My Captivity

Having returned from my last deployment, I was looking forward to terminal leave and retirement. I intended this to be a kind of vacation time. You see, I thought that for a week or so, I would get up at the crack of noon, and have breakfast at the Cracker Barrel while the working-stiffs were ordering lunch.

I would walk in unshaven and make a staged stretch and then a yawn and announce a well-rehearsed sarcastic remark about how I just can't seem to wake up if I sleep past ten. I would be deliberately casual about the remaining hours of daylight. I would take my bride and dear children who've missed me so much over the last year on great adventures.

We'd just go "do stuff"; and eat out as many times as we wanted. We'd throw caution to the wind. You want dessert for lunch? Great! Go for it! No-holds-barred. Life is short, and everyone needs a holiday now and then.

At least ONCE I wanted to go back home after eating too much, very-late-breakfast, for a long, undeserved nap. Then I'd get up again around two-thirty and without getting dressed again, I'd lay on the couch and watch daytime television in my skivvies while scratching myself and making judgmental remarks about the lack of intelligence in day-time programming.

But something's wrong:

Now that terminal leave has begun, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt... "She" has other plans. She has ALWAYS had other plans, and never told me! Despite hearing me talk all those times about how little I was going to do for those first few blissful days of fully-paid-unemployment, she never said a word!

The first day, I got up with the 13 month old "little-man" at her request. I didn't necessarily "want" to, I but I thought--hey, fair's fair...so I took him down stairs and we had a good-enough-time I suppose...but he's little and...well, let's just say he's not that into me. He likes the lady who brings the milk.

But it wasn't just that day, though. It's been every...single... day since I've been off!

Oh believe me, he's getting as irritated about it as I am. We're trying to hatch a plot to get back at her, but I can't understand anything the kid says to me! Since the little-man's birth, the older female child has become fluent in baby talk, so I asked her to interpret, but she is suddenly unable (or unwilling) to help me.

Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure my sweet little girl has been replaced by a Junior Clone of the "Missus". I don't know when it happened, but it's a very "Stepford Wives" kind of thing. She looks the same, but when she talks, I KNOW something isn't right. The one who used to ask me to take her on a "daddy date" any time we left the house without mommy is now telling me how much everything cost and how bad for my health it is to eat out. If I so much as stop in front of a gumball machine, she logs it into her cute little hard-drive and reports it back to headquarters.

I forgot to mention "Agent Grandma",(who rounds out the tribunal). She appears the sweet-little-grandma who is so happy to be doting over her grand-babies--yeah right! I'm telling you, she's an operator! A regular 007! Her cover is this appearance she puts on--the grey hair, and pleasantly plump mid-fifties appearance; and the scurrying around the house to clean everything in sight and washing a dish as soon as it hits the sink--sure...it sounds good, but she's DEEP UNDER COVER! I know she's been trained by the CIA in mind-reading and remote viewing.

Let's say for a moment that the Missus had heard of Abraham Lincoln and decided to emancipate me from my duties long enough to catch a game before March Madness ends...fantasy, I know, but work with me for the sake of the example. So, I'm watching the game, and I start to get a little hungry, and the thought "Bratwurst" crosses my mind. Immediately, the old Lady's spider senses kick in, and the next thing I know, I'm being hurried off to the table and plopped down in front of a force-feeding consisting of a dandelion-and-spinach-leaf Salad with a dollop of Tuna or Chicken Salad in the middle.

It happens every time! Spooky, right? Sometimes, I'm afraid to eat it, but I'm more afraid not to. It's actually more scary if I ever actually get out of the house without "the Clone". Then I actually can make a break to eat something that was once alive and had to shed blood to end up on my plate. I'm telling you, somehow, the old bat KNOWS!

As soon as I take that first bite, my cell phone rings! I know what you are thinking, but you need to walk a mile in my shoes...there is NO WAY I'm not answering that phone. After my hello, "She" doesn't say "hi" or "how are things? ", no, only "Where are you?".

I've been in the military for 27 years and we have a bit of an invasive leadership style; and I have an uncle who is a retired federal law enforcement agent, so I know that when THAT kind of question is asked in THAT kind of tone, with THAT kind of timing, you are not just answering a question---you are being interrogated and should understand that answering truthfully or not, there WILL be consequences.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, as much as I look forward to breaking away to eat real meat, with real fat, they come at a price. I'm like the POW who is making the best of his captivity. Every now and then I have to oppose my captors--I HAVE to resist...I have to maintain my sense of humanity--even if it means "a week in the hole".

Back from Haiti

Well, it's been a while. A LONG while. I have been on deployment half way around the world in the CENTCOM AOR, and then just as I returned, we got an execute order to turn right back around to go to Haiti to render assistance to the Haitian people. What a wonderful opportunity to do something that matters for people who really need the assistance.

As I reflect on the state of the people there, and the fact that they've been in that condition as long as they have, I am emotionally drained: The kind of drained that comes when you know that you've done what you can, but it will never be enough.

These people need a miracle, and even though I know that I am not the one who can give them that Miracle, I know who can. Jesus. I can think of no better thing to write, than to cut and paste a letter I sent to my friends and family from our operational area, just to the south and west of Port Au Prince. As you read, remember that miracles happen when people get involved. Consider how you might become involved--you might be part of the miracle.

Hello friends and family:

Thanks for your well wishes and prayers for me and our guys. As you
know by now, we were home for 37 days and got the execute order to
redeploy in support of relief efforts for the people of Haiti. We've
been here for about a week (a little less, actually). The hours have
been long, and difficult, but the missions are going well...very well.

We have been receiving casualties on the Bataan while also going
ashore to render humanitarian aid and medical treatment. Establishing
logistics hubs has been difficult, but you would all be proud of the
ingenuity and love displayed by every member of this outstanding unit.
I am so very humbled and proud to work along side them and that they
count me among their numbers.

Today was a busy day. We had a lot of people from Haiti coming in to
us for medical care for the second straight day. The children break
your heart the most: Yet, they are gracious, humble and thankful.

These are the humblest, sweetest people. They have nothing, and yet,
they stand and smile when they meet you. You'd think they hadn't a care
in the world. When I have been fortunate to have opportunities to speak
to them on a personal level, I am struck by the brightness of their
spirits, despite everything they have endured. Remember: Haiti wasn't
that nice a place to live BEFORE the earthquakes.

Speaking of earthquakes, we had another one yesterday 6.1 on the RS
and several smaller ones. Today we had several more, but of markedly
less strength. All our Marines are well. No injuries or sickness.

In the area we are operating, about 80-90 percent of the houses have
been completely demolished. Many more are damaged and unsafe to
re-enter. People have been moving outside into tents because they are
afraid to sleep under a structure--that will work for now, but soon the
rainy season will start and the mosquitoes will become unbearable.
The flies are getting bad for reasons I won't get into, but soon, our
efforts for medical treatment and relieving pain will have to be shared
with stemming some problems that will result in public health nightmare
if we don't do it fast enough.

Naturally, we aren't the only show in town: There are thousands more
from all over the world. There are other national militaries and
civilians doing so much good work. Every single one of them working
themselves very hard, yet they keep their spirits up. They all know
that this is an opportunity to serve your fellow man in a way that might
never come again during our lifetime.

As I think of the grace of the Haitian people I fall into shame about
my random trepidations over my little concerns: "Where will I find a
job?" "How much money will I make?" "When will I sell my house?" This
experience reminds me that no matter where I sit, I not only have
"enough" but I have abundance, and abundance to be shared with people
who are quietly, faithfully, and cheerfully starving to death, or dying
for lack of clean water.

It's funny how I thought I was coming here to help them, but they
have done so much more for me than I ever could have done for them.

This is one of the mysteries of the economy of God--that if you give,
you just end up more and more wealthy, and you have more and more to
give.

They literally have no shelter, no food, no water...nothing--yet they
are thankful, and courageously faithful that God sees their needs and
will deliver them.

I met a mother holding her baby who has too much fluid on her brain.
The baby can't open her eyes because her head is so swelled, and even
when she cries you can tell that every breath she draws is hard work.
When I met the mother, she was feeding the baby a bottle a few sucks at
a time so the baby could stop to breathe in between. She smiled and
nodded her head to me; and through the interpreter, she asked me to
forgive her for not standing. My eyes watered and I got a lump in my
throat immediately. In all this woman is enduring, in the afflictions
of her child, she has time to worry about how she greets me? I felt
like I didn't deserve to share a room with a person of such strength.

Please join me in praying for her that if nothing else, this
earthquake brought help to her baby and that we can direct her to
doctors who can help her. I have to go for now. I'm afraid my writing
time will most often give way to cat-naps when I can take them, but for
now, we just got the call that more casualties are inbound. Please
commit yourselves to pray for these people. I'm sure that US-AID will
soon publish an address where you can send needed items like baby
formula, and stuff. Please be patient. If you were determined to send
them now, we would not have a way to distribute them to those who need
it.


Take care for now.

An unlikely success-Part 4 (final-install)

I stood outside the XO's office, and I felt like I was outside the guidance counselors office all over again. I thought about pouring myself into school work and making the honor roll; and then the startling defeat I felt as I learned the truth about why I succeeded, while my guidance counselor laughed.

I thought about getting set-back in boot camp; I thought about failing out of technical training in Mississippi; and I thought about failing a test for promotion to a rank that was all-but-automatic for most people in the Navy. I began to fear that the only reason the ship's second-in-command would want to talk to me, a lowly E-2, was because he was going to have me put out of the Navy.

People on the Oakridge used to talk down about the guys in the deck department. They called us "Deck Apes" because we are supposedly the dumbest guys on the ship. Now I feared I wasn't even smart enough to be a Deck Ape. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and wiped away the tears the attempted to well up in my eyes.

My mind raced about what the XO would probably say to me, and self-defeat began boiling up inside me as I felt every ounce of optimism, every drop of hope I had bleeding from my veins. I felt sick to my stomach, and I wanted to fall to the deck like a defeated heap of worthless junk.

The thought of facing life after being kicked out of the Navy was more than I could bear. I had already decided that I could not recover from shame of that magnitude. The XO opened the hatch to his office and invited me in just in time to keep me from losing control of myself. What happened next floored me.

The Executive Officer didn't throw me out--he didn’t say anything I had prepared myself to hear. I stood there confused when he said what he did. At first I didn't know if he was serious or just making fun of me but he was serious. There was no "punch line" here. I heard him right: The second in command of this U.S. Navy vessel told me, an 18 year old Sailor, that he had a learning disability and he thought I had the same disability.

He also said that if he was right about me, I could learn to defeat this affliction, to become a leader in the Navy—maybe even an officer, just as he had done. For that reason, he was going to send me to a developmental psychologist to be evaluated for that learning disability.

This time, I got help that "helped". My dyslexia was identified, and I practiced strategies to mitigate the effects. I also learned about “smart” people who might have had dyslexia.

I had to laugh at the irony--Who would have thought?

Who would have thought that l would be in the distinguished company of world leaders like President John F. Kennedy, or Albert Einstein, and a bunch of others.

Despite this help and the personal leadership I received, I still didn't succeed in reading a book from cover to cover until I was 23, and I didn't muster the courage to take my first college class until I was about 26, but I made my journey in my own time, on my terms.

Here’s the moral of my story: You might be someone’s XO. You might be the first person to help someone spark their inspiration; maybe you come along later and help that person fan a spark of inspiration into a flame of confidence; or come along even later and help stoke a flame of confidence into a raging hot fire of achievement that blazes paths for others to follow.

No matter where you come along in that process, recognize and take advantage of your GOD-given opportunity to make a difference. I'm so thankful that the long line of leaders I've been privileged to know didn't write me off because of past failures. Anyone can lead the all-star, or the MVP, but the real leadership achievement lies in helping the one who has been written off as a failure and proving that there is a place for them to be successful and important.

Here I am; evidence of what happens when people take interest and get involved. Here I am; proof that anyone can succeed with a little caring, involved leadership.

Here I am, serving as a Naval Officer, and getting my Ph.D., 23 years after my high school guidance counselor told me to "forget about college".

I have to laugh at the irony. Who woulda thought?

Indeed, who woulda thought?

An unlikely success-Part 3

Two years after my fateful visit to the high school guidance office, where I was instructed by a professional educator to give up on getting a college education, I enlisted in the Navy.

From my first day of boot camp, I loved it. I knew that day that I wanted to serve for at least 20 years...but then failure followed me into the Navy too.

I went to bootcamp on September 1st of 1983. Part of the program in military basic training is "attention to detail" They give you detailed instructions, then exercise you a lot, deprive you of sleep, give you an almost impossible schedule to keep, and get you functioning on about four hours of sleep per night. It didn't take long for my dyslexia (that I still didn't know I had) to start acting up. Another major part of the program in basic training is academic training. Classes--just like high school, with tests. Many of these tests were essay tests. So, in this place where they intentionally stress you, and deprive you of sleep, I started flunking tests pretty quick. I flunked out of my orignial company and got set back in basic training for academic failures.

They put me in a temporary personnel unit where I received extra remedial training--which means that someone gave me all the answers--to all the tests--until I memorized them all. I finally got assigned to another company, and graduated a day or two shy of my 18th birthday.

Then I went to technical training in Meridian, Mississippi.

Then I failed out of technical training in Meridian, Mississippi.

Then I got orders to my first ship, and thought of it as yet another fresh start in my short Naval career already riddled with failure.

I ended up going to the USS Oakridge, in Kings Bay, Georgia. In retrospect, I realize now that Oakridge was a dumping ground for Sailors like me: Failures. Oakridge Sailors usually failed somewhere else, and ended up on Oakridge as kind of a "last chance" to make something of themselves in the Navy. Many of my shipmates had been in some kind of disciplinary trouble that resulted in them being taken off their last ship. There were some alcoholics, some drug abusers, lots of thieves, there was even a prostitute, and one who was convicted of dealing drugs. There were a lot of falling stars there, but few rising stars. Needless to say, it wasn't a great place to make friends.

When I reported to the ship, I was assigned to the deck department, which is basically the manual labor pool for the ship. The work was hard, but I liked it. The only complaint I had was that most of the men I worked with were either criminals, mildly retarded, or a little insane.

There were a few exceptions, but not many. My only problem was being dumb, so it was ironic that I would end up on a very short list of "respectable" people on that ship. I had to laugh at the irony—who would have thought?

Who would have thought that a place like this would be a great place for me to turn a corner in my Naval career and start succeeding. I was dumb, but at least I was no criminal--that's why my bosses liked me: Well, that, and because they could tell that I loved the Navy. I loved being a Sailor. I loved putting on my uniform. I loved saluting, standing watches. I voulunteered for everything I could that required marching and close order drill: Things I had been exceptional at since the Sea Cadets. I loved shining my shoes and I had the stories of lots of our Naval Fathers burned into my brain.

In no time, my shipmates had given me the nickname "Lifer". Back then, that was considered an insult, but I liked it.

I was finally off to a good start, and just as my reputation began to grow, I failed the test for promotion to Seaman (E-3). Now, you have to understand: Failing a test for a promotion to E-3 in the Navy in 1984 was like being so dumb that it was entirely possible you'd forget to breathe if someone wasn't there to jab you in the ribs every few seconds. Believe me when I tell you, that I worked with some guys that I considered far dumber than me, but they, unlike me, PASSED the E-3 test.

Great--what now?

I'll tell you what now...now, the Executive Officer (XO) wants to know how you fail a test for E-3!

Since I was the most qualified person to explain it to him, I got the job.

I was terrified. If you have never been in the Navy, let me explain how the culture is on Naval Ships: The chain of command is everything. An officer doesn't speak to a Petty Officer. He speaks to the Chief--then, the Chief speaks to the petty officer. In turn, the petty officer speaks to the leading seaman, and then, finally, the leading seaman chews your ass until performance improves.

I had been on this ship for about six months, and up till today no one above the rank of E-4 had ever spoken to me without cursing. So, now the friggin XO wants to see me?

Wonderful...

An unlikely success-Part 2

I had to laugh at the irony. Who woulda thought?

Who would have thought that despite holding degrees ranging from Associate, to Master of Science from three different Universities, I would still have trouble reading? Well, I do. I am even working on a Ph.D., I am an officer in the United States Navy, and I coach college football at one of the most prestigious private universities in the country, but I still have difficulty reading from time to time.

My dyslexia wasn't formally recognized by anyone until after I enlisted in the Navy. I was glad to learn there was an explanation other than stupidity for the many failures I had experienced up to that point in life. Most of my teachers all the way through school believed I was lazy because I was clearly a bright kid; I was well spoken, and I could solve complex problems as if they were the type that allowed me to think in pictures. Unfortunately, dyslexia just wasn't understood well like it is today.

Many people think--like my teachers did back then--that dyslexia means you "can't read". That is simply not true. I am actually quite a good reader--I always have been, but sometimes, when I read I don't always see the same stuff that you might see. This problem varies in difficulty. Things like lack of sleep, stress, and other factors can make dyslexia a terrible affliction, but when I am rested, I can go days or weeks without problems. The inconsistent nature of this problem pre-disposed my teachers to think that I simply didn't apply myself as consistently as I could have.


When my dyslexia acts up, letters tend to move around (or at times, they even disappear) a word like "United" can become "Untied". Like most dyslexics, I tend to think in pictures, and now understand that when you read something that "doesn't make sense", you mind strives to "make sense of it". For instance, very recently, I read a billboard that read "Blue Bonnet Migraine". Immediately, my mind began to make sense of what I had seen. "It must be a type of headache, that covers the head, like a bonnet." I thought. I read the billboard again--this time, reading that last-word-first. Only THEN did I see that it was an ad for margarine (fake butter). Now you see how changing the order of letters, or just one word in a sentence has the potential to change the meaning of an entire body of written work?

Later, when your mistakes are pointed out, you see them easily, and wonder how you missed it in the first place. Then of course, people tell you “pay attention”, or “try harder”, “don’t be so lazy”.

Imagine the frustration and self-doubt that mounts over a lifetime of failures like this, and the effect that these failures can have on self-confidence. Because reading became so frustrating for me, I developed an aversion to it, and began to believe that because I wasn't able to to understand the simple things like everyone else, I was dumb--or maybe I was mentally ill. I seemed to need help all the time, but the "help" never really helped, so I just quit asking for it. The only thing asking for help ever did for me was single me out.

When I got to freshman year in high school, I joined an organization called the U.S. Naval Sea Cadet Corps. It was sort of a Navy-oriented version of the boy scouts, and I LOVED it. The Sea Cadets allowed me to ply my talents for verbal communicating, leadership and humor. The sea cadets differed from regular school, in that there weren’t a lot of written instructions—everything was taught through demonstration. This was exactly how I learn best.

Finally, at 14 years old, I began to believe that I could be excellent at something. I gained a reputation for being an excellent leader in my unit. I was told by more than one Naval Officer I had excellent leadership and communication skills, and that I might make an outstanding Naval Officer someday.

This one officer in particular encouraged me a lot. I was not used to positive feedback, but I liked it. I had previously given up on the idea of going to college, but this officer kept talking to me about it, and made me want to try to qualify for college admission.

That fall my family moved to a small town in Wisconsin—technically for us, it was “going home”, but since I grew up in Navy towns where ever my father had been stationed, I had never been to a place like Wisconsin. I certainly did not feel at home--in addition to my educational challenges, I was now at a cultural disadvantage on top of that. These people were more sheltered and naive than anyone I have ever met, before or since. I now understand that I was a bit unusual--you dont' meet many fifteen year olds who've lived in 11 different places, and known people from all over the world. Up till we moved to Wisconsin, everyone I had ever met was just like me: Their parents were in the miltiary, and many had lived in very exotic places. Now in Wisconsin, I was the exotic one (if you believed me). If my story was just too much to wrap your mind around (and for many it was) I was a liar. I distinctly remember someone asking me what my father did for a living--when I told them he was in the Navy, I was accused of making up tall tales, and the hypothesis that I didn't even have a father suddenly became far more believeable to this collection of rube insiders.

Needless to say, it didn't take long to get lonely there, so I looked forward to leaving that town almost as soon as I got there. I believed that I would be leaving soon after graduation to go to college--the Naval Academy to be exact--so I convinced myself that I didn't care about having friends and began to pour myself into my school work.

When the first semester report cards came out in January of that year, I was proud to have made the honor role for the first time in my life. I finally felt like a first-class citizen in school, and thus, I felt like I had a reason to visit my guidance counselor. I made an appointment, and rehearsed what I would say until the day finally arrived. When my appointment began, I wasted no time--I told my advisor about my plan to go to the Naval Academy upon graduation. I asked him to help me get ready academically, and when the time came, to help me apply.

I knew right away something was wrong.

He sank into his chair, and for a second or two--he chuckled--he laughed and he shook his head. It was like he didn't know how to break some kind of bad news--something he couldn't believe I didn't already know.

As he began to speak, he was blunt, but kind. I began to understand that I was not going to the Naval Academy and I probably wasn't going to college at all. According to him, it was too late. I was enrolled in what he called a "practical learning program". He explained that college-bound students were taking Algebra or Trigonometry. I was in "Math for every day living" where we learned to plan a budget, and how to write checks.

My English credits came in classes like "Public speaking", and in my Science text book was not Physics, Biology, or Chemistry--mine had chapters like "the health effects of smoking". This was everyday stuff, designed to get you through school, but it was certainly not college preparatory work.

Now I understood:

Suddenly the improvement in my grades wasn't such a big deal.

Suddenly I wondered if that officer who talked about me getting into Annapolis was just mocking me.

Suddenly I felt like a clown dressed in that shirt and tie--that until this day--I had only worn to church.

I know he thought he was being responsible, but he almost broke me when he said, "Listen: forget about college, learn a trade, and join the work force—if you had applied yourself earlier, we might be having a different conversation".

I was humiliated. My face flushed bright red. I could feel my ears burning red-hot with embarrassment. I felt like a fool. All the preparation and rehearsing I had done for this meeting was pointless. I had to get out of there.

What do you do after someone tells you that? I'll tell you what you do:

You forget about college.
You give up on your dreams
You forget about your passions, and
You settle.

At least for a while--I'll explain next time. Thanks for reading.

An unlikely success: Part 1

According to U.S. News and World Report's, America's Best Colleges Trinity University in San Antonio, Texas is one of the finest private colleges in the nation. I have to laugh at the irony. Who would have thought? Who would have thought that I would be on the staff of such a prestigious school? I'm not a professor, or even a teacher per se', but I do hold a position where I teach. I'm a football coach. Because we're such a small school you probably never heard of us before, but if you have, it’s probably because of the football team. We were featured on ESPN thanks to a miraculous play that helped us net an unlikely come-from-behind win at Milsaps College this year. The video is posted. Take a look if you haven't seen it. The play was an amazing moment that not many coaches will ever get to experience. Why God smiled on me for a moment like that, I'll never know--but as always--I accept his blessings like I accepted salvation: With gratitude, and thanks. But really, football is NOT what I wanted to write about.


I only highlight that game, as an illustration to the thing I do want to write about: the many unlikely blessings that a common man like me has enjoyed by the grace of God, through the work of his people. My journey is as unlikely a success story as you'll ever hear--kind of like the miracle play in Mississippi.

Despite that great win, we lost two weeks later in the play offs. Like many coaches after a loss, I couldn't sleep so I got out of bed, turned on the television and found a documentary about a high school football team on the south side of Manhattan. The title bar across the top of the screen said

"The Pleges of Stuyvesant High"

I read that, and thought "They misspelled it”! “How embarrassing for this nationally recognized educational channel".I thought they meant pledges (with a D) as if to describe these boys trying to make it on a football team at Stuyvesant high, the way college boys pledge to join fraternities. I watched for a long time before I figured out that it was me who was wrong--I was misreading the title of the show.

The word was "Peglegs", as in "Old Peg Leg Pete" (Pieter Stuyvesant), one of the last Directors General of the colony of New Netherland. He later became a major figure in the early history of New York City, and for that reason, he is the namesake of Stuyvesant high, Stuyvesant Avenue in Harlem, and other landmarks in New York City.

More next time...