I detest cell phones. I think they are leashes that enable people to
get by with poor planning. Far from facilitating communication, I think
they do the opposite. Forgot to ask what to get at the grocery store?
Ring! Fail to recall where Johnny should be picked up from, dropped off
where? Ring! I think that if people had meaningful conversations and
exercised their short - term memory more often, the wireless revolution
would grind to a halt.
That idea had gotten me into trouble this day,
however. It was dark out, and I was on a payphone located outside a
library on a Southern military base. My anti - technology stance meant
that I had to walk several blocks from the barracks in order to call my
wife at home. You see, I was a Reservist preparing for service in Iraq.
My wife and I both knew that any one of those hurried phone calls could
have been our last opportunity to hear each other's voice for many
months, or possibly ever if the unthinkable occurred. I was leaving
behind a young son with my wife, and trying to help him understand
where daddy was, and why he was not going to be home soon was a
constant heart - wrenching theme between us. Other times, our
conversations revolved around our worries about the future, my
readiness for war, and concerns about my fellow soldiers. I learned
about one more life - altering event that night at the payphone. My
wife told me that we were going to have another baby.
This news tore into me deeply. Experiencing the
entrance of a new life into the world is a charged event even in the
best of times. We were already living in an emotionally volatile
environment before this additional bombshell was announced. The impact
of something like this on an already tumultuous heart cannot be
understated. A whirlwind of thoughts and feelings swept over me in
reaction. Would I be there for the birth? If my Active Duty were
prolonged, would I be there for the first steps? Would I be there for
the first words of this new child? What about my wife? How would
she handle the stress of pregnancy with me being out of contact? What
about our son? At two years of age, he would have to deal with not only
his daddy being gone, but also preparing for a new sibling. Despite all
of these righteous fears and concerns, I also felt an outpouring of
joy. The birth of our son changed my life in ways I never could have
imagined. His entrance into our family opened my heart to goodness and
light in a manner that still awes me. Another child - another
opportunity to love - became to me another reason to stay safe and to
come home.
Only a few days after that momentous conversation, I
found myself in the desert of Iraq. I was surrounded by fellow
soldiers, but alone with my thoughts. The desert itself is pregnant
with meaning in the context of Divine Revelation. The physical
bleakness and austerity of the landscape is a powerful symbol of the
bleakness and poverty of spirit that can enter into the human heart.
Christian ascetics and mystical writers from the earliest days of the
Church have been quick to see the spiritual messages written in the
desert. In the ancient Church, the "Desert Fathers" fled the
civilization of their day and set off into the desert. In imitation of
the Israelites leaving Egypt, these monks saw the desert as part of
their own journey into the Promised Land. Later spiritual writers,
particularly from the Carmelite school, used the desert to describe a
unique state of soul. According to these spiritual masters, the desert
is used to describe a state of purgation where emotions dry up and
enthusiasm for the spirit wanes. In this interior deprivation, the soul
is welcomed into a deeper experience of the Divine. The frivolities
with which we
fill our lives are seen more clearly as the insignificant trifles that
they truly are. One arises from this desert much like a phoenix, having
discarded the
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baggage of ego and attachment to take flight towards a
higher realization of Divine Love. Thedesert experience is not a
depression of futility and despair, but rather an experience of
entering through the narrow gate and emerging as a person of greater
depth and gratitude. St. John of the Cross and St. Teresa of Avila
spoke of dark nights and deserts of soul within the context of the
heights of contemplative prayer and union with God. Whether one is a
contemplative, a soldier, or a parent, the desert experience comes to
all of us in our own time. This trial can be an opportunity for
growth, or a temptation to despair.
I
experienced many of the trials associated with the desert of the spirit
during this time. I was separated from my family and went several weeks
at a time with no contact. The ordinary and mundane aspects of military
life rapidly became nuisances. One is forced to live in very close
quarters with unfamiliar people, and types of people with whom one
normally would not associate on a social level. All of us can maintain
social decorum in normal situations with little trouble. Difficult
people, or people with whom we conflict, pass into and out of our lives
with regularity. We tolerate each other's foibles for the duration of
our interactions, and then go on with our lives. In an inhospitable
combat zone, however, the quaint conventions that keep us "nice" soon
disappear. The messages of the Gospel hit hardest in these times. The
temptation to bicker, to hold grudges, and to gossip makes itself
keenly felt in such an atmosphere. In contrast, one can taste the
presence of Christ when these obstacles are overcome, and camaraderie,
friendship, and levity blossom. I returned from the desert a wiser and
more patient person.
I
made it back from the desert, but I was not out of the woods yet.
Returning from the Middle East brought me back to the same military
base from which I had started, doing paperwork and turning in
equipment. During this time, when all of my companions were feeling
relief, I received an emergency notification that my wife was having
her appendix removed at thirty weeks gestation. The Army rushed me
through the process and got me back home to my wife. Just as our
parting was bittersweet, so was our reunion. The baby had made it
through the surgery just fine, but there was a danger of premature
delivery. The joy we felt at being together again was tempered now by
anxiety.
Our
daughter was born, past due, several weeks later. She became the new
delight of our lives. Far from being jealous, our son adored her and
liked to show off his ability to give her gentle little kisses on the
cheek. I felt the richest gratitude towards my wife for being able to
handle such a difficult pregnancy. And I felt proud of our son, who had
to be the man of the house far before his time.
Life
seldom offers us anything on our own terms. I went into the physical
desert alone, and yet my family went through the experience of the
desert with me. It is through trials such as these that we move toward
our full potential as human beings, and deepen our capacity to love.
The Saints and Doctors of the Church have always pointed us towards
this interior reality. It is my hope that we all may take notice of
their words and find some comfort.
| Kyro R. Lantsberger is a summa cum laude
alumnus of Minnesota State University-Mankato in Political Science/Law
Enforcement. A commandant's list graduate of the JFK Special Warfare
Center at Ft. Bragg, NC, he has served with the U.S. Army in both
Bosnia- Hercegovina and Iraq. Lantsberger contributes regularly
to both web and print media in the areas of religion, literature, and
political life. He currently lives in southern Minnesota with his wife
and children. |
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