The treacherous landscape was displayed in my window as we darted through the majestic mountains of the Afghanistan countryside. I sat with my face in the window for the entire journey. Seeing things through the portal of a helicopter here is a view that is unparalleled. The mountains are jagged and barren. I imagine them in late Fall and Winter with snow, maybe in the Spring with brush strokes of green - but not much. It takes a tough plant to survive these conditions. Green is a scant sight here. Doesn't matter; the view from my seat was exhilarating. It is the kind of feeling that you get when you take in a deep breath, enraptured by images that catch you for the first time. The whole experience was like standing where time ceases to tick. Many thoughts flooded my mind.
In the mountains I would see the occasional tent or lean-to dwelling. Once we entered the flatlands, there were more. I began to think to myself, “How does a person live in a tent in this arid place?” But, there they were spotted across the land. Some areas had houses that had been constructed. They were built out of hand-crafted blocks. It was like going back in time. I thought that I had stepped back about 2,000 years, except that I was in a helicopter.
Here, there are the everyday things that a war dumps on your, once, nominal life. All of this became a distant memory as I recounted the story that the images from my view were telling. It was a story of God. It was a story of someone Who makes all things difficult vanish into nothingness, even if just for a moment. As I gazed across the landscape, I remembered this story. This story isn't different, no. It isn't something that I heard for the first time that day. And though it is not different, it somehow is. I mean, every time I hear it, see it, or experience it through some tangible sense, it resonates deeper. It causes me to think more clearly about it. Something new is revealed each time. Maybe I am making no sense. It's just that I heard, or saw, and old, old story again. And, I was reminded once more of my hope, my salvation.
I was reminded of who I am in Christ. I was reminded of the Christ that I am to others. I was reminded that all of this is not because of me, but because of Jesus. I told a wonderful struggling soldier just yesterday that I have nothing to give. I have nothing else to say. I told him that I just know that he needs Jesus. It may sound simplistic. It may sound like I am from Alabama. Ok, then, let it be so.
Over the years, I have allowed an old, old story to become a polished, inoffensive, request. Dress it up however we like, it is the story of Jesus. It is a story of Him dying for my sins. It is a story of Him forgiving me. It is a story of me living in freedom. This story tells me that I am alright in His care. I could tell all these wonderful soldiers that developing coping skills and looking inwardly will get them through this war. I would be kidding them and myself. Last week, I prayed with a group of soldiers before a mission. This week, one of those soldiers paid the ultimate sacrifice. Not a lot of time here to work a ministry plan that will attract middle to high income churchites to visit me at the chapel. Only time to tell them what it has taken me 37 years to understand as deeply as I do today, that they need Jesus.
Maybe what I am writing is too prosaic. Maybe this too, is me attempting to place my words so that they impact others. So, I should summarize. I rode on a chopper through Afghanistan. It was amazing. God reminded me of an old, old story. It is the story that gets me through each day.
One might wonder how I got all this from a chopper ride through the mountains. It is a good question. For those who know God the way I know Him, it is no mystery. To those whose hearts are empty and searching for a place to call home today, it is still hidden, but not out of reach.
It is barren here. It is hot. Water becomes your best friend. The environment can destroy you if you don’t prepare. People here are durable and live simple lives. I have learned to live a much simpler life just being here. Something about flying through the mountains and seeing life from a different vantage point seems to have made an indelible mark on this 37 year old man. This mark caused the story to resonate deeply: It’s not about me, the soldiers, or even the Afghans. Somehow, the old, old story points us right back God.
In the mountains I would see the occasional tent or lean-to dwelling. Once we entered the flatlands, there were more. I began to think to myself, “How does a person live in a tent in this arid place?” But, there they were spotted across the land. Some areas had houses that had been constructed. They were built out of hand-crafted blocks. It was like going back in time. I thought that I had stepped back about 2,000 years, except that I was in a helicopter.
Here, there are the everyday things that a war dumps on your, once, nominal life. All of this became a distant memory as I recounted the story that the images from my view were telling. It was a story of God. It was a story of someone Who makes all things difficult vanish into nothingness, even if just for a moment. As I gazed across the landscape, I remembered this story. This story isn't different, no. It isn't something that I heard for the first time that day. And though it is not different, it somehow is. I mean, every time I hear it, see it, or experience it through some tangible sense, it resonates deeper. It causes me to think more clearly about it. Something new is revealed each time. Maybe I am making no sense. It's just that I heard, or saw, and old, old story again. And, I was reminded once more of my hope, my salvation.
I was reminded of who I am in Christ. I was reminded of the Christ that I am to others. I was reminded that all of this is not because of me, but because of Jesus. I told a wonderful struggling soldier just yesterday that I have nothing to give. I have nothing else to say. I told him that I just know that he needs Jesus. It may sound simplistic. It may sound like I am from Alabama. Ok, then, let it be so.
Over the years, I have allowed an old, old story to become a polished, inoffensive, request. Dress it up however we like, it is the story of Jesus. It is a story of Him dying for my sins. It is a story of Him forgiving me. It is a story of me living in freedom. This story tells me that I am alright in His care. I could tell all these wonderful soldiers that developing coping skills and looking inwardly will get them through this war. I would be kidding them and myself. Last week, I prayed with a group of soldiers before a mission. This week, one of those soldiers paid the ultimate sacrifice. Not a lot of time here to work a ministry plan that will attract middle to high income churchites to visit me at the chapel. Only time to tell them what it has taken me 37 years to understand as deeply as I do today, that they need Jesus.
Maybe what I am writing is too prosaic. Maybe this too, is me attempting to place my words so that they impact others. So, I should summarize. I rode on a chopper through Afghanistan. It was amazing. God reminded me of an old, old story. It is the story that gets me through each day.
One might wonder how I got all this from a chopper ride through the mountains. It is a good question. For those who know God the way I know Him, it is no mystery. To those whose hearts are empty and searching for a place to call home today, it is still hidden, but not out of reach.
It is barren here. It is hot. Water becomes your best friend. The environment can destroy you if you don’t prepare. People here are durable and live simple lives. I have learned to live a much simpler life just being here. Something about flying through the mountains and seeing life from a different vantage point seems to have made an indelible mark on this 37 year old man. This mark caused the story to resonate deeply: It’s not about me, the soldiers, or even the Afghans. Somehow, the old, old story points us right back God.
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