Like most days around here, I spend a lot of time in create solitude and contemplations, often pausing here and there to draft snippets that interweave my daily tasks and experiences with written thoughts springing from whatever the activity at-hand.

Yesterday, I started my day with thoughts about my own personal battles in my small world here…coupled with awareness of a major war zone now unfolding in the Ukraine.

With my own heavy-but-small battles here I’ve recently turned away from delving into current news too deeply. I just have a limit at the moment to what I can carry…or mentally and emotionally process.

But, I did feel a pull to check in on the Ukraine situation long enough to have an image of War and Destruction burned into my mind’s eye. Throughout a good part of the day, these ideas of various personal or world-wide war zones were on the back-burner of my thoughts.

Toward evening, I had another outdoor garden experience which led to me beginning to draft what turned into a lengthier-than-expected blog piece (through the addition of old photos from albums) that I spent my Friday evening on and remains unfinished. In this piece late last night, I made a reference to Kipling’s poem Gunga Din in connection to writing about a long-ago personal hellish experience in another personal war zone and specifically, a seemingly small act of kindness another person brought to me by simply giving me a wet washcloth to put on my tear-drenched face.

This is an act that happened over forty years ago and I will never forget that night of my life, nor that simple act. Though a different context, in more recent years I have connected it to the service of Kipling’s water boy in this poem/ballad.

As I browse images of wet washcloths, and water, I see and also think of Jesus washing the feet of His disciples and foot washing services I’ve participated in which I found to be very powerful, intimate and humbling. In fact, there were some present in the service who found it too much, for whatever reason….too much to walk forward and bare their feet for someone else in the parish to touch and to wash, in remembrance of what many name Maundy Thursday on the liturgical calendar.

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Jim Croce is probably my all-time favorite singer, if I were to be forced to pick just one. Probably because I trace his music so very far back into my life, and in terms of lyricism, I really connect with his words and imagery. I once saw a documentary on his life produced for the 40th anniversary of his death, with interviews of his widow, Ingrid Croce. It was quite interesting.

She said her husband had a keen sense for people, for observing them and especially story-telling. She said that he would write a song so loosely yet so specifically in phrases, that strangers would come up to him (as well as those he knew) and say, “You wrote that song about me.“ And he would graciously allow them to believe that to be true, even if it were not.

That is a true gift of words and connecting power.

Ingrid said that Jim’s songs were often composites of characters he had met (as when he was in the army…the song “Operator” and songs like “Roller Derby Queen” and “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” were birthed in this way). Some of his fans probably do not know that he had a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology from Villanova University, and also recorded his first album (Facets) in a studio in Wilmington, Delaware with money he had received as a wedding gift .

Sadly he died way too young just when he was on the brink of broader musical recognition. (In editing, though I had initially used the word “success” I decided “recognition” was more appropriate, as clearly, Jim Croce achieved much musical and personal success in his short lifetime.) In November 1973 his love song for his wife, Ingrid, written when she was pregnant with their son, was released and became No. 1 on the charts: Time in a Bottle

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I hadn’t listened to this Jim Croce’s “Gunga Din” in awhile, and given current events, I thought this piece along, with some other images, reflections and questions…oh there can and should always be questions….was deserving of its own separate post. I do intend to finish up my piece from last night, and then link it to this one.

Thank you for taking a moment to listen, contemplate, think, consider, and question…there aren’t always easy or simple answers, but we can always do just a little better at being a peacemaker in this world, even when it seems an impossible ideal to fully achieve.

I have always liked this piece as well, “Which Way Are You Goin’,” which connects very important questioning of having one’s hand both on the Bible and on the gun and other issues of hypocrisy and tribalism enforced by War.

Which Way Are You Goin’

Song by Jim Croce

Which way are you goin’?
Which side will you be on?
Will you stand and watch while

All the seeds of hate are sown?
Will you stand with those who say
Let his will be done?

One hand on the bible
One hand on the gun
One hand on the bible
One hand on the gun

Which way are you looking?
Is it hard to see?
Do you say what’s wrong for him

Is not wrong for me?
You walk the streets, righteousness
But you refuse to understand

You say, you love the baby
Then you crucify the man
You say, you love the baby
Then you crucify the man

Everyday, things are changing
Words once honored turned to lies
People wondering, can you blame them
It’s too far to run, and too late to hide

Now you turn your back on
All the things that you used to preach
Now it’s let him live in freedom

If he lives like me
Well you light has changed, confusion rains
What have you become?

All your olive branches turned to spears
When your flowers turned to guns
Your olive branches turned to spears
When your flowers turned to guns

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I would be showing my full ignorance of what has led up to Russia invading the Ukraine if I tried to form any opinion or comment right now. I briefly listened to one commentary tonight online, but I have no basis to evaluate factually, ideologically or otherwise what was said. Only to ask myself some questions. It did give me just a piece to think about as I continue to watch this unfold, from my own small world and worldview here.

Zero sum games are the worst. I’ve been in too many of those type of personal war zones in my life.

I do believe War is the failure of diplomacy, in many ways. Yet we, collectively as humans, keep failing to learn the lessons. To be slow to aggressive posturing, or the setting up or entering into proxy wars. Or even “evangelism” by War and violence. Exporting of culture, interference in the affairs of other sovereign nations, or entanglement in various civil wars.

I have not read this article, just browsed as it was one of the first that resulted when I searched the term zero sum game. That phrase just came to my mind as I was writing. I saw it below the general “gaming definition,” in respect to zero sum military situations. Can’t vouch for anything in it, but just glancing should give a sense that everyone has opinions about all of this.

I do want to mention here that I also searched online recently to find out the status of the US attempt at legislating the draft of women. This was on the table, written into other budgets/legislations being debated and voted upon last fall. While everyone was (and still is, for better or for worse) focused on the pandemic, I imagine many did not know this was simultaneously happening.

I had written one blog piece about this topic and had not completed my Part II which is still saved and in need of much editing. I intend to finish it because I believe that even if now, that legislation to draft women in the US is currently off the table, it might not be long before it resurfaces. And I definitely have an opinion on that. WOMEN AND WAR – THE ALTERATION OF SOCIETY’S CORE (PART I)

Lawmakers kill measure that would have required women to register for the Selective Service

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Next are a few images I saw from the Ukraine in the past days…

Ukraine invasion in pictures: Fear, loss and the human cost of the conflict

Gunga Din

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

You may talk o’ gin and beer   
When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,   
An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter   
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.   
Now in Injia’s sunny clime,   
Where I used to spend my time   
A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,   
Of all them blackfaced crew   
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din,   
      He was ‘Din! Din! Din!
   ‘You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
      ‘Hi! Slippy hitherao
      ‘Water, get it! Panee lao,
   ‘You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’

The uniform ’e wore
Was nothin’ much before,
An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,
For a piece o’ twisty rag   
An’ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.
When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
In a sidin’ through the day,
Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
We shouted ‘Harry By!’
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.
      It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
   ‘You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?   
      ‘You put some juldee in it
      ‘Or I’ll marrow you this minute
   ‘If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’

’E would dot an’ carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.   
With ’is mussick on ’is back,
’E would skip with our attack,
An’ watch us till the bugles made ‘Retire,’   
An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide
’E was white, clear white, inside
When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!   
      It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’
   With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.   
      When the cartridges ran out,
      You could hear the front-ranks shout,   
   ‘Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!’

I shan’t forgit the night
When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.   
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.   
’E lifted up my ’ead,
An’ he plugged me where I bled,
An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green.
It was crawlin’ and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
      It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
   ‘’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;   
   ‘’E’s chawin’ up the ground,
      ‘An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:
   ‘For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’

’E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.   
’E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ’e died,
‘I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din.   
So I’ll meet ’im later on
At the place where ’e is gone—
Where it’s always double drill and no canteen.   
’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!   
      Yes, Din! Din! Din!
   You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!   
   Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,   
      By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
   You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

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Below are some photos of my father and uncle during World War II. My father was an ambulance driver, having been drafted older at 28 and having flat feet. I believe from knowing him, and also from some comments he made in V-mail written to his sister Ruth during the War in which he said, “If I’m fortunate enough to make it home to the state of Maryland I would be content to never leave it again…believe me…I’ve seen enough.” (paraphrased)

A few months ago I watched Hacksaw Ridge, a war film directed by Mel Gibson that tells the story of Desmond Doss, an American pacifist combat medic, who never carried a weapon and single-handedly saved the lives of 75 men (including some Japanese soldiers) in the Battle of Okinawa. One of my favorite scenes in this film is after the ordeal ends when Desmond is taking a shower. The slow-motion depiction of him under a heavy, cleansing stream of water mixed with blood seems to hold visual spiritual symbolism.

The other very powerful scene is when Desmond is up on the ridge, using rope to lower and transport wounded men down the steep cliff one by one, and his repeated, simple plea to God, “Lord, help me get one more…”

After watching the film, I later watched the documentary, curious to see how closely Mel Gibson stayed to the actual story. Fairly close, for the most part.
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Though my father died when I was sixteen, I remember a number of stories he told me about the War. I learned directly from him that when he drove the ambulance he had to also transport wounded Germans. I remember him telling me of one German soldier who kept saying “Scheisse” (an expletive) from inside the ambulance, being both wounded enough to ride in an ambulance and fairly upset at having an American soldier at the wheel.

In recent years, the idea of the breaking of the “Shalom” in this world – that things just aren’t the way they are supposed to be (and this is seen in so much brokenness all around and within us) – has become embedded in my thinking. Certainly, even if we have no immediate answers how to stop this current War from unfolding now, I hope that we can all agree when looking at the images above of bombed kindergarten rooms and toys, that this just isn’t the way things are supposed to be.

When thinking of the world being a place of brokenness of the “Shalom” in which God desires and created, I also think of the announcement by the angels of the birth of Jesus (Emmanuel, “God With Us”).

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” (Luke 2:14)
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As I think about the world not being as it should be, and the images from the Ukraine, I also think of the Sandy Hook shooting – I will never forget that day nor my response. When I saw the headline of yet another school shooting and when I clicked and read that an entire first grade class had been executed, I immediately and literally wept and recall some of my vocalizations made in front of my computer screen, words of both denial (no…no…no..) and prayers…

Being a mother and having taught in classrooms of young children around that age, the image was absolutely horrifying and heart-breaking in every way. Human life just cannot be this cheap. Military assault weapons barely belong in the hands of War, let alone the hands of civilians or disturbed people that would slaughter innocence without any trace of empathy or remorse .

Something is increasingly breaking the Shalom of this world in ageless yet ever-evolving new forms of violences.

Among items I have that belonged to my father is a little gold child’s bracelet with the name “Cecile” engraved on it. I remember being fascinated with it as a child. He told me he found it on the streets of France after bombings. He told me that it belonged to a child about my age, with my sized wrist. This is vague…I was so young…but perhaps this is why it fascinated me so much. Maybe he took it and tried to put it around my own wrist. Seems like something my father might have done, to show me something.

Maybe he was trying to teach me something.

Or maybe, I’ve just learned some things since then and am reading way too much into that long ago conversation…