A New Day

I had a few weeks about a month ago where I was seriously considering whether or not I was cut out to be a high school teacher in Baltimore City. I just wasn't sure I had the patience to put up with it all. Then something clicked and I learned to just start laughing at the things that were driving me nuts before. When they make fun of me, I laugh with them because let's face it, I do sound ridiculous when I get upset with them for making too much noise. They're not trying to disrespect me, I just sound ridiculous. My voice cracks and my face turns red. I'm learning to laugh a lot more, at myself and at my students. Here's a small sampling of the things that have made me laugh over the last few weeks:

1. Last week, I was in the middle of class when I looked over to see one of my students in the back corner of the room lifting his shirt up to his shoulders and putting scotch tape on his nipples. I stood there in momentary shock thinking to myself "This is not one of those scenarios I imagined myself encountering when I first thought about becoming a teacher". Not knowing how else to respond, I simply said "I'm really not interested in seeing you put tape over your nipples man", which elicited a fair amount of laughter from the rest of the class.

2. This week, I was reviewing action and linking verbs with my class and I was writing examples of action verbs on the chalk board while students were shouting them out. I heard one of my students utter the action verb "fuck" under his breath, thinking he was very smart. It doesn't take much time as a teacher before you learn the voices of all of your students. Without even turning around, I told that student to step out in the hall. After I got the rest of the class working, I went out to talk to this little gem (who I actually really do love, he's just a total goofball). It took him a minute of hard thinking before he realized that his smart remark wasn't as quiet as he thought. As he was walking back in the classroom, he said "Man, I can't believe Mr. Diehl heard that shit", to which I responded "I'm still standing right here". Again, he got a surprised look on his face and apologized before assuming his seat.

I love my kids, I really do. But man do they drive me crazy somedays. I have one student who mutters under his breath every day how much he hates my class and thinks I'm a boring and ridiculous teacher. Every assignment is stupid, and I constantly hear "fuck this shit" at the beginning of class before he decides to put his head down on his desk. Nearly every class period, however, he comes around within ten minutes and often becomes a key participant in the activity for the day. He drives me nuts, I can't tell you how many times I've felt like punching him in the face; but I love him to death.

As I continue to adjust to this new culture, I'm finding myself doing things I never thought I would do--but they work. Last week, I hit a kid in the face with a paper wad because he wasn't working. After it hit him, he looked up at me and said "What was that for", to which I responded "You're pissing me off". He worked hard the rest of the period. The next day another student was goofing off in class so I smacked him upside the head, lightly and playfully of course, and said "What's the matter with you?". Sometimes they just need that little reminder so they realized they're acting like a fool and need to get back on track. In my student teaching, I was grilled with the mantra "never touch students". I touch my kids every day, be it an encouraging pat on the back or a smack upside the head. Why? Because they need it, in more ways than one.

I was helping one of my students with his project last week, I wish I had a picture of him to post. If you met him on the street, you'd probably run the other way but he's one of the sweetest "gentle giants" I've ever met. He failed my class first quarter because he spent too much time goofing off and I thought he just didn't care. But the other day he told me that English was his best class. In my head, I thought "What? You don't do anything and you can barely read!" But he's coming to school every day, and he's trying, for which I am very grateful. He is one of my students who would be headed down a dangerous path were he not coming to school every day.

Two weeks ago, I bought a book for another of my gang-banging students who failed first quarter. He almost never reads when he's supposed to so when he asked for a specific book, I went out and bought it that night. When I brought it to him the next day, I nearly started weeping when I saw the look on his face as I gave him the book. That image is burned into my mind and keeps me going, even when I feel like opening fire on my fifth period class.

So, I'm surviving, and I'm hopeful about the future. This is the first year in a new school and a new place. It can only get better from here. And I'm excited that for the first time I can tell my students that they can be anything in life and truly mean it. My reasons for voting for Obama in this election had little to do with his race or persona, it was a complicated decision. A decision that apparently makes me an evil and simple-minded liberal, according to some who have known me in past lives. That being said, the fact that he is the first black president is an incredible inspiration to the people of this city. I wish that some of the people from my past life could come and spend a day with my kids in the city. I don't know how anyone could be the same. While my students still have the world working against them, it is clear that we have made incredible progress and they can do anything if they want it badly enough. I can't wait to see each and every one of them walk across the stage in four years. I have a suspicion they will all call me a cry baby on that day.

Coming up for air

It's been over a year since I've posted on this blog. The last time I posted, I was living in an oppressive suburb of Sacramento in the home of my wife's grandmother working on my teaching credential. Currently, I am sitting on the back porch of our one bedroom apartment in Baltimore, enjoying a beautiful evening surrounded by the sounds of the city mixed with beautiful green trees and chirping birds. There's also a very curious squirrel who keeps getting very close to me. He hangs around our place a lot, walked right into our kitchen one morning when we had the back door propped open while eating breakfast. My life has changed somewhat in the past year.

After all of our thoughts and journeying, Jordana and I are finally living out our dream and conviction to be in the city. And what a city it is. When we first flew out here last May for my interviews with the school district, we had an immediate burden to be here. There is so much pain, beauty, love, hate, injustice, and potential all wrapped up in the bundle of insanity that is Baltimore city. And we cannot imagine being anywhere else. As we drove across the United States in July in our loaded down Penske truck, recently relieved of the burden of owning a car, we could not shake the feeling that we were coming home. Now we're living in the city, across the street from our good friends, absolutely loving our new home. I'm teaching at a new school--they're calling it a "transformation school". It's part of an effort by the new CEO of city schools to improve education in the city, our school is focused on preparing students for college and career in the areas of health care and construction. I ride a 1970's blue panasonic road bike to school every day, a 6.5 mile commute through bumpy city streets, and I teach 9th grade English.

Most of my students are reading at a 4th or 5th grade reading level, so we spend a lot of time in my class working on that. I purchased several sets of high-interest books at the beginning of the year and by the third week of school other teachers were having to tell students to put the books away during class. During the first week of school I had my students write a "Where I'm From" poem and some of the results broke my heart. Students wrote about their neighborhoods where they heard gunshots every night, police visits are a regular occurrence, and they've already lost friends to gunfire at 14 years of age. With all that in mind, I try to have patience with the little behaviors in the classroom that drive me insane.

The honeymoon period is over in my classroom. I had my first fight last week, which was discouraging more than anything else. I find my patience wearing thin as I try to remind myself that they are only 14 years old and have a lot of work to do on their impulse control. My frustration level is increased when I think about the fact that I'm in one of the better schools in the city. Could I have made it in a more difficult school? I try to focus on the little things, like reading over the shoulder of a student writing in his journal at the end of class that he finally understood a concept we had been talking about for a week. Or the young girl who slept through my class the first two weeks and magically started writing in her journal every day this last week. Or the student who expressed his absolute hatred for reading at the beginning of the year who now excitedly comes into class asking me if he will get to read from his personal book today. Or the girl who constantly complains how boring my class is but still lights up with a smile when I greet her in the morning. Or the mother who said she was so thankful that her son had a teacher who cared when I called home last week to trouble shoot some behavior issues.

But so often I get frustrated, overwhelmed, and discouraged. With the complexity of social inequality and systematic oppression in which so many of my students and families around the city are stuck. With my lack of patience and strength to be the teacher and person I wish to be. With the fact that last weekend I felt like quitting, and I haven't even had a terrible experience.

The diversity in this city is incredible. The home values on our street are in the 300,000's, while the home values one street over are 150,000 less. Incredible transformation of demographics literally happens from block to block. Our block is very safe, drug deals happen in the streets 5 blocks down, then two blocks south of that is safe again. Boarded up row homes can be seen everywhere, remnants of the great white flight that augmented the suburbs and left holes in the city. I love this city, I love the people, I love the potential. I don't know how long I will be teacher or what the next years of our lives will look like but I know that we are here for a reason and I cling to that promise. I believe in my students and frustrated as I may get, I cannot wait to see them grow throughout this year. The problems that face us are overwhelming, but we cannot become paralyzed by that fact. I will continue to focus on the small successes and when necessary, I will come up for air.

A Call to Arms

As I've heard from several people in my life, it has been far too long since I've created a new and brilliant post on this blog. I'm attempting to correct this error, so anyone still interested in following along with my musings should look for more regular posts in the near future. It has been awhile since I've written, so I don't know how coherent this post will be. As always, remember that I often speak in generalities to make a point so by no means are my thoughts meant to be representative of some elusive whole. At any rate, I hope you continue to enjoy my up and down journey...

I have a lot of qualms with the current state of the church, that is no big secret. But as those of you who have been following my journey are aware, I attempt to balance my complaints and cynicism with a sense of personal responsibility by asking what I can do about the problems that I see. One of the biggest problems I have with the church is the retreat away from the cities to the affluent suburbs.

When my friend Matt and I were in San Francisco last year, we met with a pastor of a small church down there who brought this phenomenon to my attention in a whole new way. He grew up in the city and told us that all he remembered of the church from his childhood was them leaving the city. Church after church would spring up, face adversity, and retreat. Later that day we went on a prayer walk with a prominent leader in the Christian and Missionary Alliance and he began repenting for the ways in which the church had abandoned the city. During that short trip to San Francisco, I had a new realization of the way in which the church was ultimately responsible for what it now fears in the "evil" of the city. This has happened repeatedly throughout church history. San Francisco at one point was even home to an influential Bible College that retreated to a smaller town in Northern California. I once even heard an elder in a church speak from the pulpit about a church he used to pastor in what used to be "a nice middle class neighborhood". The city soon sprang up around this church, including a brothel that opened up down the street, and the congregation began praying about how to respond. They quickly sold their building and retreated to a "nicer" area outside of the city.

People in the church today seem to fear the city. But I think that we are ultimately to blame. We abandoned the city and left a vacuum. We are responsible for the state the city is in; the injustice, the oppression, the evil, the perceived lack of spirituality. I actually like the city, I find it less frightening than the suburbs, but I also admit that there are many problems in the city and can see why many people find it frightening. But I believe that we are ultimately responsible for those things that cause fear because we left, we abandoned the city.

I was thinking about all of this the other day and came to a humbling conclusion regarding my attitudes toward the church. It seems to me that many churches retreat from the city because things get hard and scary and confusing and they're not sure what to do. So they leave. Essentially, this is what myself and many people in my generation are doing to the church. Things get hard, we're not sure what to do, so we retreat. That begs the question, are we ultimately responsible for the perpetuation of the problems we see in the church?

When I think of the way in which I retreated from the church several years ago, I see many parallels with the church's retreat from the city. Things got hard, I felt trapped, I felt like I had no voice or ability to effect change, I was confused. So I abandoned the church, not sure of what else to do. The problem is, I think that for the church to go in the direction that it needs to go, there need to be people intimately involved who are asking the right questions. And if everyone asking the right questions retreats from the church, a vacuum is left. Then we begin to fear the church and retreat to the suburbs of cynicism and bitterness. Once we've made this retreat, we lose our voice in the church, much like the church has in many ways lost its voice in the city. Regaining that voice takes strength, persistence, and will beyond measure. And I do not believe it can be accomplished by our strength alone. But if we are serious about attempting to change the problems we see, we must fight to regain our voice. Or we can just remain comfortable in our suburbs and point out the problems in the city.

So this is a call to arms, to all those who have retreated from the church. It's time to rise up and by the grace of God regain our voice. Whether we like it or not, the church was Christ's idea and central to the outworking of the Gospel. So if we are true followers of Christ and passionate about living out the Kingdom of God on earth, we must regain our voices in the church and begin living out the change in which we believe. This will not be an easy road. Ahead of us lie many hurts, many battles, many misunderstandings and long nights of anger and frustration. But we cannot allow ourselves to be responsible for the church becoming something that we fear. I dream that one day we can take all of our frustrations and questions and use them to effect change in bringing the church into what she is called to be. Ahead of me lie more pain and hurt than what drove me to retreat in the first place, but I cannot allow myself to remain in abandon of the church any longer. It's time to leave the suburbs behind and return to the city.

As I was reading last night, I came across this Franciscan Benediction that spoke to me and seems an appropriate way to close this post:

May God bless you with discomfort
At easy answers, half-truths, and superficial relationships
So that you may live deep within your heart.

May God bless you with anger
At injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people,
So that you may work for justice, freedom, and peace.

May God bless you with tears
To shed for those who suffer pain, rejection, hunger and war,
So that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and
To turn their pain into joy.

And may God bless you with enough foolishness
To believe that you can make a difference in the world,
So that you can do what others claim cannot be done
To bring justice and kindness to all our children and the poor.

Amen

Now I Hear

Thinking back upon my younger years as a Christian, I remember operating quite heavily upon an “us and them” mentality. My job was to surround myself with things that resembled “us” and try my best to make “them” be more like “us”. And of course my efforts were helped along immensely by things like the Christian music industry, which provided me with a wonderful comparison chart that told me which Christian bands I should listen to based on which secular bands I enjoyed. In my youthful zeal, I was under the impression that individuals like Kurt Cobain were the epitome of evil and Ozzy Osbourne and Marilyn Manson were very close to the devil in human form. I grew up in a Christian society that had managed to completely shut itself off from the voices of the outside world by labeling as dangerous anything that was different. I thought I was in the world and not of it, but I was not even in the world, I was completely disengaged. Something always felt wrong to me, but I was doing everything right. I was listening to all Christian music, I didn’t watch rated R movies, I hung out with the Christian kids at school, I went to “see you at the pole”; I was a true Christian. Or so I thought.

Over the last few years, I’ve really come to appreciate Kurt Cobain. I think he had an amazing ability to see and condemn hypocrisy in many social institutions, the church included. The problem was that we weren’t listening because he said bad words and had scary music videos. Not to mention that Nirvana is a term from another religion and Audio Adrenaline was the proper Christian alternative. I’ve also heard Marilyn Manson interviewed a couple times and I’ve learned a lot from his views on society. I think he’s actually a pretty brilliant guy that we could learn something from but we’re not listening because he paints his face real scary and sometimes looks like a woman. I have to confess, I still don’t know a whole lot about Ozzy Osbourne except that he once bit the head off a bat but he probably just did that to freak people out. And it worked.

What I’ve discovered is that people who are different from me aren’t really that scary. They’re just people. Maybe some of them worship the devil, but they’re still people. And I think the Bible’s pretty clear that we’re not supposed to be afraid anyways. I also think that creating the safe little Christian bubble that we have is really dangerous. When we shut off the voices of the outside world, we run a serious risk of missing the truth that comes from diverse perspectives. I’m not saying there is no diversity inside the bubble, because there certainly is, but I think Marilyn Manson and Kurt Cobain can spot a lot of things that someone inside the bubble would probably miss. When people hate us, I think we should ask why. Yes, I know that Jesus promised the disciples that the world would hate them because it hated Him first so I’m sure we can look forward to much of the same. However, I also know that the disciples were arrested, beaten, and threatened primarily on the authority of religious leaders. And I believe that some of the hatred the church feels today is due to unacknowledged mistakes that have been made in the name of the gospel, not the gospel itself. The gospel is controversial, yes, but I believe the gospel is about more than inviting people to look like us. I believe the gospel is about living in a way that transforms society from the bottom up. An “Irresistible Revolution” as Shane Claiborne calls it that empowers the disenfranchised and listens to people who are different than us. I have a feeling that if Jesus were in human form today, he’d be friends with Marilyn Manson. I think Jesus would take him out for coffee, love him, and listen to what he has to say. I’m not afraid anymore, and I’m ready to listen. Maybe if we listen past the fear and the anger, we’ll discover some truth that we need to hear.

Deep, Dark, Secret Past

My wife and I are in Germany right now, and we’re having a wonderful time. I still speak very little of the language, but am thoroughly enjoying myself in spite of that barrier and I feel completely at home here. A few nights ago we went to the Hofbrauhaus, where they only serve beer by the liter. After that, we went to walk through the Veinaksmarkt, which is basically a winter market. They have all sorts of different stands selling chocolate covered fruit (amazing!), chestnuts, and handmade crafts. We also had Gluwein, which is wine heated up with honey and herbs. Amazing.

Last Thursday morning we took the train out to the Dauchau concentration camp. It was such a humbling experience to see the site where some of the worst atrocities in history were committed. It was even more humbling to walk over soil that had literally been fertilized by the ashes of thousands of people who were burned in the crematorium. While we were there, we saw several large groups of high-school aged students. I learned that one of the requirements in the German school system is to visit at least one concentration camp during your schooling. The reason for this is to remind the students of the terrible mistakes that were made in the past, to educate them on the reasons for these mistakes in hopes of ensuring that nothing like this ever happens again in Germany’s future. I began thinking about the mistakes that have been made in my country’s history: slaughtering thousands of Native American men, women, and children as we expanded westward; dropping two atomic bombs resulting in the gruesome deaths of thousands of innocent people and terrible health complications for years afterward. I believe most people today would admit that our nation has made many mistakes, as has any nation; this is how we learn. However, students in Germany are forced to confront in a very personal nature the mistakes of their nation’s past. They are required to visit a site at which thousands of people were murdered. They walk down the line where the barracks built for 200 people housed 2000. They walk through the rooms where dead bodies were stored and cremated. They see pictures and hear stories from people who spent years in the concentration camps. They confront their country’s past mistakes in a very real and personal manner. People fear showing too much patriotism in Germany like flying a flag or singing their national anthem because these symbols were associated with such gruesome acts in the past. I wonder what our nation’s flag represents to the families of those who were murdered as our society expanded westward. I wonder what our flag represents to the families in Japan who lost loved ones when the bomb was dropped and for years afterward. I believe in what our flag represents, but I also recognize that many mistakes have been made under the authority of that flag. I’m not attempting to argue that we should dwell on our mistakes and constantly feel guilty, but continually being aware of the mistakes of our past is the only way we can avoid making them again. It is the only way to ensure the motto that is written upon the memorial at Dauchau, “Never Again”. When we talked about the horrific events in the history of the U.S. in my in schooling, it was seldom in a manner that forced us to confront and learn from mistakes. I almost feel as if we attempt to forget about the mistakes of the past in order to work toward a better future. But as I contemplated during our visit to Dauchau, I realized that if we forget about our mistakes, we might make them again.

There now stand on the grounds of the concentration camp 4 memorials erected by the Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, and Russian Orthodox churches. These memorials exist to honor the many who were killed and function as a place where visitors can offer up prayers. Directly on the other side of the north wall of the camp now lies a convent, formed in the shape of a cross. The nuns who live in this convent are there solely to pray for redemption and reconciliation as a result of the atrocities committed in this camp. This tells me that these nuns recognize the long-lasting effects in the spiritual realm of grave mistakes and terrible evils. The effects of such events don’t just go away, I believe that there are long-lasting implications in both the spiritual and physical realms. You can’t bury the past.

All of this has me thinking a lot. It makes me think about how we handle the past in the church as well. Like our country’s flag, the church represents pain, hurt, and suffering to many people. Sometimes I wonder if we have spent so much time trying to overcome our guilt that we have failed to spend the time we need remembering the mistakes of the past so that we don’t make them again. Some of the evils that have been done in the name of the church (and our country) warrant building a convent and spending years in prayer.

And naturally, I must end with some personal reflection, for I know that the problems in my church and country begin with me and change must begin here as well. I’m a guilt-ridden person. Anyone who knows me can testify that I feel guilty for the silliest things because I am constantly concerned with the approval of others. In this vein, reflection on past mistakes has always been torture for me because I felt bad enough when I made the mistake. Why would I want to revisit it? My solution has always been to move on to the next thing, hoping that the future will improve as I live and learn. But I’m realizing that perhaps I’ve been looking at it in the wrong light. I’m not talking here about constantly dwelling in the past, that’s ridiculous. What I’m talking about is being a true student of history on a personal, spiritual, and political level. I’m talking about studying mistakes to discover why they were made and what the results were. I’m talking about truly learning from the mistakes we make. Because as I reflect, I begin to see that I often do not learn from my mistakes, I make the same ones over and over again. And I think part of this is because I move on far too quickly in order to avoid feeling guilty. I don’t spend the time that I need in order to truly learn from my mistake so that it doesn’t happen again.

I was reading a book called “White Teeth” last night by Zadie Smith and I came across a quote that I believe sums up what I’m getting at quite nicely. “He was no student of history (and science had taught him that the past was where we did things through a glass, darkly, whereas the future was always brighter, a place where we did things right or at least right-er)”. I think this is how I have viewed life for quite some time, things just automatically get better and brighter as time progresses. But now I’m beginning to wonder, if we don’t take the time to reflect and learn from our mistakes, will the future still get brighter? If we forget about our deep, dark, secret past, what will keep the past from becoming our future?

With Pride

My wife and I moved recently. After devoting two years of our lives to service with AmeriCorps in Tehama County, we have relocated to Rancho Cordova (just outside Sacramento). We are living with family while we go to school, I'll be pursuing my teaching credential and Jordana her Masters in Social Work. A few weeks ago we spent some time reflecting on the last few years of our lives. We committed two years of our lives to the community in which we were serving, which was a relatively new feeling for both of us to realize. As we reflected, we realized that as we moved on we would be leaving our imprint on this community in a very real way. Traditions such as Family Fun Nights did not exist before we created them and have now become a much-loved staple in the community. As we reflected, I felt a real pride in what we had done and I realized that in spite of the bitterness and cynicism that we had worked through in the past few years regarding the church, God was still very much at work in our lives. Using two broken vessels to bring fresh light into a community. We also quickly realized how difficult it would be to leave the community to which we had devoted ourselves for two years. We had developed relationships with families, children, and co-workers, we were invested and involved in their lives. Though I have moved often in my life, this was one of the most difficult transitions I have ever made. When I spent my last time with the young boy I have mentored for the past two years, he nearly cried on the drive home because he was afraid he'd never see me again. This caused me to tear up as well. I developed a real love for him during the time we spent together. It was hard to leave.

The most exciting realization I had as we were reflecting on our last two years was the way in which my wife had begun to live out what she has fealt called to for most of her life. She has always had a passion for women, to see women rise up into their identity as loved daughters of God and live in that confidence. While she was somewhat involved in church ministries for women in the past and enjoyed that, it always felt like there was something missing. Within the last 10 months I have seen a new passion arise in her because she has discovered a heart and talent for working with teenage girls. This, I believe, is the fulfillment of her vision and passion for empowering women.

Jordana spent the last year working with foster youth who have spent many years in the system. It is not uncommon for her youth to have been placed in 30-40 different foster homes in their short lives. She worked with these youth to help them with basic life skills that most people take for granted, such as how to open a bank account, how to write a check, or how to pump gas into a car. She also helped them to establish goals, find housing for when they turn 18, and find resources for school and jobs. One of the projects she was able to lead this year was called Girl's Circle. Jordana facilitated this 12-week group for girl's in which they talked about a range of issues such as body image, sexuality, dating, violence, and family. While only two girls ended up committing to the group long-term, it turned out to be a monumental experience for both the girls and Jordana. As the group went on week after week, Jordana would come home with a very heavy heart because of the pain that she was learning about that had taken place in these girl's lives. Out of respect to the girls, Jordana kept the confidentiality of the group and never shared details with me. She only told me that she couldn't believe the pain that these girls had experienced in their short lives. I respect her so much for that, for maintaining the girl's trust and not sharing details with me. I'm not sure I could have done the same.

She did share one detail with me. She said that during the group in which they talked about relationships, Jordana asked the girls what a healthy relationship looked like. One of the girl's quickly responded "you and Colter". It blessed me to hear that the Lord was working through our marriage in that way.

Because Jordana and I worked in the same office, I became somewhat aquainted with the girls in this group. On the last day of group, the girls came into my office and said that they wanted to show me what they bought for Jordana as a going away gift. They had bought her a beautiful bracelet with the words "strength, believe, and trust" engraved on it. They also gave her a card in which they wrote their gratitude to her for the influence she had on their lives and asking her to never forget them. As a result of this group, the two girls became good friends and have served as great support for one another. They both said that this group had been life-changing for them, teaching them to deal with their past pain so they can move on with life. Teaching them to establish goals for themselves. Helping them to realize their beauty and that they deserve to be treated well. One of the girls said that the group had helped her to reconnect with God as she began to deal with the hurt and bitterness that she was harboring. As I saw the excitement and pain on these girls faces as they prepared to say their goodbyes, I knew that Jordana was living out her vision and her passion. I knew that the Lord had worked through her to influence the lives of these girls in a very positive manner. I knew that these girls would never forget Jordana and Jordana would never forget them. As they walked out of my office I was so filled with pride for my wife that I began to tear up. She had finally found an outlet for the vision the Lord had given her. She had finally found a way in which to live out her passion. And I know there are at least two lives that are better for it, Jordana's as well. With the pride of a husband, I honor my wife. With the pride of a father, I know the Lord honors her as well.

Here's to you Jordana.

A Tribute to My Brother

My brother is truly one of the most amazing people that I know. He's the type of guy that never ceases to amaze. He's been my best friend basically since he was born. Our family moved around a lot when we were little so Zach and I always did pretty much everything together. We were seriously inseperable, and usually still are. We had our fights like any siblings, but usually it was just me being an idiot. I have so many great memories of he and I sitting up late together, eating chips and drinking Dr. Pepper, watching a funny movie or playing NBA street on playstation. When we were kids we had all these projects that we did to make ourselves feel important. One of these projects was nailing 2x4's in random places on the inside of a bunkhouse because we thought that's what construction was. Good times.

Zach is now a United States Marine. He's currently stationed in Iraq and doing well. I get occasional letters and e-mails from him, as well as phone calls in which there's a ten second pause that always makes the conversations interesting. Zach being in the Marine Corps has been tough for me in a lot of ways. When we were little, I was always the big brother who protected him. I remember one time we were on the playground at our school and some kid started calling my brother names. I ran up and punched the kid in the face and told him to leave my brother alone. I was so mad at that kid because my brother didn't do anything to him, and I remember clearly the feeling I had that I needed to protect my brother. I got in pretty big trouble for that, but I never regretted it. That kid should never have picked on Zach.

We're not on the school playground anymore. My brother is not getting called names by bullies, he's getting shot at with real bullets by real people who want to kill him. And I can't protect him. Thinking about it brings back the exact same feelings that I had when that kid was picking on him on the playground, but there's no bully that I can punch in the face. I'm helpless.

Zach being in the Marines has also forced me to think through a lot of issues regarding the war, etc. I've talked with him lots about the politics surrounding the war and what he thinks about it. I think the thing that I appreciate most about my brother is that he doesn't look at things in black and white. He knows that the people he's fighting are human beings with families and a cause that they believe in, and he doesn't feel the need to dehumanize them in order to deal with it. He's told me that if he pays attention to politics, he'll just get frustrated. He looks at what he's doing as a job, and his responsibility is to protect his fellow Marines who are in harm's way. I think it's less about fighting for a specific cause and more about looking out for his buddies beside him. He also said that he gets motivated by the kids. He was in Afghanistan for 8 months last year, and he fell in love with the children over there. He told me that he saw what he was doing as creating opportunities for kids that they wouldn't otherwise have. He said they were removing the terrorists who were brainwashing kids from a young age and giving the kids an opportunity to get an education. He said that being able to watch kids learn to read and write was the motivation he needed to get through his 8 months over there. He said that regardless of whether or not the war was a good thing, there were at least some positive consequences. He said that if he allows himself to think about all of the political bullshit within the leadership of the Marine Corps and our country, he just gets frustrated. I certainly have my questions about the war and I wonder what would happen if we spent more money on development and less on war. What I love about my brother is that I can talk about these questions with him openly, and he gives me a different perspective that challenges my assumptions and makes me think. These are not black and white issues. While I would love to just see war disappear, the world is not that simple.

The other thing I love about my brother is that when we traveled on a plane together this last summer and he was wearing his dress blues, he wanted me to wear my tie dye shirt so that he could be the Marine traveling with the hippie just to challenge people's perceptions. He got offered a free seat in first class on that trip but wouldn't take it unless I could go with him. He is an incredible and honorable man.

The hardest thing about my brother being in Iraq right now is knowing that he would sacrifice his life without hesitation if that's what it took to save one of his fellow Marines. He told me the last time he was home that he knows what his future holds and he wants to do everything he can to make sure that his buddies have as much time as possible to make their peace with God. That is incredible love. That is the love that Christ showed and called us to, called me to. The love that causes someone to sacrifice their life for the sake of another. The love that causes someone to pray for their enemies and grieve the pain that comes with war. This is the type of love with which my brother lives, and I hope one day to live with it as well.

Here's to you Zach.