My little friends

I love little piggies. Of all the creatures we had on the farm when I was growing up (a few steers and heifers for beef, 500-600 laying hens, Muscovy ducks, a Guernsey milk cow, a tired Shetland pony, cats, dogs and hogs), the little oinkers we by far my favorite.

Contrary to popular urban myth, they don't like to be dirty. In hot weather they need to stay cool. But clean the pen and provide fresh straw for little feeder pigs, and you can find no more joyful and grateful creatures on earth.

As a group, they would agree on one corner of the pen to do their business in first. When that was thoroughly soiled, they would move to the next and the next. It was a sad day for them when they had to use their remaining sleeping quarters for their bathroom. And when the opportunity finally came for us to clean the whole thing, they would run and play like the happiest kids when school lets out. (That was before video games paralyzed our children.)

We Americans are chronic complainers, I think. And yet, we are the most empowered people on earth in so many ways. We get to choose where we spend our dollars. A week ago I needed some clear tape for shipping cartons and some strapping (filament) tape. I went to the local Fred Meyer grocery/variety. I had my choice between tape made in China, or clear tape from Canada and strapping tape made in the USA. I bought the North American products for several reasons:

1. They were shipped a far shorter distance.
2. They would have been manufactured to higher standards of quality.
3. They would have produced less industrial waste handled more responsibly.
4. They would have been made with cleaner electric power.
5. They would have given somebody on this side of the globe a job.
6. They were more expensive.

You get what you pay for.

Yeah, the label of these little piggy banks says, "Made in China". They are in the grocery store where we buy most of our food. Most of that still comes from here, fortunately.

If I'd gone to Wal Mart, I'm sure I would not have had a choice between North American or Chinese tape.

Save money. Live better. Wal Mart.

Not always. Every choice is a voice. Every dollar is a vote. We're staring a "jobless recovery" in the face. There's no secret trap door for our economy like there is in this Chinese piggy bank.

There will only be jobs for our neighbors nearby when we buy what our nearby neighbors make. When they buy what we make.

Every choice is a voice. Every dollar is a vote for what the world and our country will look like in the future. We have incredible power over those choices.

You get what you pay for.

Pax,
Roger

Veterans' Day

I'm married to the daughter of a World War II veteran. I wish my father-in-law Herb were here today for me to thank him again for his service and his daughter. My sister-in-law is married to a Vietnam vet. My two brothers served in the Army National Guard. My best male friend in life, Jack Moore, was a Cobra pilot in Vietnam and won his final battle with his last breath on March 29. My friend and schoomate of 12 years was KIA in Vietnam on 5 April 1968. My great uncle N.O. Wittmann was a WWII pilot and went on to a Navy career that eventually put him in charge of maintenance of U.S. Navy aicraft in the Pacific, including the one in which Sen. John McCain was shot down.

N.O. Wittmann, Jr., his son, was my second cousin and gave his life in Vietnam in August 1967.

I fought the Cold War, helping to keep it from becoming hot. I served three years, 11 months and 28 days. This portion of my life changed my life forever.

I've been to Washington, DC many times but only once on a Veterans' Day. That was in 1997 to take photos for the multi-media segment of the play I was writing and would stage 11 years ago this month. It was an incredibly moving three days. If I could be anywhere on this earth today besides my own house, it would be in Washington, DC for another Veterans' Day.

In 1997, my head and heart were so filled with hundreds of emotions and thousands of sights and images that I literally could not sleep. Finally, I gave in to the stirrings in my head and heart and got up at 4 AM to write. One of those pieces was the following, and I dedicate it today to Narvin (both of them), to Wes, to Jack, to Les, and to my college fraternity brother Lyle who served in U.S. Army Special Forces and was laid to rest today in Omaha:

A Time of Changing Leaves

In a time of changing leaves,

In a time of leaves that bleed the colors

of the seasons all

We pass and place our fingertips into

Familiar spellings on the Wall

Of those whose journey passed its outer marker

just a little sooner than our own

In a time of changing leaves.

In a time of changing leaves,

In a time of leaves that shed their passing quietly

Upon the earth once more,

We are again confronted

by the passing of ourselves

Even the passing of our passing...

Whose familar letters?

Whose the names well-worn into our hearts?

And whose the memories that rain again into the earth,

One by one

Day by day

Year by year,

Now in a time of changing leaves?

One day, no one shall come here

Who has ever heard the voice of any

Upon these sacred walls.

And yet, they shall keep coming

To pause, and to pray in passing

When all have taken their turn in passing quietly

Into a time of changing leaves.

Copyright 1997 by Roger D. Fuchs. All rights reserved.

Veterans, thank you! Welcome home. To those no longer with us, we know that you are receiving the best of care in the hands of the One who created you for us.

See you again one of these days. One of these fine days.

Pax,

Roger

Saving Private Hagerbaumer

His name was Bill (William, actually). He never got to enter any kind of memorial to his service in World War I. He was a blood relative with a clear case of PTSD. And a moral conflict he could never resolve.


Most of you have probably seen Saving Private Ryan, Steven Spielberg's lavishly set WWII film focused on a small band of soldiers on an odd mission in the land war in Europe.


Perhaps you remember the scene where a German soldier is overtaken in his foxhole by the Americans. He does his best to seem sympathetic to the Americans and to American popular culture. Then comes the decision: to shoot him or let him go unarmed since the GI's are on the move and in no position to hold a POW.


They let him go. Later, he pulls the trigger in a standoff with the boyish GI clerk typist who is unable, or unwilling, to shoot first. The GI is unable to kill. So he is killed.


This happened to great step-uncle Bill. Bell overran a German in his trench. He threw down his weapon when Bill cried, "Haende hoch!" (Hands up!). I'm sure that in reply to Bill's fluent German, the German soldier would have replied "Nicht schiessen, nicht schiessen! Bitte nicht! Ich moecthe Ihnen sprechen." (Don't shoot, don't shoot! Please don't! I want to talk with you.). He was just a young boy, really.


Uncle Bill didn't know whether he could trust this enemy who shared his blood and ancestry, but not his nationality. Bill had already seen plenty of battle, had surely lost a number of buddies. The German begged for his life. How much trench warfare and mustard gas had he seen?


Bill shot him.


And he could never rid his mind of the German's last words, the sight of the young man's body falling to the earth. Bill had nightmares. He cried. He self-medicated with alcohol. He smoked. He never married. He never forgot, and he died long before his actual death.


He left Mom $200 in his will. She used it to buy the window air conditioner that at last cooled our house during the hot Nebraska summers in the early 60's.


What pastor would have been able to counsel Bill back in his day? Where could he have turned? And who in the family would have had a clue? Did he ever go to Holy Communion again and feel welcome, healed?


And we should remember this. Before we were forced to rename it World War I, this was called "The Great War" and "The War to End All Wars". It only did that for 21 years. Remember that the next time you read about, see a photo of or visit the site of a Nazi death camp where a solemn marker proclaims "Nie Wieder", never again.


"He was never the same," my Mom recalled on my visit with her two months ago.

I don't know how Fourth of July and fireworks ever worked for Bill. I don't know how they could have. But I pray that the voices of angels and the eternal light of Christ do what we were unable to do here on earth: give him peace.


Lord Jesus, thank you for saving Private Hagerbaumer. Rest well, Uncle, and welcome home!


Pax,
Roger

Half Staff

The rain has stopped long enough to put out my flag. It's at half staff, the way it flies more frequently than it does at full staff.

We mourn the loss of life and the deeper tragedies at Ft. Hood, Texas.

Nidal Malik Hasan. Officer. Mental health professional. Major. Member of our armed forces. U.S. citizen by birth just like most of us. Muslim, unlike most of us.

I'm glad I have known other Muslims besides those seared into the minds of most Americans by 9/11, homicide bombings, interfaith sectarian bloodshed, honor killings and forced marriages of young daughters who seem to barely qualify as property.

I'm glad that Jean and I lived for 2.5 years at the very beginning of our marriage as tennants of the generous and loving Aydogan family: Muazzez and Ali and their three kids: Esen, Ali and Sedat. Ali was a farmer just like my Dad, but he lived in town. And they opened their little apartment building to us and, before us, to other GI's who didn't live on base. They didn't rip us off by jacking up the rent. They welcomed us and respected us, as did countless merchants who often insisted that before we did any business we first have tea.

Then there were the two Muslim Turks who helped me out of the ditch after a motorcycle accident in August 1972 as several carloads of Americans passed by. I know the parable of the Good Samaritan from the ditch-level view, not that of a spectator two millennia removed.

Likewise, I am glad that I know Christ followers other than the KKK, slavers, the IRA and the Orangemen, the popes and kings and armies of the Thirty Years' War, the Inquisition, the Salem witch trials and the Crusades, apartheid, the 1990's bloodshed between Catholic Croats and Orthodox Serbs who spoke the same language simply written in different alphabets.

May I never be judged by them. May our faith lead us only to humility, forbearance and compassion. Not to judgment but to new resolve.

A trail of bread crumbs, the agonizingly clear signals in hindsight, so often have us asking, "Why didn't we heed the warnings given by this person?" A legitimate question. Too easily we deny because the person is an active church member or occupies a position of authority.

How much of the buildup to the Holocaust was rationalized, ignored or just plain denied?

Now, shall I be judged by the Holocaust because the blood in my veins is 100% German? And will our president be blamed for this tragedy because of his absent father and his middle name Hussein (blessed)? Already, in the minds of many, I'm sure that connection has been made.

That's how the Holocaust started. And spread among literate, educated Christians.

But not all lives giving warning signals of potential tragedy actually end in tragedy. There are countless stories of signals heeded, help offered and received, healing experienced, lives rebuilt and restored. Mental health victories are the great unrealized and unexplored frontier of our lifetime as a civilization. Some of them are on the streets of downtown Portland, and I am blessed to know and to pray with some of them on Sunday evenings. Their lives make no headlines and attract the hot breath of no cloistered pundits far away.

But they are banner headlines in heaven causing the angels to sing.

Lord, give us wisdom, humility, compassion and your peace. Amen.

Roger

A Nation At War?

Is America a nation at war? For more thought-provoking commentary, read "All In Vain" at http://karenzach.com .

Be sure not to miss the miracle story of Diane Carlson Evans' grandson.

Keep the prayers faithful.

Roger

SR9-11-69B

Exactly 40 years ago today, November 3, 1969, I was dressed in this blue suit. I had only one stripe on my sleeve then. After waiting around most of the day and finally getting paid, I was at last on the way back to the airport in San Antonio, Texas, where I had landed on August 15, 1969 to begin basic training in the United States Air Force.

After waiting an extra month for orders because my background investigation took a little more time (having been all over Europe the summer before, my trail was longer), I was on my way with fellow Airmen to become part of SR9-11-69B. That is,
Syracuse
Russian
Training category 9
Class starting in the month of November (11)
Year of starting classes, 1969
Language instruction level: B for basic.

We flew from San Antonio to Atlanta by daylight. In Atlanta we changed planes, flying the last leg from Atlanta to Syracuse on an Eastern Airlines DC-9. It was a nice ride, unlike the thunderstorms I had flown through on my way into San Antonio back in August. Enroute, I had a good conversation with seat mates. I think I paid the two or three dollars and had a beer.

We arrived in Syracuse after 10 PM, collected our duffle bags and boarded a chartered bus. I remember driving through Syracuse once we entered the city and seeing beautiful hardwood trees, so unlike the pale chartreuse mesquite trees we had left behind in Texas.

Someone a couple of rows back remarked upon seeing the brightly colored leaves of November in Syracuse, "Wow! It's actually fall here!"

So it was. And so began the next phase of my training that would eventually lead my path in life to that of a young woman named Jean Beth Robson from Buffalo, NY, the following May 23.

And that's the way it was, November 3, 1969.

Today I wore this uniform again, the first time publicly in 36 years. I went to Milwaukie High School's Living History Day. I heard a few vets tell their stories. I added a few comments from four decades ago.

40 years. Just like that.

Pax,
Roger

What Should We Do, America?

It's been a long time since we painted military trucks in green-gray camouflage colors. Once they were only painted olive drab. The jungle wars in Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos and Thailand brought new disguises.

Now when people think of camo colors, they think of beige and tan. The colors of deserts in Iraq and Afghanistan. The color of dust and sandstorms. That's how long it's been since our focus was on hiding in dense growth.

Iraq has largely dropped off our radar screens as citizens. Reluctantly, we are back to Afghanistan. President Obama replaced General McKiernan with General McChrystal. He's taking his time deciding on a strategy and how to support it, seriously dithering according to former VP Dick Cheney. There is validity to that criticism. Meanwhile, a doubtlessly fraudulent Afghan election has taken place. It has taken two months to decide--only to have the opponent drop out of a runoff because it would be hopelessly rigged and flawed also.

Hamid Karzai's government has been criticized as among the most corrupt on earth. Right now and for the foreseeable future it is all we have and all we will have. So now it's time for President Obama to do his business or get off the pot. Pakistan is watching. So is Iran. So is India. So are Russia and China. So are the pundits in America. But how many Americans?

But I want to ask this question of my fellow Americans of all stripes, especially people of faith: When is it finally time for Americans to decide what to do and get it done? Do we double or triple the size of our forces there? Do we just up and abandon the place? Do we muddle along with a grindingly inadequate force because we won't actually support more than that? Do we abandon military strategies entirely but go with a Marshall Plan style humanitarian effort such as we have never seen?

General McChrystal would like 80,000 more troops but might settle for 44K. Probably enough to fail but surely not enough to succeed in stabilizing a country far larger and terrain-wise far more formidable than Iraq. But General M. will be lucky to get 20K. I'm betting the number will be closer to 12K.

But America, whom should we send? Are we willing to send our own flesh and blood? Shall we implement a draft and send only fresh troops who haven't already been deployed to Afghanistan once and to Iraq twice? Are we willing to cough up an income tax surcharge to pay for it all? Are we willing to buy war bonds?

What should we DO, America?

And is attempting a military solution to all of this in direct conflict with our faith? Haven't the true saints been those who have risked everything to: 1) love God above all things (Deut. 6:4-5); and 2) love their neighbors as themselves (Lev. 19:18)? Haven't they been like the wise teacher of the Torah who responded to Jesus that living in conformance with 1 & 2 was above any ritual sacrifice and burnt offering? Didn't Jesus say that the teacher's interpretation was a very close approximation of the kingdom of God (Mark 12)?

Have you ever known a nation that was bold enough to take Jesus at his word? Do you know any churches and faith leaders who do? Have we ever honestly tried the way of Christ?

Our choices in Afghanistan are very limited, thanks in part to so much misguided and failed American involvement in the Middle East and Central Asia over the past 60 years. What is it that we could do following the lead of saints like Greg Mortenson who had the courage to act on their convictions? What is it that we could do that would eventually turn every weapon, instrument and vehicle of war into a relic collecting spiderwebs and overgrown with weeds?

Read the two pieces by Nicholas Kristof, and listen to the two recent interviews on Fresh Air. Then formulate a plan in you own mind. It's our reponsibility as a citizens in this free land. It's being done in our name with our (children's) money and it will profoundly shape the world of the next two decades. It may even have something to do with whether the USA eventually defaults on its massive load of debt.

When asked what most struck her about returning to America from Iraq, former Oregon National Guardsman Rebekkah Mae Bruns remarked, "What stuck me was that the military was at war but America wasn't." Maybe it's time we were.

BTW, Nick Kristof grew up on a sheep and cherry farm near Yamhill, OR just west of Portland. He went to high school with a good friend of mine. Unlike so many columnists and pundits, he has actually spent much of his life traveling and living in the poorest and most troubled areas on earth. He knows the poverty, lack of sanitation, clean water and medical care in Africa. He knows the modern global human slave trade. He knows the plagues of malaria, river blindness and the AK-47. He knows the religious and ethnic chasms of the places we are involved in. He has some ideas.

Do any of the rest of us?

Kristof:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/22/opinion/22kristof.html?_r=1

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/29/opinion/29kristof.html

Charles Sennott:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=111773305

Greg Jaffe:


http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=114210259



So, what should we DO, America?


Pax,
Roger