Tag: war

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At A Time Like This

It somehow feels wrong to feel normal.

I know. “Normal” exists on the washing machine, not in the world. If the last few years haven’t proved that, I don’t know what will, between pandemics, protests, wildfires and … well, you don’t need the litany from me. We’ve all lived it.

And now we have a war half a world away. Demanding attention. Stirring up its own bizarre mix of feelings.

Part of mine come from old memories – those of my generation and my parents’ – of the old Cold War flare-ups. Like a standoff in a room full of nitroglycerin, you had to wonder if any sudden move would have devastating results.

Part of it is the same helpless feeling I get in the wake of another school shooting, where the alarm keeps going off with no clear way to answer the call.

On top of it all sits the clash, the collision between peril and mundanity. The little voice that whispers  about how frivolous, even silly some of my thoughts and activities are. Maybe you’ve heard it too: “How can you even bother doing (x) at a time like this? Don’t you know what’s going on in the world?”

If so, take heart. You may be doing more than the voice knows.

I’m not advocating a callous denial of reality. The world doesn’t need another Nero fiddling while the world burns, or a Scarlett O’Hara complaining about how war is ruining her social life. It’s not about locking out another’s pain to make yourself feel better.

But we’re complicated beings. We’re capable of attending to more than one thing at a time. And when we turn to something that doesn’t have to do with either a crisis or a day-to-day need, it’s not necessarily because we don’t care.

Many times, it’s a release. One acquaintance of mine dances in times of stress. Others turn to music, or to books, or to a mile-long walk to free the anxiety that has nowhere else to go. Engines can’t run hot all the time, and the soul needs cooling down and maintenance just as much.

Sometimes it even goes beyond that. It becomes transformative, channeling the fear and anxiety and anguished hope into something that lifts up instead of presses down.

One of my favorite authors, J.R.R. Tolkien, took this above and beyond. A veteran of World War I, he mingled old battlefield horrors with his love of language and nature to produce a mythology that’s still giving people hope, inspiration and release today.

Naturally, he also had his “times like these “critics – after all, with so many real problems to address, why waste time on fantasy? His pointed response was that “Escape” could be a virtue … except, maybe, in the eyes of jailers.

“Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home?” Tolkien noted in a lecture. “Or if he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls? The world outside has not become less real because the prisoner cannot see it.”

Regeneration. Transformation. Hope. These become especially vital in hard times – not in denial of them, but to better grapple with and endure them.

Don’t turn away. But don’t fear the ordinary, either. It doesn’t have to be a dereliction of duty. It might even be just the thing to make you readier than ever.

Even in times like these.

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In Living Memory

OK, quiz time. Which of the following comes next when you hear “Remember, remember…”?

A) “… to turn your clocks back one hour to end Daylight Saving Time.”

B) “…what you came into the room to get five minutes ago.”

C) “…a time in September, when life was slow, and oh, so mellow.”

D) “… the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot.”

If you answered D, there are decent odds that you either have English relatives, or you’re a fan of  the movie or comic “V For Vendetta” … or that you know how a columnist’s mind works on questions like this. (We’re a little predictable.)  The chant, of course, is a traditional one for Guy Fawkes Day in England on Nov. 5, and a catchy one at that. Some of you may have even finished the next words: “I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.”

Now comes the harder part. Why? Why remember?

Those who remember anything at all might recall that Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament. But the details of why, or who he was, or what century it happened in, or that the observance was once an occasion for virulent anti-Catholic fervor … that tends to be fuzzier for most people. Most of the time, what gets remembered is the admonition to “remember, remember” and not much else.

Which brings me to Veterans Day.

Each year on Nov. 11, we get our own call to remember.  – specifically, to remember and thank the veterans of our armed services, especially those who have served during wartime. Cities offer parades. Restaurants offer meals. We hear their stories, shake their hands, maybe put out the flag for the day or the weekend.

But how often do we think about why? Do we think about why?

Or are we just remembering to remember?

I wonder. I really do.

It began as a remembrance of horror and a pledge of peace – the Armistice Day, when the relentless and pointless four-year slaughter of World War I finally came to an end.

In this country, it continued because of a Kansas man named Alvin King, a man who repaired shoes and felt that the sacrifices of the still-recent World War II veterans and those who came after them should be honored as well.

Two ideas. Two kinds of memory.

One, the memory of things past. Of a portion of life given at the country’s call. A recognition that some were willing to risk pain and fear and death and despair in order to serve a land they loved. Some came back to thanks and parades. Some returned quietly, as though knocking off work at the end of the day. Some, instead of welcome, drew recriminations.

It’s a story that most of us cannot truly know or share. One unique to those who have served. And so we remember.

But we also need a second memory. A memory that looks forward. A memory that remembers that the struggles are not always in the past, that our veterans are not just a story to be told and a hand to be shaken once a year. That we have an obligation to meet their needs, to heal their wounds, to help them as they once helped us.

And most of all, we need to remember the price. And the ancient commitment to our veterans, so often broken, to create no more of their number. To seek peace in a world of war.

It is an imposing memory. A demanding one, even. But essential.

Remember, remember.

And then make the memory real.

I know of no reason why this veterans’ season should ever be forgot.

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Do I Feel A Draft?

As a species, we humans are really good at hanging onto silly traditions.

For example, there’s the bizarre idea that groundhogs are expert meteorologists.

Or the concept that our lives are immeasurably improved by adding or subtracting an hour of sleep every year. (As always, I promise to give my vote for life to the politician who succeeds in killing Daylight Saving Time.)

But for sheer useless levels of why-the-heck-do-they-still-do-that, it’s hard to beat registering for a non-existent draft.

Most of you know what I’m talking about, especially my fellow male Americans who have turned 18 since 1973. We’re the group who at one time, under the dire penalty of law usually reserved for the destruction of mattress labels, have had to register for … well, essentially nothing. Once upon a time, that small piece of paper could have gotten you sent to a strange land with a deadly weapon. Today, your library card carries more potential to change your life (especially with my overdue fees).

For over 40 years, it’s been a ritual without meaning, sort of like discussing the chances of a Denver Nuggets NBA championship. So naturally, there’s a chance we may expand it.

Yes, really.

Starting this year, American women became eligible to serve in combat roles for the first time. So naturally, in February, someone in Congress decided that meant women should also be eligible for the draft. If, you know, there were a draft. Which there isn’t likely to ever be. But still – the piece of paper must be filled out, yes?

But there’s also a competing bill, drafted (my apologies) in part by two Colorado congressmen, Democrat Jared Polis and Republican Mike Coffman, and which got a hearing on the radio airwaves this week. This one would also make men and women equal in the eyes of Selective Service … by abolishing Selective Service altogether.

Staggering. I mean, think of all the pencils that would suddenly no longer have a use!

I suppose continuing the Selective Service registration for our 18-to-25-year-olds might make some sense if there were any realistic chance that this country might revive conscription again. And let’s face it – there’s a better chance of seeing Peyton Manning change his mind and come back for one more season with the Denver Broncos than there is of seeing Uncle Sam revert to a draft. (Given recent news, it looks like there’s a better chance of seeing Brock Osweiler come back, too, which is another story and requires paying attention to a different sort of draft altogether.)

Conscription is really good at putting together a really large army really fast. When your biggest threat is another nation-state with a big army of their own, it’s hard to beat for effectiveness. Think of Revolutionary France, surrounded by foes (and then deciding to do a little conquest themselves). Or the Union and Confederacy, locked in mortal combat. Or the 1940s U.S.A., needing to quickly bulk up its forces to take down Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan.

But warfare has changed. Society has changed. In an age of fighting terrorists, insurgents, and other irregular combatants, it’s not as useful a tool. The last time we put conscription to use, we not only generated a large army, we also generated protests, trips to Canada, and really bizarre stories of how so-and-so managed to avoid the draft. (My personal favorite involved a friend who was called for his draft physical during Vietnam, only to be marked 4-F when someone forgot to plug in the device that was supposed to give him his hearing test. “Raise your hand when you hear the tone.” “Uh … OK.”)

We have a volunteer force now, a highly-trained force of people who actually asked to be there. It’s worked pretty well. Barring a massive change in historical trends, it’s liable to keep doing so.

So why keep the pretty, useless (and pretty useless) cards?

Real bipartisan cooperation seems to be pretty rare these days. When we get it, maybe we should listen. By all means, make men and women equally eligible for Selective Service – as in, not eligible at all.

And then, once we’ve got that under our belt, let’s do something about that lost hour of sleep, OK?

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Picking Up The Peaces

It’s time to enter the deep end.

You know what I mean. The Christmas season. The most full-immersion experience this country offers,  unless you count the marketing for the new Star Wars movie. The wrapping paper and decorations hit the shelves weeks ago. The lights have begun to re-appear, with the music and the online ads not far behind. Soon it’ll even be time for that most communal of American holiday experiences – exchanging profanity and insurance information in a crowded strip mall parking lot.

You gotta admit, it’s a heck of a way to celebrate peace on Earth, good will to men. Or are we?

Pope Francis recently raised that question. Well, actually, he did a bit more than that. In a recent homily, he drew some press attention by calling all the pageantry nothing more than a pretty wrapping over a world at war.

“Christmas is approaching: there will be lights, parties, lighted Christmas trees and manger scenes… it’s all a sham,” he said. “The world continues to go to war. The world has not chosen a peaceful path.”

Strong words.

It’s true that we’re a lot better at singing about peace than pursuing it – one of the Christmas traditions that hasn’t changed over the centuries. It’s a rare Silent Night or Joy to the World that hasn’t echoed over a battlefield somewhere. Our own American history even celebrates Washington crossing the Delaware in time to surprise a Hessian army that had been enjoying the season. (No word on whether they had finished watching “It’s A Wonderful Life.”)

Even on a more personal level, I wonder. At the start of this year, around Martin Luther King Day, I wrote about how “peace” means more than an end to war or violence. At its roots, it means a restoration of balance, a revival of how things should be. A sense that all’s right with the world.

Put it like that, and it becomes even more maddeningly difficult to pursue. Especially at this time of year, when the words “chaos,” “hubbub,” and “stress” would be the adjectives chosen by most people – at least, out of the words that can be printed in a family newspaper.

And yet … I wonder.

It’s easy to forget that this time of year is also a time of centering. Under the bustle remains a call to remember the basics: family, friends, faith. To come together. To see faces long missed and think on memories long absent.

Granted, that can sometimes be painful, too. As the season gets closer, I start to hear Grandma Elsie singing carols with us in the car and telling stories with us in the early-early until Mom and Dad woke up. But maybe that’s a different way of being whole, uniting yesterday with now.

Or, for that matter, with tomorrow. Grandma always said Christmas was for children. The eagerness, the decorations, the sense of being part of something special while following a long-established pattern … given all that, I suppose it’s no wonder that our disabled ward Missy starts to celebrate Christmas in July.

Unite all that and it becomes a place where hope and memory can meet — a place where peace, however fragile, is renewed.

Small? Certainly. But of all the season’s lessons, one of the oldest is that wonderful transformations can begin with the smallest of things.

So here’s to a piece of peace for us all. Here’s to the future those pieces may someday create.

And that’s no sham.