The Day after

Dear Jaiden:

I asked you last night if you knew what 9/11 was. You replied that it was the day a plane hit a building, and a lot of people died. You knew that bad people had done it, and that a lot of the people who died that day were firefighters. You knew that adults kept saying "Never Forget".
 These are the things you knew. We talked a little more, and I shared the details, as near as I could remember them; of  Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

Today I remembered our conversation, and I began to wonder; "What lessons do I WANT you to know about 9/11? Do I want you to know that evil men hijacked our security and peace for a single day, and changed our world forever?" 

No- that is not the lesson here.

Today is 9/12/16, and as I thought about today I realized what I want you to understand is what happened on the day after.

The morning after 9/11, the sun rose over America the same way it had risen the day before. The first rays of sunlight to touch New York City cut through the ash and smoke to illuminate American flags draped from every height and vantage point. The city swarmed with people who left their jobs and drove through the night volunteering to help.
On 9/12/2001, America struggled to her full height, and became the country she had always been intended to be.

Every man and woman alive on 9/11 can tell you where they were when they heard the news. Almost every one of those can also remember the HOPE we felt as a nation on the day after.  HOPE that there would be survivors, FAITH that we would make it through this, and LOVE for our country. 

In the bible There is a passage that says when everything else is gone- when all of the good stuff in life is destroyed there are still three things that cannot be destroyed. Those three things are Faith, Hope, and Love. The day after 9/11,  America had all of those things. 

That is what I want you to know... that when life has you down- When you're flat on your back in the mud and ashes- there are still three things that NOTHING can take from you. 

You can always find FAITH if you search for it- You'll always find HOPE if you can believe in it-  but neither FAITH or HOPE would exist without the greatest of these three- and that is  LOVE.
I Had read that scripture many times- but I had no idea how powerful LOVE really was. 

Let me explain- 

9/11 still troubles my soul. Every year, when it draws near, I feel apprehension about what might happen, annoyance with those selfish people who seem to have forgotten it's lessons, and sadness for what it has cost us as a nation

.
As a firefighter, I'm not sure that will ever change.

But what did change was my perspective, seven years after 9/11, to the date. On 9/11/2006, I had to leave the fire station in the middle of the night, and drive to Doctor's Hospital. 

As dawn began to glimmer outside, a tiny baby boy made his entrance into this world.

 I, still in my Fire Department uniform, looked down at his tiny face, and despite the pains of the day, felt HOPE. I looked at you Jaiden, and I saw not what was wrong with the world, but for one moment, what was right, and nothing else.
I savored that moment... Holding the incredible blessing of new life, and none of the pain of 9/11 touched me. I smiled. I looked down at my watch, careful to mark the time. It was 5 am, 9/12/2008. 

Your little face was still and peaceful, and looking at you, my heart was overwhelmed with LOVE.
And that is the lesson, son. 

There will always be days of darkness, there will always be pain and heartache. But darkness can only last through the night. The sun will rise tomorrow, and in every instance where there is LOVE, where there is FAITH, where there is HOPE, terror loses it's grip on The Day After.

I love you son.

 Happy Birthday,

Daddy

Sunday's at the station

There are very few things in life that equate to Sunday's at the fire station.

 I became a firefighter in 1997, but my father was one long before that. One of my fondest memories is being invited to the table where he and the other firefighters were having a meal. I'm not sure of the other details of this meeting, but I remember a plate being placed on the corner for me, the cook ripping a length of brown paper towel from a fat roll, insisting that I partake. 

I remember the jovial camaraderie, the delicious food.... And the feeling of warmth and family.

When I became a firefighter, the memory of that moment stuck with me. Out of hundreds of experiences, countless memories and stories, the thing that most exemplified our brotherhood was this one brief memory. I would spend the next 17 years trying to duplicate this moment, not for myself, but for my brothers and sisters- Fire, L.E., or EMS.

 EVERY Sunday that I've been at work, and able, I've prepared Sunday Breakfast for anyone who cared to stop by the station. I am not alone in this. If you were an invisible observer of almost any given fire station on a Sunday, you'd see this identical scenario playing out. 

I'm a firefighter, not a rocket surgeon. I have no idea WHERE this originated, or even why, but it's there regardless. Don't believe me ? Stop by a station on a Sunday, just after "Changeover", and see if you don't find yourself pulling up a chair to a crowded table, a steaming hot breakfast filling your plate-- whether you want to eat it or not. 

To me, it's beautiful.

I may not know why it happens, but I take great comfort in finding it's example in the New Testament, and given by none other than the Master himself. In the two greatest examples of teaching recorded, Jesus first made the crowds sit down in the grass, and before saying a single word to propagate his kingdom, he fed them. 

There is one better example though. 

After Christ has been crucified, the disciples, unsure of themselves, have followed Peter on fishing trip. 

He knows their confusion, and knows they need direction. So he shows up on the beach. In his final physical act on this Earth, He cooks them a meal. How awesome is that? (John 21)

His final moments (physically) here, are spent feeding these guys he truly loved. 

A short time later, he gives the direction they need. He asks Peter a simple question: "Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me?" When Peter says yes, Christ gives him this reply: "Feed my lambs." 

Christ asks this question 3 times in total. The last two times, he gives this reply: "Feed my sheep."

Some may find the lesson I take from this a little trite. I find it simple myself, but I am often amazed at how beautiful, straightforward, and right the "simple" things are. 

So why did Christ make the extraordinary effort of communicating this message ?

Could it truly be that everything he wanted us to do is as simple as the concern we display when we take from our abundance, and look after the needs of our neighbors? 

I think it just might be.

So I challenge you. 

If you don't believe me, try this experiment. Feed someone. Preferably someone that can't do anything for you. If you buy them something to eat, then sit and eat with them. 

I bet that if you're really paying attention, in those moments of sharing food, you'll feel a kinship with that person... And with their Creator. 

Who killed my Department?!?!

Today, I saw more than a few posts on social media which were brutally honest, and very troubling. 

They pointed at a current trend within our ranks, a rotten poison eating away at the camaraderie, and the values that made me want to become a firefighter in the first place. They pointed at a time long past, when the image of a firefighter was a humble servant of goodwill, self-sacrificing in all aspects of his time and talents, and beloved by all the communities he served, whether rich or poor. 

I long for those days. 

There is within me an emptiness that is only filled by doing good, by being good; not as measured by financial or social success, but by the warmth and satisfaction of knowing that someone else, caught in a moment of crisis, leaned upon me, and found my life valuable. 

Today I peered through the eyes of men I respect, standing beside the casket of an ideal fire department, viewing a place where the light has left, where men now search for meaning in a job which was once the very source of their identity. I stared into that cold and lifeless face and wondered if it had ever lived at all... and if it had, then who had killed it? 

 I stood there remembering the last time I had broken bread with a group of firefighters. Men I serve with and respect. I know they too feel the pain of the same death I had seen. 

But this was lunch, and a break from training, so we swapped war stories, laughed at the same old jokes, and did the usual sharing- snippets and tips of things we've learned... Passing on information, but also showing each other just how much we know.

Each of us is equal parts proud, and strong, and good; though that goodness may only show to those who truly know how to look for it. It isn't always polished, or politically correct, or even clean, but if it can help you, it will NEVER  leave you to face your personal fears and dangers alone. 

As the conversation turned to training, the subject of basic skills came up. One discussion led to another, and before I knew it, I was discussing the shortcomings of another firefighter. 

For the sake of this discussion, I will say that I consider the error he committed to be inexcusable for someone in his position, and something that might have cost lives on an actual fire scene.

My story finished; heads bobbed around the table in silent agreement. Casual affirmation was made for my story, my obvious knowledge of the subject discussed, and the manner in which it was handled. 

Individually, I felt validated. In the company of these men, my peers, I had displayed at the very least, verbose , technical jargon that cemented my position as a proficient and knowledgeable firefighter. 

But as the day wore on, those words from lunch plagued my thoughts. They troubled me, because I began to see then; just as I saw today, what is eating us from within. What is already destroying the fire department I have loved for most of my life.

Individually I make little difference in the outcome of anyone's emergency. No matter how strong or proficient he or she might be, a single firefighter, a single rescue technician, will seldom be capable of getting the job done alone.

It takes a team.

A team is only strong TOGETHER. 

Our Department, our station, our crew, is the team we are given, and here is the nature of a winning team.

 It doesn't decimate it's numbers by ostracizing the weakest, but it finds a way to make the weak stronger.

 

The ideal department, lifeless in it's gilded casket, was laid low not by the dangers it confronted in a thousand flaming structures, or a sea of mangled wrecks.

 It was not brought down by the simple mistake brought about by haste, or the man who failed while trying desperately to do his best. There will always be TRIUMPHS... there will always be FAILURES. 

But when the team dissolves into individuals, eager to prove themselves at the expense of another, another nail is driven into the coffin of the fire department we all believe in, and we all wish could still exist.

 Perhaps it can. Perhaps we have only to learn this lesson. 

Today I glimpsed a coffin filled with the corpse of everything I believe in, and I wondered; then and there, who had killed it.

And suddenly, in simple clarity, my answer. 

I did it. 

 The one killing my department was me. 

The Sun Ship

I met a group of guys at the gym today. It's kind of a new ritual we've started. A few firefighter's getting together to do two of the other things we're really good at: Talking, and lifting weights. Well, talking anyway. We don't do it cause we're super spiritual, or even really great guys, we actually do it because we're just plain old guys... And we need to be reminded constantly of where we stand, and why we do what we do.
Before we start each morning, we do a brief devotional, and this morning's was good enough to share here.

Thomas Stokes, a Captain with Augusta Fire, and a long time friend of mine, coined the phrase above while we were discussing our Christian roles in male relationships- brother to brother, Father to Son, Etc, and how often our perception is horribly squed when we define those roles. I must admit that when he said " Sonship", I was lost for a second.

"Wait- What? Did we just get all Sci-Fi, or something?"
No.
What we were discussing had nothing to do with that "Sun", and everything to do with THE "Son". We discussed the Father's perfect love for his son-
How in Galatians 4, we are called "Joint heirs" with Christ; Sons, and not Slaves.

What does that mean?
Do you have a son? If so, you'll relate to this story of Thomas' son. If not then maybe it will clarify "Sonship" for you.

Thomas had to leave our workout session early today. He was going to be with his young son while his wife worked, and he began to describe what that generally entailed. Thomas related something every father with small children is aware of- that "frequent interruption" thing children have mastered.

You know, where you're completely engrossed in an activity, a project, whatever- and you can't stop without risking losing your place, your work, or your time. Your brow is twisted into a furrow of deep concentration, and just as you finally manage to get to that last step....
A tiny face that is just out of view leans in close, and with it's tiny little voice, interjects the single word that brings your project to a halt- "Daddy?"

Thomas said that if he ignores his son the first time, the next thing he'll feel is two tiny hands on each side of his face, forcing his head and his attention in the direction of the little antagonist. With impunity the little human then has the nerve to demand: " Look at me, Daddy."
"What do you do?" I asked.
"I stop what I'm doing." Thomas replied, "And I say- ok, I'm looking at you, what do you want ?"
He then explained that invariably, the little interrupter will say "ummmm.... I don't know.", or "Nothing, Daddy." 
Thomas explained that his son, like sons everywhere, just wants his attention.
"Then What?" I laughed.
"I stop everything else." He said, "And give him my attention."

I think we all recognize a child's quest for attention in this little story. But do we also see a Father's willingness to stop everything, to bring a project or a day to a screeching halt.... Just so his son knows he's loved?

Do we recognize ourselves in the example of a child playing on, secure in the knowledge that one single word brings his Father's undivided attention, not because he is imperiled, or sick, or in need... But just because he desires his father's attention? 
That's what Sonship means. 

Well that is how I visualize "Sonship". The idea, that a single "Abba, Father!!" Brings the full glory of the attention of the God of All Creation. It is not reserved for someone deserving, or a special circumstance. It is simply reserved for his sons. 

The Dirtbike. ( A treatise on being a 12 year old Chicken.)

I was not your typical twelve year old. Typically, twelve year old boys are extremely daring. They venture onto high dives, and climb trees that interfere with aeronautical navigation. Not me. At twelve years old, I contented myself with the pursuit of living to the ripe old age of thirteen. None of that macho twelve year old stuff for me. I was a "chicken" and I knew it. I had a lot of trouble convincing other people of this fact though, particularly my uncle Rocky.

"Rocky" ( really his name, my family is weird enough without nicknames), is one of those people who just seems to stand out in my early childhood memories. The furthest back my mind can recall, brings to memory a wild looking, tattooed and bearded 24 year old, all gritty, shirtless, and macho, swaggering up to my five year old self. "Go ahead"!! he bellowed, mostly for the benefit of a couple of female on-lookers. " Punch me in the stomach as hard as you can!!" I guess his not being afraid of a death blow from a five year old made him feel ( and appear) very Macho. Always willing to oblige my favorite uncle, I reared back and gave him the most terrific punch my five year old will could summon.
I'm still unsure who was more surprised by ferocity of that single punch; me, him, or those on-lookers. Suffice it to say, every mouth hung open, with Rocky's making small gulping sounds as he sank to his knees. The gulping turned into coughing and gasping, with what I am now convinced were several curses thrown in for good measure. I wasn't sure they were curse words at the time, but the way they heated my ears upon impact seemed to indicate that possibility. I filed most of them away for later use. It wasn't those words that concerned me the most. Interspersed with the curses were words like " kid", and "kill", and "murder". I filed this info away as well, although I was sure he didn't mean it, and was simply astonished by the strength of my blow, something he vehemently denied. He later produced witnesses that testified to my aim being slightly low, and in fact missing his stomach altogether. Well, that's the kind of risk you take when you involve short 5 year-old in your scheme to make yourself look tough.

It was sometime later that my uncle, either possessed by a thirst for revenge, or crazed by the blow to his lower anatomy; offered to sell my father a motorcycle for me. Despite some nagging doubt as to his motives, I was estatic!!Me, the cautious twelve year old, The kid that no one on the block ever challenged to anything more dangerous than a game of checkers- I was getting a Dirt-Bike!!
A beat up piece of refuse granted, and knowing the nature of my uncle, probably stolen too.... But I was getting a Dirt-Bike !! According to him, it ran, and no other kid I knew had a motorcycle.
I envisioned myself pulling up at a party, a exclusive party mind you, with the best looking girl in the whole sixth grade on the back of my brand spanking new Dirt-Bike, ( dreams are wonderful for making run down contraptions brand spanking new) engaging in small talk with people who a scant week before had snubbed me as "The Chicken". I would be daring, cavalier. A virtual twelve year old "Evil Kenevil".
I waited outside with high hopes the day my uncle was to bring over the motorcycle, my mind flashing with vivid imagery of me and the dirt-bike jumping ramps, kicking up geysers of dust, and generally having a good time.
I still recall the sound of that old beat up truck making it's way up our dirt road. Only a lame and blinded snail could have moved any slower, But suddenly, there she was. My Uncle's truck was an older model of the one the Clampett's drove on the "Beverly Hill-Billies". And in the back of that truck was my...
 "Hey Rocky!!" I hollered, " Where's the bike?!"
" All I see is this small heap of scrap metal you brought Dad with two moped tires sticking out of it!!"
My Uncle laughed, one of those high pitched, scary laughs he had begun slipping into since the incident where i punched him in the "stomach". He clamped his hand on the back of my neck, and squeezed until tears welled up in my eyes.I know this was just his tender way of "toughening me up", but in my desire to locate the missing bike, I immediately caved, flopping on the ground and doing my best impersonation of a little boy in pain. After a few hours, my uncle released his grip, and whispered really close to my face; "That is your bike, boy." The smile on his face worried me, so I just asked him straight- " Say, are you constipated?"
After he shook his head no, I took the opportunity to draw his attention to the condition of the bike.
"Gee Uncle Rocky, if that's really the bike, couldn't someone get seriously hurt riding it?"
He unleashed another of those weird, high pitched laughs, and replied.
"Nah, it's perfectly safe! I drove it a whole quarter mile yesterday, and only wrecked three times!" He paused to swell out his chest and strike a rather macho pose. " Look at me, do you see anything wrong with me?!" I admitted that at least physically, there didn't appear to be anything wrong with him. " Of course not!" He shot back, laughing as he did. " No time to waste then! Hop on and give her a try!!"
His laughter had broken down into a series of hysterical sounding sniffs and giggles.The sound threw me a little, and it was probably this that forced me to the extreme. I looked at my uncle, and then back at the Dirt-bike. Uncle, Dirt-Bike, Uncle, Dirt-Bike. Something didn't feel right, and I knew exactly what I would have to do. For the first time in my twelve year old world, the fact that I was "chicken" tumbled from my own lips, and NOT someone else's.
My Uncle's mouth opened and closed wordlessly for minute, and then his little eyes hardened. " Nothin' to be scared of, Stupid!" Watch me take her for a spin first!"
He managed to find where the seat and handle bars were in that malignant pile of junk, and climbed aboard. He deftly unfolded the cranking lever with the toe of his boot, and kicked it for all it was worth.
I'm no scientist, but I've been told that planes travel faster than the speed of sound. So did Uncle Rocky, or at least that's what I judged by the way he left his hat and a high pitched expletive hanging uselessly in the air.My Dad had been meaning to clean off some of the backyard, and no doubt he would have been beaming from ear-to-ear to see the way uncle Rocky was doing all the work for him.I watched bug-eyed as fours shrubs, a muscadine vine, the lawn, and a section of chicken wire fencing all lost successive battles with the "Dirt-Bike". I remember thinking if it didn't turn out to be a ll that fun as a "dirt-Bike", we could always use it for a lawnmower.
As for my Uncle, I don't know whether it was fear, or the wind rushing past his face that forced it into that horrible contortion. As he raced past me for what seemed like the eighth or ninth time, I heard him swearing at the "bleeping-bleep-bleep throttle, and cursing the Dirt-Bike's ancestors as far back as the wheel.
Then, in what most have been a burst of desperate and creative thinking, my uncle found a way to stop the raging motorcycle. He jumped it off the edge of what we kids laughingly called " The Baby Grand Canyon". It was really nothing more than a very deep washout that we kids played in from time to time when our mothers weren't looking. Because of it's steepness and depth, our mothers; like sane mothers everywhere, forbade us from playing there.I don't know how uncle Rocky seized on it as a solution to his problem, or even how he found it. God had carefully arranged the tress on the other side of it's fifty foot span to give it an appearance of being "Edge-less". The ground appeared to continue seamlessly from side to side.
The washout was only fifteen to twenty feet deep, but it must have seemed like a lot more, particularly after he hit that little mound of dirt at the lip, catapulting him into the air.About half way through the jump, uncle Rocky quit fiddling with the "bleeping-bleep- throttle", and loosed another of those freakish laughs that were really starting to bother me.
It was then the miracle happened. In a feat that the greatest of Daredevils couldn't have replicated, My uncle, in a blaze of what can only be described as creative inspiration, brought the motorcycle that thought it was an airplane to a perfect landing. It was beautiful.His victory was short-lived however. In his struggle to bring the bike under control, my uncle had landed in the bottom of the washout. The throttle was still stuck, and he crashed head-long into the clay wall on the other side.
The bike still looked the same, a pile of scrap metal with two beat up tires sticking out of it. My uncle was released from the hospital a week or so later, but his nurse advised me stay away from him for at least a year. Says he mumbled in his sleep. Things like " Kill", and "Kid", and "Murder."
Oh well, at least we have a really neat lawnmower, even if it is a little beat-up and rusty. When I can talk one of the other kids into riding it, that is.

RESCUE ME !!!! ( But Not like that....)

   It was late. I don't remember how many calls we had already run that shift, but it was too many.
As we pulled up in front of the shabby little house, I grumbled into the mic, " Dispatch, 39's on scene."
I flipped on the scene lights facing the address, pulled on my gloves and headed to the other side of the truck to rendezvous with my partner. At the side door, we divided up the equipment we'd carry in, and started toward the house. No words flowed as we walked, no discussion or humor. Like I said, it was LATE.

The call was for hypoglycemia; literally, just low blood sugar. The answer for this problem is simple, swift and effective. On scene, we do a quick assessment that includes vitals and checking the patients BGL (blood glucose level ). If that confirms our suspicion that the patient is hypoglycemic, we administer an amp (large prefilled syringe) of Dextrose, 50% solution by IV. It works like a magic show most of the time. Most of the time, the patient feels so much better that they try to refuse transport. This really hurts our feelings. A lot. (Not Really. Most of us can't afford feelings...to expensive. I knew an EMT that had a feeling once. The thing was so expensive, he had to become a doctor just to deal with it. True story. )

This was precisely that call.Our patient lay on his back, slowly rocking side to side. He seemed to be struggling to open his eyes, and moaning occasionally.His BGL was a whopping "24" if I recall correctly.
My partner and I just sort of flowed into action. One of my favorite things about Fire and EMS, is that after you've done it a while, you develop this "knack" for working as a team. Whether it's deploying a hose line, or starting an IV, you know what your partner's going to do. He knows what you're going to do.  It just flows. No talking or explanations necessary.
It can be a thing of beauty, born of necessity.

This is the situation we found ourselves in. It is vital to point out here that the patient was NOT the person who called us. People in this "semi-concious" condition have a REALLY hard time using the phone. The caller, the patient's room-mate; stood by watching us as we worked.
Perhaps it was because of the silent fashion we worked, or maybe because we didn't communicate to him exactly what we were doing, and what was happening. I really don't know. But at that moment, the room-mate said something I don't think I'll forget for a long time.
"Ya'll need to hurry up! You need to give him some insulin!" The room-mate turned to the messy dresser top closest to the door, and rummaging through the clutter, produced first a syringe, and then a small insulin vial!

For those of you who may not be associated with the medical field or a diabetic patient, let me explain that this is precisely the OPPOSITE of what our patient needed. In fact, giving him insulin at this point would have solved all of his future diabetic issues.... Permanently.

As calmly as possible, I advised the now adamant and excited room-mate what we were doing, and what giving him any insulin would have most likely caused. I informed him that in the pre-hospital setting, insulin is NEVER a treatment option. As our patient began to come around, I considered what had transpired, and what could have been the outcome if the patient had been alone with his well meaning but misguided room-mate.

Isn't that just like us though? 
Have you ever prayed for God's deliverance, or intercession in your life, and then specified the way he should perform ?
 " God, I can't do this myself. Rescue Me, Lord!!" 
And then as he begins to work in our life...
" WHOA, WHOA WHOA!! NOT LIKE THAT!!"
I know I have.

 The bible clearly states that as far as the Sun is above the Earth (92,960,000 miles), so are His ways above our ways. It also tells us in Proverbs 3:5-6, that we should " Lean not on thine own understanding, but in all thy ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight ( simplify) thy paths."

I was talking with another firefighter, and a trusted friend of mine at the gym yesterday about this call, and it occurred to me how often I do the same thing with God that the room mate did with us. I acknowledge that a situation is beyond my capacity to deal with, I hand it to him, and then as soon as I let go of it, I'm standing over his shoulder while he works... instructing him on how it should be done.
Sounds foolish doesn't it? 

Just thought I'd share. I don't think you need me to "draw out" the lesson here. For those of you who are brothers and sisters in the field, it should be obvious. For those of us who are brothers and sisters in Christ, it should be even more so. God bless, and have a great Easter Weekend!!!!

AAAAHHHHH..... Christmas

The season of Christmas is finally upon us !

And while the Christmas season is full of meaning to so many people, it holds a very special place in the heart of firefighters. Anyone who has seen a Christmas parade know that if the "REAL" Santa Claus puts in an appearance, he invariably does so from the vantage point of a Fire Truck.

Now there are some caveats here- for instance; this is usually a platform, or ladder truck, but that is simply for the sake of visibility. Any firefighter worth his salt knows that Santa was a "Pump" man. I'll offer this as proof : He's always wearing that suit ( appears insulated to me), those turnout boots and gloves, ( I would have picked a different color than white, but who am I to judge Santa? I'm sure the man has his reasons.) He makes entry through a  dark place where there's usually fire, and the fact that he's always "first due".

What do I mean, First Due?
I'm glad you asked. Even if you subtract the number of households world-wide that don't believe, or that have no knowledge of the "Santa" story, that would still ( I'm guess-ta-mating here) leave a cool 4-6 BILLION people to visit between midnight on Christmas Eve, and Dawn of Christmas Day. There's just NO WAY to get that kind of performance out of an aerial truck. Besides, they say a picture is worth a thousand words, so I'll save you some reading here. I found this picture online:

Santa, on  what is obviously a "Pump"

That's obviously a pump. And if you find/read it online, it has to be true, Right ?! I rest my case.
 Anyways, the whole point of this little diatribe is not to insult "truckies", It's to point out that there is a close relationship between the celebration of our biggest holiday, and the Fire Service in general. Firefighters, like everyone else; find themselves caught up in the joy of the giving spirit, and wrestling with the child-like glee of fostering "good will" towards our fellow man.

I especially delight in this quote from " A Christmas Carol". I found it (Yup, online again), and share it with you now. Isn't that what Christmas, and in fact the whole story of Christ is about? Opening your heart Freely to those below you? And I'm not just referring to Truckies here. ( Sorry, I couldn't resist.)
But in a Country so violently polarized, where people are convinced that THEIR viewpoint is truth, and everyone else is wrong- when we are so divided, isn't this just the Holiday spirit we need?

I invite you this season- inject some of the spirit in which Christ came into your holiday. Remember- He never called us to contend on his behalf, but rather to embody his earthly example. In the middle of your " hustle and bustle" take time to remember what it's about. These folks in this next clip did precisely that. When I watched it, I realized immediately that the God I know and love was there in that place, with those people. As the mechanics of the "Holiday Machine" ground to a halt, people all over this mall seemed touched by the presence of GOD.

Is there something I can do ? Someway to stop my busy schedule, and show the love of Christ to those I generally find myself at odds with, or racing against? I certainly hope so. These people did, and I'd like to leave you with their example:

Merry Christmas!! And God Bless Us... Everyone!

LOVE WILL KILL YOU

"Listen carefully: Unless a grain of wheat is buried in the ground, dead to the world, it is never any more than a grain of wheat. But if it is buried, it sprouts and reproduces itself many times over. In the same way, anyone who holds onto life just as it is destroys that life. But if you let it go, reckless in your love, you'll have it forever, real and eternal." John 12:24-25 (msg)

firefighter Acosta points to the location of engine 10 on 9/11/2001

 Tomorrow is the anniversary of the September 11th attacks that cost 2.996 innocent people their lives. The day will arrive, and statements about loyalty, honor, and courage abound. For the briefest of moments, everyone is stirred, and everyone is vocal. For a dozen years, I said nothing when 9/11 rolled around. 
I said nothing because I had no idea what to say, or how to communicate what this day makes me feel. 


What is there to Say?

On September 11th, 2001, a vast company of men and women; firefighters and first responders, became Heroes. Rising above the ashes of their own destruction; the blinding light and crush of rubble, they were NOT destroyed. They were transformed. The world stood still as they underwent their Apotheosis- from human to HERO; transcending the tangled steel, the choking smoke and dust.

For me, it feels almost sacrilegious to even speak of it.

What do I know of the dedication that takes ? What words would I speak to remind others of the meaning of sacrifice? There is nothing I can contribute to the statement, that they; with their lives, have not already written.

343.



That is the most I have written about 9/11/2001 in more than 13 years. I have always wanted to say something, but have consistently stumbled at communicating how deeply it has effected my life. It was perplexing, looking for some deeper meaning in all of this, seeking words to put here, and coming up empty every time. I often thought that having the opportunity to see the site for myself would provide the clarification I was seeking, and December 2014 I got that chance.


I dressed in the darkness that morning, imagining what it was going to be like to finally stand at Ground Zero. I didn't completely understand why, but I knew that I would want to leave some token of respect there at the memorial-- I had no idea what. As silly as it may sound to some people, I picked up a patch from my department, and slid it into my pocket before heading downtown via the subway. I stopped at Engine 10, and walked through the station, just a stones throw from the site. One of the firefighters took me on a brief tour, and then I made my way through a cold and steady drizzle to the memorial. I marveled at the "survivor tree", found alive beneath the rubble, and coaxed back to life. I stared up at the freedom towers- still under construction, disappearing into a stormy sky. I did my best to take it all in, and to come to terms with what this horrible and cowardly act had meant to me.

While I  try to describe for you what I felt, I still find myself struggling for words.The skies were dark, and the rain poured, matching the swirling emotions within me. I was angry, I was sad, I was in awe. Goose bumps walked the surface of my skin as I looked over the list of names bordering the infinity pools. I felt so many different things- pride and anger, sadness and desire- all at once.

The Patch I left at Ground Zero

 I reached in my pocket, and pulled out the patch from my department. As I placed it on the memorial, I wondered if those guys knew the solidarity and admiration the rest of us feel for them. I stayed as long as the weather allowed, trying to memorize every detail.
On the subway ride back to the hotel, I realized I had no more answers than I started this day with. I was disappointed. What was supposed to answer all the questions, instead left me feeling even more disconcerted.

 I have thought about that visit many times since.
 I think if you were inclined to look, you would find a commonality in all of us who take up the yoke of "Firefighter". Burning in the heart of all of us there's a little "I want to save the World".  But saving the world is a dangerous mission, and sometimes a suicidal one. Sometimes, like on 9/11; wanting to save the world will kill you.


What could make someone surrender their own life for the sake of another?
Only Love.
In the scripture above, Christ has just made his triumphant entry into Jerusalem. The excitement of his recent resurrection of Lazarus has preceded him. Caiphas and the rest of the priesthood, worried that the Romans will come and " take away their place", seek to kill him. He could have walked away- in fact; the disciples urged him to do just that.
Love made him stay. You see, He wanted to save the world too, and at ANY cost.
 It's staggering to think that the Creator of all the universe values his love for humanity more than he valued his own "physical" life.
 Love killed him.
It killed Him, and in doing so gave me life.


On September 11th, 2001, Love killed 343 firefighters.
It killed those brave men and women, but there is no way to estimate how many lives they saved... and maybe it's better that way.

I'll leave you with this little bit of "Ragamuffin Theology".
 It doesn't matter whether you believe it or not, LOVE is all that's required of man. To love GOD, and to love our neighbors on this "Communal Rock" as much as we love ourselves. Jesus himself said this concept is what the entire law is built upon. ( Mark 12:28-34) That same kind of Reckless, "ALL IN" Love.


 Yeah, maybe loving like that will kill you, but it's the only way you can be truly Alive.
   

  

  

"Leaders scrub tires."

"Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves. Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too." (Philippians‬ ‭2‬:‭3-4 NLT)



It's 11:04pm. Most firefighters pulling duty tonight; whether here at station 1, or in firehouses all over this great country are soundly asleep. I imagine their peaceful snores rumbling softly in bunk rooms, battling for supremacy with the modulations of oscillating fans. But me? I am DEFINITELY not asleep.

I am horizontal though, on the unforgiving concrete of a bay floor. You would think unforgiving concrete would at least have the decency to be cool to the touch, but this concrete didn't get the memo. I am sweating profusely, with a handful of tools and cleaners strewn around me, just in front of the Officer's side front tire of our rig, a 2010 Rosenbauer custom cab. I'm lying there because "I", a firefighter with 16 years experience, a good firefighter, a capable firefighter.... have made a truly humbling mistake. I lie here sweating; watching the long arms of the clock march resolutely past their appointed rounds, feverishly attempting to scrub the red and yellow curb paint from one colossal tire.

YUP. That's right... I did it- I ate up a curb in a truly spectacular fashion. With a rig full of guys, I bought, paid for, YAY- completely "OWNED" a section of curb coinciding with the location of our last call. To hear the guys tell it, the curb was equivalent in size to the GREAT WALL OF CHINA, and I was driving like a winged mammal from the nether regions. Anyone who understands firefighters at all knows the second my tire made contact with that curb, ( much more gently than they will ever acknowledge)  I was gonna pay.... (sigh) ...and pay I did.
For the remainder of their waking hours, the guys heckled and laughed ( I would NEVER do that to them, just by the way.) making fun of the guy who despite a wealth of knowledge and experience, had committed a rather egregious "Rookie" style mistake.

Later that night, after a phone call from someone who pretended to be Law Enforcement; calling to make a report on a severely damaged curb- the guys actually tried to help with the tire fiasco. While I sweated over a hot stove preparing dinner; they took the truck around back, washed her clean and scrubbed at the tire.It wasn't their responsibility, and I am truly grateful they did.When I went into the bay later that night, However; the tire was still less than "acceptable". I knew what I should do.

So now it's ODark30, and I'm scrubbing tire, humbled and annoyed with myself, angry that I could make this kind of mistake. I'm past this! Heck, I was past this YEARS ago. Newbies hit curbs and make silly mistakes, not guys like me. The words puddle hollowly between my arrogant ears, or maybe it's the sweat- at this point, I'm too tired to tell.

My mind follows the thread of negative thought deeper, and I actually question myself. " What am I doing here ?" I'm a forty year old firefighter. That slowly sinks in. "40?! FIREFIGHTER ?! WHY are you still a firefighter at 40? Why am I here? - lying on the floor, scrubbing my mistake off of a truck tire? The anger says I'm better than this, deserve better than this....and I wonder about my decisions in my career... whether they were smart decisions or desperate ones. I've consistently thought of myself as a capable firefighter, and a proven leader. Leader?  leaders don't make mistakes like this.... do they?  

I absolutely don't feel like a leader. 

But then again, what is leadership? Is it the guy who gets to make every decision, who calls the shots? Is it the guy who finishes first every race ? The guy who gets it right every single time?!
No, It's none of these things.

I encouraged myself with the fact that I was doing the right thing, refusing to turn over a truck that still needed detailing or fueling. I would stay up, and get this done because it's the kind of things "leaders" do.But the truth is the truck was my responsibility. Even if my "standard of care" is a little higher than someone else's might be, that alone doesn't make me a leader.

I hear a noise above me, and look up. My captain, a man whom I respect, and who's leadership I readily acknowledge, has walked out into the bay. " Whatcha Doin' Phil?" he chuckles. " Don't you know what time it is?"
I laugh, and then explain myself; why I couldn't let the truck sit at 78% fuel, and with paint on the tire. I'm kind of proud that he walked out here after finishing his duties, and has seen me scrubbing the tire. I hope it makes a statement about me. Maybe I am a leader after all.

We talk for a second, me lying on the hard, greasy concrete, and the captain standing above. When he turns away, I think he's leaving, and start back to work. It's not until he lies down on the other side of the tire, rag in one hand, cleaner in the other, that I realize what he's doing.
For a few minutes we work in silence, and I am understandably humbled again. After the conversation resumes, we talk shop; laugh at a few old stories. We break out the wax, and shine some of the chrome on the rig, chasing away her water spots.

When we finally finished working,  it was almost 2 am. I put up the cleaners, put the rags in the bin, and headed toward the bunk room. I was exhausted. As we parted ways in the hall, I look down at the captains hands- They are every bit as dirty as mine. I couldn't help thinking as I walked away, "I guess I was right after all....

... Leaders Do Scrub Tires."

"By humility and the fear of the LORD are riches, and honour, and life." - Proverbs 22:4

READY FOR ANYTHING

 It's summer again. I know this because the temperature outside is currently somewhere between "Good GOD, it's hot! - and "Surface of the Sun!". I also know this because the critters in the CSRA are out in force.                                                                                                      My station is located in an area that is bordered by "woods" behind the station, and is often frequented by unexpected and unwanted visitors. A few shifts ago, this little guy was crawling around the bay looking for an easy lunch. A friend and fellow firefighter almost stepped on him. Last year around this time, another firefighter at the same station came face to face with a scarlet king snake! Just FYI, The scarlet King snake is a very small, very harmless snake, that looks remarkably like a very small, very harmful snake, and all of this happened at 3 am, in the kitchen of the station!!                                                                                               The snake the king snake resembles is a coral snake, and is the most venomous snake in North America. In the parts of the southeast where you may encounter this snake, we teach the children a little rhyme: " Red touches yellow- kill a fellow. Red touches black- friend of Jack." Thinking about the encounter is amusing to me; but then, I've never had to remember that rhyme at 3am, groggy with sleep, when all I really wanted was a glass of water.                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Both situations remind me of a similar one in my past, where I fought a structure fire with what was most likely an equally surprised, and quite upset, spider inside my turnouts. The nasty little creature remained quiet and immobile until we arrived in the room of fire origin, and I opened the nozzle. Then springing from her hiding place in a perfectly coordinated attack, she proceeded to bite me at the junction of my shoulder blade and neck, ( the only place I couldn't reach with my gear on) at least three times. Adding to the confusion, my Officer began questioning me, quite loudly- and with an ample smattering of  scalding and unrepeatable adjectives and adverbs, as to my previous history of seizures and/or Tourette's.

The short version of the story ends with a dead spider of unknown species, and a firefighter wandering the station for the rest of the day wondering whether or not he was imagining being nauseous, and a myriad of other signs and symptoms.It's almost as funny as encountering a snake of indeterminate species on the floor of the kitchen at 3am.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       While all of us understand the importance of staging your gear in a manner which allows for quick deployment, I now find myself more aware of the manner in which I stage mine. Prior to the "spider incident of '03" as it's commonly known; ( at least by me) I would stage my gear on the floor of the bay, with boots and pants, jacket and helmet, outside of the pump. Not so now. Having fought one fire with the "volunteer spider" is enough for me. I'm very careful now as to the condition of my gear, and how it's staged. And you should be too.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 But I'm also reminded of this: We are all aware of the common dangers we face on scene. We all respond to the issues we think could affect us when we're in "firefighter" mode. But what about the little things around the station? What if my friend Rocky had stepped on that copperhead? What if the spider in my gear had been a "Black Widow" ? We can't control all of these things, but we can be more aware, and take steps to insure they are less likely to occur.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Even more profound is the way in which this impacts my observations on faith. I do my best to be on guard against the big things that could shipwreck my faith. But what about the little things that creep in unaware? Today I'm aware of the comparison between these stories and the little things that have crept into my heart...The way "little foxes" spoil the vine.( Song of Solomon 2:15)                                       How perspective changes, and the place where we feel most safe may be the place where we pick up an unwanted hitchhiker -- hurting us in our own house, or making us ineffective as we strive to help others.