“What’s your greatest fear?”

She asked me this on a Sunday morning at Whataburger over a pancake platter. Her little eyes looked directly into mine through her smudged glasses, with no trace of irony or humor. She wanted to know.

In our family, we’ve made it a practice to answer questions seriously with honesty and directness. It does not matter what the subject is – race, sex, math, dish washing – we approach everything the same.

And with L, she’s ALWAYS asking questions. Sometimes, at night, we’re forced to ban questions until the morning. Her brain is just always on and wondering.

But jeez, it’s our Sunday morning date to Whataburger, and talking about my greatest fear is… not my favorite.

“Well, for me, I have always been afraid that I’ll get a life-threatening disease right after I retire from the Army.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know that I only have about 3 and a half years before I can retire from the Army and be a civilian again right?” She nods.

“My greatest fear is that I will have made it through three combat deployments, three years as a prison chaplain, I don’t know how many field exercises and trips away from you all – just to get cancer after I’ve finally finished and gotten my pension. I’ve seen it at the hospital, and it scares me. I don’t think I will, but that’s my fear.”

“Oh.” She looked thoughtful and then said, “my greatest fear is spiders. I do not like spiders. With their legs and swarming. Did you know a dolphin…”

(She is an Enneagram 7 after all. She does not stay long with pain.)

We’re moving soon. For Sara and myself it’s old hat, but for the kids, it is not getting easier with age. It’s getting harder. Questions always get darker when we get closer to a move. There is anxiety and fear; death lingers in the air. Moving is like a death. The last month is so painful. It’s just one goodbye after another.

I am grieving leaving here. We’ve been here longer than any other duty station, and it shows. We’ve settled. The kids have found their people. It’s been a good few years. I am grieving leaving the CPE center where I’ve been the director for the last year; I have spent the last decade working for this job and leaving it hurts. I know that going to my next assignment – working at the US Army Chaplain Center & School and setting up a new center for extended CPE – will be fulfilling, but that does not take away the sadness of leaving this one.

Death is always present in life. I think we often spend so much energy avoiding it, we miss out on the life that is here, in the now. At least I do. I fear dying after my career is over and my new one is starting. However, for me, owning that out loud is what it takes for me to attend to the death anxiety and be in the moment. Perhaps that’s what happened this morning: L and I observed our greatest fears… and then enjoyed our pancakes.

Be well.

When I was a kid, we lived in a large farmhouse heated by wood during the day. There was, as I recall, a massive oil furnace in the basement, but by my count (I brought in all the wood – my memory) we heated with wood. Winters in Michigan were so cold. The wind would whip over the field in front of our house and blow into the old house. On school mornings, Dad would stand at the foot of the stairs and call us to wake up. I’d stick my foot out of my warm blankets and feel the cold wood floor. 

He often had to call twice.

Sometimes, in the cold evenings, we’d all be drawn to the dining room which had an iron wood stove that could be piping hot. Sometimes, my mom would go into the living room and play her baby grand piano. It was always an indicator to me that she was in a good place and life was in order. The Ennea 6 “Loyalist” in me would feel safe and secure surrounded by the family I loved. 

The song I remember most was the Turkish Rondo by Mozart. To this day, the song has a peaceful, calming effect on me.

As a parent, I can look back on that and know that it may or may not have been true that my mom was in a good place but it certainly is the meaning I made of that memory.

This memory came back to me the other night when, after working on a table in the garage, I went to the back and started a fire in the firepit. It was a lovely Texas January evening and my pipe and whiskey were calling my name. I was fully immersed in the flame when I heard my 8-year-old come around the corner, take one look and say loudly:

“Dad + Fire = Happy!!!”

Then, she pulled up a chair and sat down telling me (seemingly without having the need to actually breathe) how much she likes fire and if she were a Pokemon she would have to be a fire type. 

Clearly, she too can interpret the mood of her parents.

Like father, like daughter.

One of the realities about camp life is that there is no silence. There is always noise. If you are in a tent, either the heater/air is running or the constant hum of the generator assures you that life is happening. Outside the tent, there are vehicles, machinery, the machinations of a war camp, and, lets not forget, the heart-stopping sound of the alarm letting you know trouble is coming fast.

Then, there are the people. Soldiers, Marines, Airmen, Sailors, Civilians, Local Nationals – people everywhere you go! There is no sanctuary where there are not people. Even in the portajon, a solitude against the ever maddening crowd, you can hear clearly the people in the stall next to you.

Tents are full of people. There are the day sleepers who work at night and the night sleepers who work in the day. Everyone is trying to be quiet and everyone is making noise. Sometimes the harder one tries to stay quiet, the more grating the noise. Especially when trying to sleep.

All the noise is for me reassuring. I grew up in a large family, one of 12 children, and noise really does not phase me. I’ve never really liked being fully alone. This is not to say that I like talking. The introvert in me loves silence and space but I also like knowing others are close by. At home, my family is ever present. In the field, my Soldiers are ever present. It’s actually one of the things I love about his work.

Two nights ago, I was reassigned to a new tent. I went into the tent and in it was the unit that we replaced, they were waiting for their flight home. Last night, after leaving Bible study at the chapel, I returned to an empty tent. It was surreal. I don’t think I have ever, in 11 years of Army service, spent a night alone in a tent. It was so odd. Even a little unnerving.

I woke up with a start about 02 and heard nothing. The generator outside the tent had shut off and I could literally hear nothing. It was so weird. There was no shuffling about in cots, no rolling over, no hum of laptops playing movies, no hushed conversations, no clumping of boots from Soldiers returning from missions. Just silence. Then, the generator kicked back on and it sounded right again. It was still a little odd as I was the only one in the tent (there is another crew coming in tonight so it’s a one night experience) and could hear only my thoughts.

I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Such surprising silence.