After the farewell extravaganza in Tallahassee (see blog entry), a reporter asked me what it felt like to be a hero, or words to that effect. “I’m no hero,” I replied right away. I thought, We haven’t even left Florida; aren’t we being a bit premature? “Now these young soldiers, and the ones leaving behind their young children—they’re the heroes. And the ones who fought through the first part of this war, they’re heroes. And those who fought in Vietnam, and in World War II. They’re the heroes.”
I understand where the reporter was coming from. We Americans, we love our heroes. And so do I. Whether more or less than others, I can’t judge that. I just know that I value the sacrifice and personal expenditure so many have made, so that we can all be free and safe.
O beautiful, for heroes proved in liberating strife,
Who more than self their country loved,
And mercy more than life!
As we sang this stanza of America the Beautiful in chapel this morning, time stood still—enough for me to glance around at the soldiers worshiping with me. Some were young, some old, some new to the military, some going back for their second or third tour. All of them are heroes to me. That is why I feel so honored to be their “Chappy.”
Band of Brothers, an HBO mini-series, recreated the events of “Easy Company” from before D-Day through the end of WWII, based on actual events and interviews. Lieutenant (later Major) Winters became the E Company commander, and one episode ends with the actual Major Winters discussing a letter he received from a comrade. Like Winters, the friend had been decorated by President Eisenhower for valor. “"I cherish the memories of a question my grandson asked the other day,” read an emotional Major Winters, “when he said, 'Grandpa, were you a hero in the war?' Grandpa said, 'No, but I served in a company of heroes.’”
We may not be destined for the hardships of Normandy or Bastogne, but I could not be more proud of these fine young men and women. It is an honor to serve in the company of heroes.
Showing posts with label Army chaplaincy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Army chaplaincy. Show all posts
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
An American Soldier
This is the first installment of a series of reflections I have undertaken to write, based on "The Soldier's Creed." Some, like this one, will have an appeal to the Army values and patriotism, but most will also include a devotional aspect as well.
I welcome any comments ... especially criticism.
-------------------------------------
I am an American Soldier.
I am a Warrior and a member of a team.
I serve the people of the United States and live the Army Values.
(*the rest of the Soldier's Creed is annotated at the end.)
Former President George H. W. Bush, in an interview late in 2007, described his favorite photo of Operation Desert Storm. It depicted a terrified Iraqi soldier in his foxhole, surrounded by American Soldiers. An emotional President Bush recalled, “and the American guy says, ‘We're not going to harm you. We're American soldiers.’”
We’re not like the others, the Soldier was saying. You can count on us to be humane, even amidst the inhumanity of war.
There is something about the claim, “I am an American Soldier” that provokes in me a certain pride—but also the humility of being in undeserved company of greatness. It is the American Soldiers, not the generals or the policy wonks, who have captured the hearts of Americans, particularly since 9/11. TIME Magazine portrayed the American Soldiers in 2003 as, “the bright, sharp instrument of a blunt policy, and success or failure in a war unlike any in history ultimately rests with them.
“For uncommon skills and service, for the choices each one of them has made and the ones still ahead, for the challenge of defending not only our freedoms but those barely stirring half a world away, the American soldier is TIME's Person of the Year.”
Forty years after Vietnam, the American People have rekindled their love for their Soldiers. Whether they agree with the current war or not, people often stop me when I am in uniform, just to say, “Thank you for your service.” It humbles me, having never served a moment in combat, to be thanked for the courageous contributions the American Soldier has been making for six years.
Most of these soldiers are young enough to be my children. Just a few months or a couple of years ago, they wore baggy pants and lip rings, and their biggest challenge had been to master the latest video game. And now they exemplify the best of American values, giving themselves for their buddies and their country.
General Douglas MacArthur, in his famous “Duty, Honor, Courage” speech to the West Point graduating class of 1962, described the American Soldier:
“I am an American Soldier,” says we are different. We are not just soldiers, but we are AMERICAN Soldiers. We don’t abuse prisoners. We defend not only our own freedom but even the faint stirrings of liberty a world away. We flush with discomfiture at the thank yous—after all, “I am an American Soldier; it’s what I do.”
---------------------------
The Soldier's Creed
I am an American Soldier.
I am a Warrior and a member of a team.
I serve the people of the United States and live the Army Values.
I will always place the mission first.
I will never accept defeat.
I will never quit.
I will never leave a fallen comrade.
I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and
proficient in my warrior tasks and drills.
I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself.
I am an expert and I am a professional.
I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies
of the United States of America in close combat.
I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life.
I am an American Soldier.
I welcome any comments ... especially criticism.
-------------------------------------
I am an American Soldier.
I am a Warrior and a member of a team.
I serve the people of the United States and live the Army Values.
(*the rest of the Soldier's Creed is annotated at the end.)
Former President George H. W. Bush, in an interview late in 2007, described his favorite photo of Operation Desert Storm. It depicted a terrified Iraqi soldier in his foxhole, surrounded by American Soldiers. An emotional President Bush recalled, “and the American guy says, ‘We're not going to harm you. We're American soldiers.’”
We’re not like the others, the Soldier was saying. You can count on us to be humane, even amidst the inhumanity of war.
There is something about the claim, “I am an American Soldier” that provokes in me a certain pride—but also the humility of being in undeserved company of greatness. It is the American Soldiers, not the generals or the policy wonks, who have captured the hearts of Americans, particularly since 9/11. TIME Magazine portrayed the American Soldiers in 2003 as, “the bright, sharp instrument of a blunt policy, and success or failure in a war unlike any in history ultimately rests with them.
“For uncommon skills and service, for the choices each one of them has made and the ones still ahead, for the challenge of defending not only our freedoms but those barely stirring half a world away, the American soldier is TIME's Person of the Year.”
Forty years after Vietnam, the American People have rekindled their love for their Soldiers. Whether they agree with the current war or not, people often stop me when I am in uniform, just to say, “Thank you for your service.” It humbles me, having never served a moment in combat, to be thanked for the courageous contributions the American Soldier has been making for six years.
Most of these soldiers are young enough to be my children. Just a few months or a couple of years ago, they wore baggy pants and lip rings, and their biggest challenge had been to master the latest video game. And now they exemplify the best of American values, giving themselves for their buddies and their country.
General Douglas MacArthur, in his famous “Duty, Honor, Courage” speech to the West Point graduating class of 1962, described the American Soldier:
“His name and fame are the birthright of every American citizen. In his youth and strength, his love and loyalty, he gave all that mortality can give. … He has written his own history and written it in red on his enemy's breast.
“…In 20 campaigns, on a hundred battlefields, around a thousand campfires, I have witnessed that enduring fortitude, that patriotic self-abnegation, and that invincible determination, which have carved his statue in the hearts of his people. From one end of the world to the other, he has drained deep the chalice of courage.”
“I am an American Soldier,” says we are different. We are not just soldiers, but we are AMERICAN Soldiers. We don’t abuse prisoners. We defend not only our own freedom but even the faint stirrings of liberty a world away. We flush with discomfiture at the thank yous—after all, “I am an American Soldier; it’s what I do.”
---------------------------
The Soldier's Creed
I am an American Soldier.
I am a Warrior and a member of a team.
I serve the people of the United States and live the Army Values.
I will always place the mission first.
I will never accept defeat.
I will never quit.
I will never leave a fallen comrade.
I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and
proficient in my warrior tasks and drills.
I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself.
I am an expert and I am a professional.
I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies
of the United States of America in close combat.
I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life.
I am an American Soldier.
Monday, September 29, 2008
The Busiest 24 Hours Of My Life
“You know, the last time I did this was in Ranger School,” I remarked to one of my fellow chaplains. We were all standing in line, waiting (something we do quite well, along with hurrying up) to go up the rappel tower. “That was 16 years ago, and I felt too old then.” After a (polite, perhaps) chuckle, I just had to add, “Oh well, what could possibly happen?” 24 hours later, I was coming to after emergency surgery. My first words to the nurse were, “Hey, guess what? I’m a grandfather.”
It all started at about 1530 (3:30 pm) on Monday, 22 September. I hooked up to the line, found the ledge over the side and leaned back, away from the platform of Victory Tower. I thought I might be a bit apprehensive, having been so long since my last rappel. But Victory Tower is only 40 feet, not exactly the most intimidating structure from which to rappel. Plus, I loved every second of it. I loved hooking up, then leaning back with legs straight, until I got that “perfect L-shape” and the instructor’s okay to jump. I pushed off vigorously, throwing out my right hand for the slack to play through, and then braking by pressing my right fist into the small of my back. I did okay on that bound, but it was nothing to write home about. (Mental note: brush up on meaningless clichés and euphemisms.) The second bound was much better. The only sound was the rope, zzzzznnnnnnnggging through the clip. A hard brake, and the wall came toward me. Feet out, I touched down with the balls of my feet, ready to push off again.
But when I hit the wall, it was as if my ankle exploded. I could feel the tendons behind my heel stretching, straining, shuddering. I later described it as if you were to grasp a glass rod tightly and squeege your fingers down its length. I was most of the way down the tower, and I pushed out with my good foot, easing down as best I could.
Back at the holding area I took my boot off. If the Achilles tendon was torn, I expected that there would be bruising immediately, and also disfiguration. A couple of the cadre stopped by and took a look as well. I have to admit, it was remarkably unremarkable. There was very slight swelling, and perhaps the faintest tinge of brown (or was that just dirt? Sorry, mom). But I expected that if the Achilles was torn, as opposed to just strained a bit, it would be black and blue, swollen and hurt like the dickens. It did neither. Aside from the initial wince of pain, it only hurt when I walked on the ball of my left foot. As long as I splayed that foot out to the side, I was able to hobble around nicely.
I rode in a vehicle, while the class marched back to our formation area. There are 77 chaplains and chaplain candidates in the class, broken down into four platoons. The previous weekend I think there might have been a little resentment about some extra training I felt was needed, as the platoon leader. Now only a few days removed, the only thing expressed was concern. They laid hands on me and prayed for my healing. Now, THAT is something I have never encountered in another Army school. Praise God!
At about 1800, I went to the Urgent Care Clinic, seeing the doctor about 2000. He diagnosed it as a possible tear, gave me Percocet, scheduled an MRI and suggested I follow up with TMC (Troop Medical Clinic, or sick call) in the morning. While I was waiting for Urgent Care, Lori called to tell me Jeri was in labor. I don’t know if I was as excited when any of our three boys were born. I was so happy. By the time I got back to the dorm, it was time for bed. Somehow, I didn’t see the text message that her water broke at 11 pm. I’m sure Lori appreciated my 0500 wake up call (she had been up several times during the night with updates) but I needed to know. I met the platoon for formation at 0600 and announced to them that I was a grandfather, as of ninety minutes ago. We didn’t do cigars because, well, because we are in Initial Entry Training (boot camp … loosely speaking) and not allowed to use tobacco. Besides, how many chaplains smoke cigars? At 6 in the morning anyway?
After the class marched off to another training area, I reported to TMC. By the time I was referred to Physical Therapy, it was close to 0900. The PT doc had me lay face down, and prodded. “Ow!” I yelled.
“That hurt?”
“No, sir. I’m just practicing.”
Then the doc called over two others, both for confirmation and also to tutor the intern about how to tell if the Achilles is severed, and how severely. There were lots of “Ooo”s and “Mmm”s. Interestingly, the only real pain was a little soreness in my calf.
“Completely severed. Just a little of the sheath left, perhaps.”
"Oh, is that bad,” I asked. Duh.
The whole medical record is electronic now, which is a HUGE improvement, in my book. Besides that, the doctor always looked off into space as he prodded around my ankle—as if he was viewing my x-ray on an invisible teleprompter or something. “Okay, I want you to go right away to Ortho, on the seventh floor. They’ll be waiting for you.”
Just as this was sinking in, he said, “Have you had breakfast?” (For the benefit of any readers who have enjoyed such healthy lives that you might be unaware, this is asked before surgery, as a person under general anesthesia will sometimes vomit.)
I walked in the door to Ortho at about 0945 or so, and went to the sign-in counter. “I’m Chaplain Peppers, and –”
“Captain Peppers? I’ll take him. Right this way, sir! You eat breakfast this morning?” An all-business sergeant first class materialized and escorted me back to a gurney. “We’ll be with you in a few, sir.”
About an hour later (well, that’s a few … quite a few, but they were busy. Really busy. If the ortho clinic was a wings and beer joint, they’d be opening another franchise next week.), the sergeant and the doc came by. The doc spent about one minute with me, and I was fine with that. He had a calm confidence, like this is something he has seen hundreds of times before, but my case was still special enough to warrant his undivided attention. He initialed my left (hurt) ankle, and then drew on the other heel to show where the incision was going to be. Any questions? Okay, seeya when you come to.
Jeri sent me a picture message of little Nathan Thomas Peppers, about the time I walked in to ortho. But everyone who passed by my gurney seemed on a life-or-death mission, so I didn’t get to show it to anyone. He looked just like Justin, when he was a newborn.
The last time I saw a clock it was about 1130. I guess they figured enough time passed since I ate breakfast. And then came the pain. Such an incredible, sharp burning torture. But I knew I must withstand, and be strong. Endure like a man. Face set against the tyrannical pain, with steely resolve I stood up to the agony. “There! All done. See, now all we have to do when you need meds or fluids is just to hook it up to this little catheter. We call this an IV block. Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Speak for yourself, fella.
Another half dozen people asked if I had anything to eat today. I think maybe they had a pool going on whether I would heave or not. I thought maybe I should try to get in on it. Then they wheeled me in to a cold, all-tile room. Floor, walls, ceiling, I think even the vents were made of tile. It seemed eerily and strikingly similar to the cold, all-tile room they brought me to at Fort Gordon, before my back surgery. I met the anesthesiologist again. He was quite … zzzzzzzzzz.
It was 1530 when I came to in my room. “Hey, guess what? I’m a grandfather,” I boasted groggily.
“Well, congratulations. Haven’t you had a busy day.”
She had no idea.
It all started at about 1530 (3:30 pm) on Monday, 22 September. I hooked up to the line, found the ledge over the side and leaned back, away from the platform of Victory Tower. I thought I might be a bit apprehensive, having been so long since my last rappel. But Victory Tower is only 40 feet, not exactly the most intimidating structure from which to rappel. Plus, I loved every second of it. I loved hooking up, then leaning back with legs straight, until I got that “perfect L-shape” and the instructor’s okay to jump. I pushed off vigorously, throwing out my right hand for the slack to play through, and then braking by pressing my right fist into the small of my back. I did okay on that bound, but it was nothing to write home about. (Mental note: brush up on meaningless clichés and euphemisms.) The second bound was much better. The only sound was the rope, zzzzznnnnnnnggging through the clip. A hard brake, and the wall came toward me. Feet out, I touched down with the balls of my feet, ready to push off again.
But when I hit the wall, it was as if my ankle exploded. I could feel the tendons behind my heel stretching, straining, shuddering. I later described it as if you were to grasp a glass rod tightly and squeege your fingers down its length. I was most of the way down the tower, and I pushed out with my good foot, easing down as best I could.
Back at the holding area I took my boot off. If the Achilles tendon was torn, I expected that there would be bruising immediately, and also disfiguration. A couple of the cadre stopped by and took a look as well. I have to admit, it was remarkably unremarkable. There was very slight swelling, and perhaps the faintest tinge of brown (or was that just dirt? Sorry, mom). But I expected that if the Achilles was torn, as opposed to just strained a bit, it would be black and blue, swollen and hurt like the dickens. It did neither. Aside from the initial wince of pain, it only hurt when I walked on the ball of my left foot. As long as I splayed that foot out to the side, I was able to hobble around nicely.
I rode in a vehicle, while the class marched back to our formation area. There are 77 chaplains and chaplain candidates in the class, broken down into four platoons. The previous weekend I think there might have been a little resentment about some extra training I felt was needed, as the platoon leader. Now only a few days removed, the only thing expressed was concern. They laid hands on me and prayed for my healing. Now, THAT is something I have never encountered in another Army school. Praise God!
At about 1800, I went to the Urgent Care Clinic, seeing the doctor about 2000. He diagnosed it as a possible tear, gave me Percocet, scheduled an MRI and suggested I follow up with TMC (Troop Medical Clinic, or sick call) in the morning. While I was waiting for Urgent Care, Lori called to tell me Jeri was in labor. I don’t know if I was as excited when any of our three boys were born. I was so happy. By the time I got back to the dorm, it was time for bed. Somehow, I didn’t see the text message that her water broke at 11 pm. I’m sure Lori appreciated my 0500 wake up call (she had been up several times during the night with updates) but I needed to know. I met the platoon for formation at 0600 and announced to them that I was a grandfather, as of ninety minutes ago. We didn’t do cigars because, well, because we are in Initial Entry Training (boot camp … loosely speaking) and not allowed to use tobacco. Besides, how many chaplains smoke cigars? At 6 in the morning anyway?
After the class marched off to another training area, I reported to TMC. By the time I was referred to Physical Therapy, it was close to 0900. The PT doc had me lay face down, and prodded. “Ow!” I yelled.
“That hurt?”
“No, sir. I’m just practicing.”
Then the doc called over two others, both for confirmation and also to tutor the intern about how to tell if the Achilles is severed, and how severely. There were lots of “Ooo”s and “Mmm”s. Interestingly, the only real pain was a little soreness in my calf.
“Completely severed. Just a little of the sheath left, perhaps.”
"Oh, is that bad,” I asked. Duh.
The whole medical record is electronic now, which is a HUGE improvement, in my book. Besides that, the doctor always looked off into space as he prodded around my ankle—as if he was viewing my x-ray on an invisible teleprompter or something. “Okay, I want you to go right away to Ortho, on the seventh floor. They’ll be waiting for you.”
Just as this was sinking in, he said, “Have you had breakfast?” (For the benefit of any readers who have enjoyed such healthy lives that you might be unaware, this is asked before surgery, as a person under general anesthesia will sometimes vomit.)
I walked in the door to Ortho at about 0945 or so, and went to the sign-in counter. “I’m Chaplain Peppers, and –”
“Captain Peppers? I’ll take him. Right this way, sir! You eat breakfast this morning?” An all-business sergeant first class materialized and escorted me back to a gurney. “We’ll be with you in a few, sir.”
About an hour later (well, that’s a few … quite a few, but they were busy. Really busy. If the ortho clinic was a wings and beer joint, they’d be opening another franchise next week.), the sergeant and the doc came by. The doc spent about one minute with me, and I was fine with that. He had a calm confidence, like this is something he has seen hundreds of times before, but my case was still special enough to warrant his undivided attention. He initialed my left (hurt) ankle, and then drew on the other heel to show where the incision was going to be. Any questions? Okay, seeya when you come to.
Jeri sent me a picture message of little Nathan Thomas Peppers, about the time I walked in to ortho. But everyone who passed by my gurney seemed on a life-or-death mission, so I didn’t get to show it to anyone. He looked just like Justin, when he was a newborn.
The last time I saw a clock it was about 1130. I guess they figured enough time passed since I ate breakfast. And then came the pain. Such an incredible, sharp burning torture. But I knew I must withstand, and be strong. Endure like a man. Face set against the tyrannical pain, with steely resolve I stood up to the agony. “There! All done. See, now all we have to do when you need meds or fluids is just to hook it up to this little catheter. We call this an IV block. Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Speak for yourself, fella.
Another half dozen people asked if I had anything to eat today. I think maybe they had a pool going on whether I would heave or not. I thought maybe I should try to get in on it. Then they wheeled me in to a cold, all-tile room. Floor, walls, ceiling, I think even the vents were made of tile. It seemed eerily and strikingly similar to the cold, all-tile room they brought me to at Fort Gordon, before my back surgery. I met the anesthesiologist again. He was quite … zzzzzzzzzz.
It was 1530 when I came to in my room. “Hey, guess what? I’m a grandfather,” I boasted groggily.
“Well, congratulations. Haven’t you had a busy day.”
She had no idea.
Monday, September 22, 2008
For Such a Time As This: Back In the Army, 10 Years Later
Well, this is my first blog attempt, so please be gentle with me.
There's a popular jody call* that begins with, "Here we go again (echo), Same old stuff again (echo ...it has been sanitized in recent years to "stuff again")..." Talk about de ja vu all over again. Here we go again, back in the military, this time as an Army Chaplain, with the Florida National Guard. A few Sundays ago, we bid our farewells at my last service as pastor, and I embarked on the newest leg of the journey. I’ve just completed my first week of the three-month Chaplain Officer Basic Course (now it’s called CH-BOLC – more on that later). After finishing the school, I’ll spend a few months on active duty with my unit, the 779th Engineer Battalion out of Tallahassee, and then we will be deploying to Iraq in late spring for a year. Eventually, I will return to congregational ministry and continue as a drilling National Guard Chaplain. But for now, it’s just Army.
Some might wonder why. Why start a new thing all over again? Am I leaving the ministry for the military? Fair questions, and worthy of consideration.
My first concern is to the question of this being something new. Instead, I look at it like God has been preparing my life for thirty years for just this moment. More than ever, I can Identify with Queen Esther, who was challenged by her Uncle Mordecai: “Who knows if perhaps you were made queen for just such a time as this?" Okay, I SORT OF identify with her. It’s not like I’ve been made … well, I think you get what I’m saying.
The beautiful Esther was prepared and put in a position where she, and only she, could speak freely to the king. She did so, and saved her people from a vicious persecution. In the same respect, I believe that God has prepared me to be able to speak into the lives of soldiers. Many of these soldiers will be afraid, or angry, or lonely. So many will be asking, perhaps for the first time or the only time, “Does God have a word for me??” I consider it a privilege -- a humbling, undeserved privilege -- to bring that word from God.
Over these past thirty years, God has developed me along two fronts: military and pastoral. I spent the last ten years in pastoral ministry and the ten years before that as a commissioned officer in the Army. In the ten years prior to that, I served a tour in the Marines, picked up my undergraduate degree in Christian Studies and Business, and spent time in the Army Reserves and Hawaii National Guard, while the call of God to ministry was being birthed in my life. All of these experiences are coming together in this newest chapter.
If you want to see in more detail how the military and ministry aspects of my life have led to this moment, you can wade through the endless succession of jobs in my profile, here or on Facebook.com.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be adding some more comments, on what it’s like going back into the Army as a 47 year-old soon-to-be grandpa. A lot has changed in the interim. And a lot has stayed the same.
Thank you for joining me on this journey. I look forward to any comments. May God bless you in every possible way.
Chaplain (Captain) Jeff Peppers
*jody call: one of those sung cadences the soldiers echo while marching or running in formation. They are called "Jody Calls" after the ubiquitous stealer of women, liquor and cadillacs. Jody calls lamented things like "Ain't no use in looking down, Jody's got your girl and gone." Doesn't rhyme or make much sense. But they don't have to.
There's a popular jody call* that begins with, "Here we go again (echo), Same old stuff again (echo ...it has been sanitized in recent years to "stuff again")..." Talk about de ja vu all over again. Here we go again, back in the military, this time as an Army Chaplain, with the Florida National Guard. A few Sundays ago, we bid our farewells at my last service as pastor, and I embarked on the newest leg of the journey. I’ve just completed my first week of the three-month Chaplain Officer Basic Course (now it’s called CH-BOLC – more on that later). After finishing the school, I’ll spend a few months on active duty with my unit, the 779th Engineer Battalion out of Tallahassee, and then we will be deploying to Iraq in late spring for a year. Eventually, I will return to congregational ministry and continue as a drilling National Guard Chaplain. But for now, it’s just Army.
Some might wonder why. Why start a new thing all over again? Am I leaving the ministry for the military? Fair questions, and worthy of consideration.
My first concern is to the question of this being something new. Instead, I look at it like God has been preparing my life for thirty years for just this moment. More than ever, I can Identify with Queen Esther, who was challenged by her Uncle Mordecai: “Who knows if perhaps you were made queen for just such a time as this?" Okay, I SORT OF identify with her. It’s not like I’ve been made … well, I think you get what I’m saying.
The beautiful Esther was prepared and put in a position where she, and only she, could speak freely to the king. She did so, and saved her people from a vicious persecution. In the same respect, I believe that God has prepared me to be able to speak into the lives of soldiers. Many of these soldiers will be afraid, or angry, or lonely. So many will be asking, perhaps for the first time or the only time, “Does God have a word for me??” I consider it a privilege -- a humbling, undeserved privilege -- to bring that word from God.
Over these past thirty years, God has developed me along two fronts: military and pastoral. I spent the last ten years in pastoral ministry and the ten years before that as a commissioned officer in the Army. In the ten years prior to that, I served a tour in the Marines, picked up my undergraduate degree in Christian Studies and Business, and spent time in the Army Reserves and Hawaii National Guard, while the call of God to ministry was being birthed in my life. All of these experiences are coming together in this newest chapter.
If you want to see in more detail how the military and ministry aspects of my life have led to this moment, you can wade through the endless succession of jobs in my profile, here or on Facebook.com.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be adding some more comments, on what it’s like going back into the Army as a 47 year-old soon-to-be grandpa. A lot has changed in the interim. And a lot has stayed the same.
Thank you for joining me on this journey. I look forward to any comments. May God bless you in every possible way.
Chaplain (Captain) Jeff Peppers
*jody call: one of those sung cadences the soldiers echo while marching or running in formation. They are called "Jody Calls" after the ubiquitous stealer of women, liquor and cadillacs. Jody calls lamented things like "Ain't no use in looking down, Jody's got your girl and gone." Doesn't rhyme or make much sense. But they don't have to.
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