Black is Beautiful!

Black is beautiful!  Not a revolutionary declaration,  but an affirmation of value and worth that all people possess as creatures of the Living God! I was able to proclaim a message of Hope 2 days ago to an Aeta Chieftan who leads a tribe of aboriginal Filipinos.  When I shared that I have always been eager to visit an Aeta village because of our similarity in appearance and skin tone,  he matter of factly retorted,  "That's unfortunate,  because we're ugly." I was stunned, but blessed to share with him that my people, for a time, were  similarly misinformed,  but by God's grace have learned that while all have sinned and fall short of God's glory, yet in His sight, all are precious and beautiful for all reflect His handcrafted image! I gently replied, "No Sir. Black is beautiful and YOU are beautiful!" I'm  not certain he was convinced,  but it started some reflection. What a privilege to encourage, help and learn from others!  There's more to share about our visit to this tribe and other work as well!

It Builds Character! Plebe Boxing at West Point

West Point is defined by many experiences that go unseen by the general public.  One of those experiences is Plebe Boxing.  It is mandatory for all male cadets and every one who enters the hallowed ground of West Point will experience the power and the glory of unarmed conflict in the Ring.  I injured my right shoulder early in my Plebe Year and had to undergo surgery to correct the problem.  Because of the timing of my injury, my boxing class was delayed to my second year as an upperclassman.  That initially caused me some concern, because I could easily imagine the Department of Physical Education (DPE) arranging for upperclassmen to be assigned make up classes with lean, hungry Plebes who would be more than willing to provide quality entertainment to the instructors by pummeling unfortunate yearlings for three action-packed rounds.

Fortunately, even DPE isn’t THAT cruel and I was relieved, to an extent, to see that the class was filled with my own dear classmates.  At one of the early sessions, a very seasoned boxing instructor retained at West Point especially for teaching “the Sweet Science” and one who could have easily taken on the role of “Mighty Mick” in the Rocky series asked us if there were any questions.  One of our classmates ventured to ask a technical question, “Sir, what is the most devastating punch in boxing?” The instructor rubbed his chin thoughtfully and responded with a gleam in his eye, “The Left Hook to the Balls!  Totally illegal, but utterly devastating!!”  “Here we go!” I thought to myself. “Another life-altering experience brought to you by the ‘friendly’ instructors of DPE!”  I had no idea how true that sentiment was!

We were most of the way through the semester with the graded bouts underway.  The adage, “You win some, you lose some” applies with a good dose of grunting, blood and pain added in for good measure.  I had the questionable fortune of gaining the attention of the instructors and being named “Section Marcher” or the person who forms the class and reports attendance.  One instructor in particular, a cowboy type with an easy-going drawl, but the kind of physique and visage that rivaled Hercules, really “liked” me.  I kept my hair “high and tight” meaning "Ranger-style" with very little hair on the sides and back and closely cropped on the top.  I also had a loud voice when it came to certain disciplines that required “sounding off.” "Cowboy" liked that.  When another classmate was initially named section marcher by an officer whose accent identified him as having origins in New York City, "Cowboy" overrode the choice demanding, “Naw Sir!! That’s not the one I want!  I want The Marine!!” The New York DPE instructor responded with a smirk, “Jackson, get your @%^# up here!” I was the new Section Marcher. 

As we battled our way through the semester, I noticed that I was in the same weight class as the most accomplished boxer in our group.  I understood that that was always how things worked at West Point.  If you were Joe Frazier, George Foreman would somehow show up in your boxing section. If you were Superman, your opponent would be supplied with generous doses of Kryptonite - that's just how West Point works.  My suspicions that I would one day face "The Best" were confirmed as “Cowboy” gleefully drawled, “It’s ‘George’ and the Marine!”  I even thought I heard CPT New York utter a “Yee Hah!” at the announcement.  We donned our equipment, touched gloves and we were off!  

Initially, I was encouraged.  I had a jab, and it was connecting. It seemed my right hand was finding a home too. Unfortunately, he had a whole tool box of skills and the shop was opening.  I remember my head suddenly turning uncontrollably and weird noises emitting from my lips as he gave what must have appeared to be a step by step demonstration of a speed bag drill executed on a human head.  He became so at ease moving my head from side to side that he relaxed his guard and I thought I saw an opening.  Seizing my opportunity, I threw what was intended to be a perfectly timed counter left hand when, half-way through the punch a searing pain shot through my left shoulder. My “good” shoulder.  It had somehow come out of socket!  “NOW??” I thought to myself.  I tried to imitate Ali’s ducking and dodging to escape his counter-counter assault, but found myself merely blocking “George’s” punches with my face!  I could hear “Cowboy” and “New York” yelling some expletive-filled instructions, but nothing short of a Claymore Mine could’ve gotten him off of me. Then I saw “it.". A HUGE, nighty-night right hand that surely would have destroyed the walls of Jericho, even without Joshua!  I tried to say “My shoulder’s out!” with my mouthpiece in, but it must’ve sounded like an insult because fractions of a second later, WHAM! Impact!! It was the best right hand that has ever connected to my face in fistic combat!  It lifted me off of the canvas, spun me around and landed me on my left side. 

I didn’t feel any discomfort on my face, because suddenly my newly hurt shoulder was on fire with searing pain.  I looked for my left hand and oddly couldn’t see it!  When I finally found it, I noticed that I hand landed on my left elbow, twisting my arm rapidly and grotesquely over my head and behind my back, much like a sadistic child would twist a dolls arm. I thought wishfully, “Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems.”  Then a dear classmate who ran to comfort me saw my condition – and threw up! The medic on the scene exclaimed, “I’m not touching that!”  Both “Cowboy” and “New York” were beaming with satisfaction! A Ranger-Qualified classmate who had served with the Ranger Regiment boomed, “Best Fight of the day!”  All I was wondering was, “Does this count as a knock-out for ‘George?’” If it did, it meant I’d get an automatic “F” and I’d be reporting for another “fun-filled” adventure in West Point Boxing the following year.  As I wondered, I was put on a stretcher and transported to Killer…I mean, Keller Army Hospital where a new adventure in repairing yet another shoulder would begin! This is West Point Boxing. This is the way character is built as a Cadet at the United States Military Academy at West Point!

Wrestling With Sasquatch!

The subject of Climate Change is guaranteed to stir up strong emotions and certain to initiate a rousing, spirited conversation.  Recently, treasured friends who are experts in the field of biochemistry and DNA research and also faithful followers of Jesus, sought feedback on an article that spoke in very blunt terms about people who struggle with scientific research in these areas. The article showed no restraint in castigating those who reject widely held scientific conclusions on these issues, labeling them as “idiots.”  While I share the belief that there are numerous ecological issues that should concern every planetary citizen, I do not believe it is fair to broadly label people who express disagreement concerning the causal effects of these issues as ignorant or dumb.  I believe we should be mindful that it is possible for one to agree that there is a need to better educate our citizens, pursue cleaner fuels, and care for our environment but also have questions about the causes of climate change and the best ways to address the problem.

It is not only important that people be allowed to ask questions concerning the data and conclusions of such issues but it is also appropriate for people to question the credibility of those who claim to be true believers in human induced climate change while their daily lives expose them as Carbon Sasquatches who feel that "the carbon footprint rules" apply to the rank and file of humanity but not to them as a privileged elite. These Carbon Sasquatches talk and write espousing lofty ideas but their true convictions are exposed by their lifestyles. It is this type of duplicity that causes people to ask, "If we're in such a dire position, why aren't all these folks talking about this stuff living out what they believe?”  Such a gap between conviction and action allows for weeds of mistrust and suspicion to grow and damages credibility.

As a pastor, I am part of a profession which has become infamously noted for displaying hypocrisy. I am directly affected by any gaps between my preaching and my behavior.   I am also affected by the gaps between the preaching and behavior of other ministers. It is that affectedness that makes me so passionate about the necessity of consistency between one's ideas and one's lifestyle in any area of expertise and especially concerning matters of common concern. 

As one called to instruct others in engaging life’s tough issues, I offer this reminder - let us remember that Jesus came to engage a world filled with ugliness with complete grace and truth in His communication. If we graciously and truthfully present our convictions on matters of substance, it provides room for reasonable people to assess, process and adjust their opinions according to well-presented, insult-free facts.   As we continue to discuss the care of our planet, let each of us be aware of our own “Carbon Sasquatch” hypocritical moments, and seek to represent our convictions in how we live, and to communicate those convictions with grace and truth.

Full Disclosure - Why I Keep writing About Race

The latest happenings at West Point and my comments as the situation developed caused some to ask why do I decide time and time again to write on issues of race?  Why can’t I let such potentially incendiary matters rest?  For this posting, please allow me to expose some experiences I shared in response to an article a friend posted regarding race, housing and schools.  These experiences are examples of why I am compelled to share with greater regularity as the issue of race continues to hold our national attention.

I've come to terms with the fact that dealing with race as a black man is ongoing work, with most struggles occurring out of the sight of others. How does one report the ins and outs of the battle? Does one mention that one's Realtor asks that all family pictures be hidden or removed during a showing or that only one's non-African American spouse deal with a buyer until closing so that chances for a sale are maximized? This was our experience in Cleveland where I was called the N-word every day I went running in my neighborhood. Every day. Do I share that Luz’s fear for my well-being due to those experiences, some quite harrowing is why I still don't run to this day?

In addition, Luz and I are always conscious of the fact that our merely moving into a neighborhood may lower the property values and change the pattern of those to whom real estate in the area is shown.  I should mention that Luz is from a successful business family in the Philippines and is the equivalent of a national merit scholar and I myself have achieved a little bit of learnin’ and refinin’.  Nevertheless, we have experienced fearful reactions and suburban flight in the Ohio and Michigan suburbs in which we have lived. In Ohio, we were the 3rd family of color to move into our community with the first two experiencing cross burnings on their lawns.  Fortunately for us, the sale on matches must have ended by the time we arrived, though we experienced verbal taunting and door hangers from hate groups that shared the message that our neighbors shouldn’t have to live by people like us. In Michigan, the proof of residency drills were so degrading that even Luz and I were pushed to the point of annoyance as we were repeatedly required to endure them when registering our children for school after almost a decade of living in our district not to mention the condescending attitudes of those asking for our credentials.  

Time would fail for me to list the affronts, indignities and insults we have received.  Nevertheless, we are volunteers.  We have intentionally chosen the ministries we have led and we have stepped up to the challenges we have faced believing that if one willfully chooses to serve as a bridge, one is volunteering oneself to be walked on.  Nevertheless, after years of limited exposure, I am convicted that more exposure is needed so that greater understanding might be gained.  Our calling as a bridge remains, however, in light of the challenges I see emerging in the land, the time to be more vocal about traffic patterns has arrived.  I am not bitter. I am not angry. I am deeply affected, highly motivated and determined not to quit.  As God gives me life and strength, I will carry on!  Driving on in love and faith in the midst of a bumpy journey I remain, your friend and Brother,

Sam Jackson

The Jackson Family in Front of our suburban Detroit Home

Processing Anger and Race - The Work Must Continue

As black fists are raised, anger is assumed. A decision is made, and anger actually blooms.  Anger and race have been close partners in the American experience.  More than any other issue in US society, the matters regarding race have gnawed at the soul of the nation.  Curtis Mayfield’s musical declaration that American was undeniably [his] country asks the still pertinent question, “Shall we perish unjust or live equal as a nation?”  Where is the injustice? It is found in freewheeling, undisciplined, unprocessed and ill-placed anger.

The Bible issues many warnings about anger.  It distinguishes between righteous and unrighteous anger – “Be angry, but do not sin” says the Apostle Paul in Ephesians 4:26.  In James 1:19, 20 followers of Jesus are warned, “My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.” 

In America, one of the most challenging manifestations of human anger is found in conversations and conflicts surrounding the subject of race.  There is minority anger over centuries of injustice that have left a thick residue that coats our landscape in heavy, abundant layers even to the present day.  There is majority anger due to perceived changes that seem to threaten a sense of stability and comfort seen as essential for prosperity and freedom to endure.  These and other related expressions of anger routinely clash, sometimes nearing the precipice of violent conflict as wills collide and misunderstanding thrives.  What can be done?

There must be a recognition that denial of the anger or pretense that every problem has been sorted out are not helpful approaches.  Ownership of one’s emotional state is critical and the processing of one’s emotions is necessary. This usually means venting, reflecting, sorting, and evaluating one’s feelings with trustworthy and wise friends.  Trustworthy and wise friends are essential because these individuals will also assist in the preparation of one’s responses to conflicting ideas, difficult situations or even traumatic occurrences.  One’s responses to conflict are of equal importance to the conflict itself. There must also be an acknowledgement the work of addressing racial issues in the land is never-ending, thankless yet absolutely necessary for the survival of the republic.

Because of the necessity of this work, there must be a commitment to continue to engage it by building lines of communication and seeking to understand even the most perplexing points of view.  Our anger must not lead to ugly ranting or destructive and abusive verbal spewage. Instead, our emotional upheavals should remind each of us of the incredibly personal and important nature of the work of racial healing and the constant need for brave souls to speak up with truth, conviction and love at the risk of being misunderstood, unappreciated or attacked once more.

The persistence of setbacks and painful experiences in pursuit of racial harmony can wear the best people down and cause the most stout-heated individuals to lose hope and to give up the cause in utter frustration. It is at such times that Curtis Mayfield’s refrain speaks powerful truth to our hearts that should quicken the resolve of all who seek to help our land live up to every element of its creed:

Too many have died in protecting my pride
For me to go second class
We’ve survived a hard blow and I want you to know
That you must face us at last
And I know you will give consideration
Shall we perish unjust or live equal as a nation
This is my country.

Remembering the price that has been paid by those who have gone before, we do not allow our anger to define or overwhelm us.  Rather we feel it, process it, purify it, and redirect it into meaningful action that engages the issues at hand, faces any ugliness that might be present and in turn, apply truth, righteousness and beauty to the situation with diligence and persistence, carrying the torch of truth until change comes.  In our anger, let us not sin. Remembering that is is our country, let us face us struggles together, telling the truth in love, sorting through the ugliness, working without restraint to see that righteousness, understanding and beauty prevail.  The results will not be perfect, but we can make some outcomes better.  This is my country and I’ll work towards it’s healing until the day I die! 

Knights in Black and Gray - Some Personal Perspective on the West Point Class of 2016 Picture Question

I am Army born. I am Army bred. When I die, I’ll be Army dead. My proud Army heritage extends as far back as the U.S. Civil War, traceable to an ancestor named Augusta Reed who served the Union Army as a Mule Skinner and Whiskey peddler.  He is remembered as a bull-whip wielding, no nonsense individual who was a shrewd and skilled survivor possessing the warmth and charm of a rattlesnake. Ancestor Reed paved the way for my Grandfather figure, Great Uncle Julius Frazier, who served in WWI and raised my father from his early childhood. Numerous other family members served in WWII and Korea as well.  My father cemented our heritage by becoming a career solider – a paratrooper and Vietnam veteran with numerous deployments over a period of almost 30 years.  He handed the baton to me, who spent my early adulthood pursuing a military career, including some time spent at West Point, but who eventually found myself ministering to soldiers and later ministering on a broader, global scale.  My cousin Brian Vance has carried the baton for the family since, honoring several traditions by serving as a Screaming Eagle of the 101^st Airborne Division and enduring multiple deployments as a warrior in the Global War on Terror.  While my vocational experience with the Army was brief, my Army roots run deep and my way of thinking and my development as a human being have been undeniably influenced by Army culture. For that reason, I have strong convictions about the Army’s mission and way of life, including the mission of and life at The United States Military Academy at West Point.

The United States Military Academy at West Point has the premier honor of being the historically first guardian of the American Ideal.  West Point is as old as America and stands as the foundation upon which America’s military excellence and tradition has been built. Traditions of all sorts abound at West Point. Some are known and well publicized, while others are less known but still hold great sway over West Point’s ethos and culture.  The three oldest traditions remaining in place to this day are: “A cadet will not possess a mustache, horse or spouse.” But it is not those traditions that have captured the nation’s attention this week.  It is the unofficial tradition of taking pre-graduation group pictures that has come to the forefront, in particular, a photo taken by a group of African American women who are members of the West Point class of 2016. The picture is one of a series of photos taken of the women, who retrofitted their uniforms to represent the uniforms of an earlier generation of cadets – a practice that is on its own a longstanding West Point tradition. A greater level of scrutiny than normal has arisen because of one picture depicting the raising of fists by the women in that picture.

As of the writing of this piece, I am not aware of any statements on behalf of the women that clarifies the specific meaning they attach to the raised fist photograph. I am aware of numerous interpretations of what the pose means.  The considerations range from a belief that the gesture is a representation of the women’s triumph over the assortment of challenges West Point presents to all who enter its gates, to a belief that the gesture is some type of expression of African-American identity.  As of my writing, the exact meaning remains in question.  Nevertheless, the speculation is plentiful and the responses have been swift on the few West Point social media connections of which I am a part.  As I consider my deep familial Army Heritage and my specific experiences as a citizen of the United States and as an American descendant of slaves, I have felt compelled to share a few observations on the situation.

Challenge, adversity, stress and pain are intimate companions for the West Point Cadet during their life at the Academy. I repeat, these challenges are present for every cadet!  From the moment a new cadet candidate faces “The Cadet in the Red Sash” on Reception Day until graduation day, cadets are intentionally subjected to an unrelenting stream of intentional testing that is meant to prepare them to lead soldiers as commissioned officers in the United States Army.  Anyone who has spent even a day as a cadet will have stories to tell of seemingly impossible situations that by design forced them to marshal all of their character, courage and innermost wherewithal to not only confront the situation, but to manage it successfully and emerge triumphant.  The standards are high – especially high for college-aged people whose peers attend other institutions that are not military service connected and are able to enjoy a freedom of expression and leisure that are not generally a part of the Academy experience.  This difficulties of Cadet life become even more challenging when additional considerations shape one’s West Point experience.  While the Army as a whole and West Point in particular are institutions that value and seek to embrace the diversity that defines America, this has not always been the case and the process of achieving diversity and equality has been complex and at times painful.

Race has impacted every aspect of my family’s Army history.  For the earliest soldiers in our family, being an African American meant limited opportunities within a tightly prescribed area of possibilities.  As years passed and the available opportunities broadened, our family members embraced the possibilities and excelled in fantastic ways, yet always with some racial challenges thrown into the mix.  By the time I arrived at West Point as a Cadet, many others from my ethnic background had traveled the road I was then treading. One experience highlights the complexities of race and Cadet life during my West Point days. 

While I was certainly aware of the racial makeup of the academy, at least as much as my experience allowed me to see, I became more deeply cognizant of the significance of my presence at the Academy as a Black Cadet and the expectations that came along with my Army background after an early conversation with my Tactical Officer - my commander – after the completion of Cadet Basic Training and a few weeks into my first academic semester.  My TAC initially began with standard questions about my well-being and observations about my performance when he asked how I was getting along with my roommates – one Caucasian southerner and the other a Latino.  In the midst of what I perceived to be a solid roommate experience, I responded that all was well – at least as well as anyone could expect as a West Point Plebe. The TAC seemed relatively happy to hear my report and added this surprising commentary,

“That’s very good Mr. Jackson, that’s what we had hoped.” I wondered, who the “We” was? He continued, “I’m going to be direct with you Jackson.  You will NEVER have a black roommate during your career here at West Point.” I thought to myself silently, “NEVER?” He seemed to hear my thoughts and immediately said for emphasis, “NEVER.” I was stunned.  I hadn’t really thought about the issue until then. I had supposed that there weren’t enough of us to form many multiple “Black Cadet” rooms and had never considered that there were very careful designs on how Black Cadets were housed based on race.  Of course I wondered why. The TAC knew that as well, and answered before I could ask.  “Many of your classmates have never had any personal, non-athletic contact with black people. Some have had no interaction beyond incidental public contact of some sort, which means they’ve had no meaningful contact with Blacks personally.  We believe that we have to maximize their exposure to Blacks in all the ways we can, as they will certainly be dealing with Blacks as officers in the Army.  As we considered your file, we believe that based on your background, you can handle such situations and encourage your White classmates. Some of your other Black classmates don’t have your background, and more urgently need the presence of someone of like background for encouragement, especially in the first couple of years.  People like you are a treasure for us in this regard and we’re glad you’re up to the challenge.”  As I left his office tying to process what I had just heard, an upperclassman in my company lit me up for a minor protocol infraction and I realized I’d have to process my chat with TAC some other time.  Upon arriving in my room, my roommates asked how the time went. I gave a standard answer, internally muttering, “If you only knew…”

The Bible warns that “To whom much is given, much is expected.”  This verse rings deeply true for every West Point Cadet, each one of whom represents the absolute best of the nation’s youth, but it holds an extra measure of significance for ethnic minorities and for women at the Academy.  My experience with the TAC helped me to understand what I couldn’t have seen with the naked eye: The Army and Academy had an extra measure of expectation of the minorities of the nation who attended, to help the military to sort out their racial problems, while not so much helping the minorities to sort out theirs.  It was an ongoing “Jackie Robinson” type of expectation, with the acceptance of the assignment largely assumed, not offered.  It meant that when I was called the “N-word” as a Plebe out of ear-shot of others, I was on my own to process it.  It meant that whenever there were racial overtones to sort out, I had to normally figure out the solutions without help or support. But, I understood, that is what “Jackie Robinson” does and I actually was up to that part of the expectation of me as a cadet.

When one is in the midst of such an experience during a very formative time in one’s life, how does one process the shaping events, positive and negative, that will leave an imprint on one’s soul? Demonstrating racial pride in such an environment can be tricky, and protesting racial mistreatment can seem totally off limits. While at West Point, I experienced days that caused me a great deal of pride in my heritage – both militarily and racially.  I also experienced other days that caused me significant racial discomfort and personal reflection.

As I consider the actions of the women in the picture that led to this discussion, I have forced myself to take time to listen, read, consider and reflect rather than to shoot from the hip only considering my own experiences.  Thanks to the posting of West Point graduate MaryTobin, I have been able to take factors into consideration beyond my own experience. While I share a racial perspective that I believe can be extremely helpful in the situation, I am not a woman and I cannot experientially address that viewpoint on the matter.  A recent conversation with my daughter Joana, who is approximately the age of these women, has also given me a deeper perspective generationally and gender-wise that has helped me to reevaluate my considerations on the issue.   

As I reflect on the situation these women are experiencing and consider my thoughts on the matter in comparison to other West Pointers who share my ethnic heritage, I believe there are distinctive points of view related to unique eras of the cadet experience. I further believe that gender differences provide some other distinctives in how this situation is viewed and solutions are being sought.  In spite of these differences, I am convinced that our commonalities must play a strong role in helping to speak into the situation as well. As African Americans, we have inherited the history and testimony of a people who have suffered but who have always demonstrated herculean resilience and strength that have enabled us as a people to endure, regroup and overcome! 

Furthermore, we share the unbreakable bond as members of the “Long Gray Line” that unites us “through the years of centuries told” and calls us to hang together in the stormy times of our journey.   In engaging this journey, it is essential for us to keep in mind General Douglas MacArthur’s all-time charge to all who represent West Point. We must never forget the clarion call that will never fade with time, circumstances or perspective:  “Duty, Honor, Country. Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you can be, what you ought to be, what you must be. They are you rallying points!”  As cadets and as officers the rallying cry of “Duty, Honor, Country” must continue to guide how life is lived and how duty is done.  This cry is truly a rallying point. As we continue the conversation of these African American, West Point women and the photograph that has opened the door for a broader discussion, let us seek not to “win” an argument, but rather let us seek to win the day with wisdom, understanding and care for these women and for our “Rockbound Highland Home.” Our duty demands it. Our honor must guide it. Our country desperately needs it.

USMA 2016

USMA 1882

Pushing 22 - A Reminder To Do Good

For the last seven days, I’ve done 22 push-ups each morning.  22.  Not a particularly impressive number for push-ups.  Not a world’s record, or even the toddler record for this most challenging of the upper body exercises used to assess fitness in all sorts of physically demanding disciplines.  Why, then, 22?  A jolting statistic informs our national community that each day 22 veterans will take their own lives. 22 - A day.   22 people who took an oath, carried out their duty, came home and tried to adjust – but couldn’t quite do it and chose to end their pain by taking their own lives.  22 - A day.

This number haunts the military siblings and the extended military families who have tried to help but just couldn’t reach everyone in time.  How can one help stem such a tide?  How can one make others aware?  With the push-up being the universal tool used to “grab the attention” of military personnel in training to make them aware of changes that need to be made in a direction of training or performance, an idea was born to use this tool that all military people understand to spread the word of the need within the family and to make this need known throughout the national community as well.  22 veterans are taking their lives every day, and we need to know that fact and pay attention to our family members who have borne the battle or have stood ready to do so.

Will doing 22 push-ups a day for 22 days stop veteran suicides? No.  What good, then can engaging in such an exercise be?  It can remind those of us who care to pay closer attention today along our daily journeys.  The downcast stranger we see, may be a sister or brother who has served and needs a word of encouragement.  The “individual” who gives us an obscene gesture in the middle of traffic craziness, may be our neighbor who is grappling with experiences too difficult to comprehend and is on the verge of exploding in the one area they seem to have control – driving a vehicle – and a perceived slight has taken that away. We can yield the right of way, bow in deference and offer kindness and forgiveness rather than return the contemptuous “salute” towards someone whose pain we just couldn’t understand.  We can take the time to call that friend who’s been on our mind all week for some reason, taking into account that the “nagging impulse” we have to reach out may be a divine nudge to help a friend who doesn’t have enough strength to cry for help.

22 – A day.  The number should also keep us riveted to the sides of those closest to us who carry to indelible scars of the battle. For me, that person is my father.  The example set for me was best demonstrated by my mother.  Upon Dad’s return from his first tour in Vietnam, he showed signs of what we now call PTSD.  We weren’t aware of it by name and I was just entering a phase where I was becoming acquainted with Dad in a truly cognitive way.  Because he was so tired, Ma made sure that we all allowed him to sleep as much as he wanted.  One family member, not familiar with Dad’s sensitivity to being suddenly awakened, attempted to rouse Dad for a meal.  It was not a good experience.  Not accustomed to being in a non-combat environment, Dad reacted instinctively and violently as he would have a few days earlier in a combat zone.  Outside of his profession, my father has never been a man given to violence and the incident shook our family up to no small degree.
My mother could have had many reactions at that point including distancing herself from Dad.  Instead, she did something that I now know was counter-intuitive and very courageous.  She laid down beside Dad after he had done the most violent thing any of us had ever witnessed and told him to go back to sleep. She continued to embrace him as he dealt with his adjustments and in time, even after other combat deployments, he successfully learned to manage his inner turmoil. Now, he deals with the ravages of a demanding profession that broke down his body and dampened his mind.  Yet, he remains with us and it remains my solemn duty to make sure he knows we remain with him.

For that reason, I am doing the 22.  22 push-ups for 22 days to remind me that at least 22 brothers and sisters a day will take their own lives as they grapple with physical pain and inner turmoil for having borne the battle for the rest of us.  I push on, hoping that by reminding myself of the needs around me, that maybe today – even if only for today – my words and deeds might allow my 22 to be the only time today that number is reached for any significant reason.  So I press on. 22 push-ups a day for 22 days to remind me to do my duty as my siblings' keeper.

With love and concern, from a brother who cares,

Sam