like motors and engines and toasters and hair dryers—you get the idea. He’s even learned to browse the Internet (mostly looking for car or tractor parts) and even took an online course to prepare for his hunter’s safety test, which he needed to pass in order to get a Colorado hunting license. (He missed the birthdate cutoff by four months. But that’s neither here nor there.)

Since he does so well on the computer, we figured learning to use the GPS wouldn’t be too complicated. Not! The learning curve is as big as St. Louis’s Gateway Arch, a.k.a. “The Gateway to the West.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked him one Sunday as he fiddled with the GPS, manual spread open on the table in front of him. I could tell he was upset.

“I can’t find the arrow,” he said, clearly disgusted. “I had it. Now it’s gone.”

I looked at the screen, where what appeared to be a compass without a needle was displayed.

“Did you do anything?” I asked.

“Yeah—I hit the wrong button!”

I spent the next half hour pushing buttons, trying to get the arrow back. I learned new meanings for familiar terms, like “rocker” and “proximity” and “waypoint.” I figured out how to change the time setting back to Eastern Time from Central Time and showed Dean how to do it should he push the wrong button at the wrong time again. I hit every button and visited every page on the thing I could find, but no arrow.

Finally I handed the unit back to Dean. “Go ask Todd. He’ll know what to do.”

About an hour later Dean came into my writing room, where I was answering emails.

“Look!” he said, shoving the GPS in front of my face. “I got the arrow back!”

“What did you do?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

I’m sure glad the way to our eternal destination is clearly marked. In God’s Word we’ll find how to recognize our waypoints, where the proximity boundaries are, and what buttons not to push. The Bible is not at all that complicated. All you have to do is read it.

I sure hope my husband learns how to use his GPS before he goes to Colorado in October. But just in case, I think I’ll get him a topo map and a good compass for Father’s Day.

Thank you, Lord, that the way Home is clearly marked in Your Word. Amen.

Special-Tea: Psalm 119

The pickled beets bomber

For he is God’s servant to do you good. – Romans 13:4 (NIV)

Last summer I promised a colleague in Colorado a jar of home-canned pickled beets. The only problem was getting it to Colorado Springs from western Pennsylvania. I didn’t want to take the chance mailing or shipping the glass quart jar, no matter how well wrapped and packaged. I still remember the time my son spilled beet juice on a pair of new white sneakers.

So when the opportunity came to fly to Colorado Springs on business last month, I saw a way to fulfill my promise. After wrapping bubble wrap around the jar—twice—and securing it with packing tape, I sealed it in a gallon-size freezer bag. Then I carefully placed it in my carry-on.

“Are you sure you can take it on the plane?” said my husband, who can be a real wet blanket sometimes. “Did you check the airline regulations online?”

“Yes, and I didn’t see anything about home-canned pickled beets.”

He raised a wary eyebrow.

“OK, OK,” I said. “I’ll look again.”

So after supper I did a more-than-cursory scan into what I could and could not take on the plane.

“Well?” hubby asked when he came in from his evening chores.

“I still didn’t see anything that told me I couldn’t,” I said. “If baby food’s allowed, why wouldn’t pickled beets be? I wrapped it up good and tight. Let me show you.”

It wasn’t until I placed the bubble-wrapped, taped and plastic-baggie-sealed jar on the counter that I saw the problem. Until then, I admit, I was just being stubborn, contrary, and, OK, a little bit rebellious. I wanted to take those pickled beets to my colleague, and, by golly, come the Secretary of Defense and the entire Department of Homeland Security—I was going to.

Until I saw the package.

It did look suspicious. I had visions of alarms and SWAT teams and bomb squads converging on me and my jar of home-canned pickled beets—and me getting escorted from the airport in handcuffs, with the headlines “Police Arrest Pickled Beets Bomber.”

So I left the beets at home—not without a little resentment and complaining about how our freedoms were being taken away one by one.

After I cleared security (they always have to wave that wand thingie over my CPAP machine to make sure it isn’t a you-know-what), I got on the transit to the terminal. As I looked around the crowded car, and saw all the baggage people carried, it hit me: I’m safe.

What I saw as a hindrance was meant to protect me.

St. Paul advised the Roman believers to “obey the government, for God is the one who put it there” (Romans 13:4 NLT). And the Roman government, in those days, wasn’t Christian-friendly.

No government is perfect. It is, after all, run by humans. And those humans need our prayers.

Thursday is the National Day of Prayer. For one day, let us replace our complaints with prayer. For “blessed is the nation whose God is the LORD” (Psalm 33:12 NIV).

Thank you, God, for those who have taken the responsibility to govern. Bless them with wisdom, discernment, and integrity. Amen.

Special-Tea: Romans 13:1–7

Click here for more information about the National Day of Prayer.