Cabela’s at four in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Wife shopping. Must stay awake. Losing battle.
Empty as my head.
This flu is still kicking my backside as of this entry being written. For the last few nights I haven’t slept very well. Hard to breathe, gippy tummy, vivid dreams.
Last night’s was a doozy, but it was an instructive one and I’m going out on a limb to analyze it here. I don’t place much stock in dreams as prophetic things or ways to understand your life. If that was the case I’d be flying an F-14 (yeah, I know, they’re gone but they were “my” airplane as a young man) and learning what it’s like to grow old with Raquel Welch since those were the two biggest dreams of my youth.
Back to the dream. I was in a huge church and for some reason I was pushed up out of the pews (commotion in the pews was not picked at random!) and into the orchestra area. Somebody handed me a saxophone. Why? I don’t know, don’t play that thing any better than the trumpet I carried around for years to placate my parents. But I did learn one thing in marching band – you don’t have to actually play the stupid thing if you march and fake it reasonably well on the valve fingering.
So there I was in the orchestra area faking my saxophone skills when a gentle presence asked why I wasn’t playing the instrument given to me? I gave some lame excuse about not knowing the “proper” way to play the sax. The presence departed and the song ended. In an instant there came a joyful noise from the loud speakers in the church – it was a song from my childhood – Rollin’ on a River by Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Now, all due respect to Creedence, but it’s not a religious song by any means. And yet in my dream it was an expression of worship. The words soared and changed and became a testimony to God. I cried in the dream with pure joy. My voice was the one ringing out in the church. The orchestra and the saxophone were forgotten and it was just me talking to God with my uplifted voice.
I think that this is what my calling is as a Christian writer. To lift that voice, the skill God has given me, to his praise. Society handed me a trumpet and a saxophone. I don’t like to play either one and have just been faking it with them all these years. But I have a voice that will lift Him up to the Heavens in joy and that’s what I should be using.
So, today I will write. It’s what I’m called to do. It’s what brings me joy and allows me to use the special voice God has given me. Those rejection letters stacking up on the table? He didn’t send them. I will move forward.
What has He given you that you’re not using? Why are you still faking it with that silly saxophone when you could be exalting Him?
(update: I wrote this early last week right after the election. Over the course of the next three days I received two rejection letters from publishers. Both were extremely kind. I am told that of all the rejection letters you get from publishers these are about 3/4 of the way toward the prized, “We’d like to sign you” letter. One said they really weren’t doing any books like my proposal at this time. The other said my skill level wasn’t there yet. That’s cool. Both were nicely put and neither one was mean or demeaning.
I have to wonder if God was preparing me for that rejection. And it inspires me to continue onward and not give up the dream. I’m fine with being turned down here on Earth as long as when I get to the Gates of Heaven they nod and let me inside. Heck, they can even snicker or roll their eyes. Just let me in.)
Yeah, it’s internet shouting but I sure love her. Happy Birthday, Mom.
Your favorite oldest son sends his love.
(It’s my blog and I’ll do what I want. Besides, there’s another post coming up later today.)
Larry the Bear sends his regards as well.
I’m a vet. Yeah, I babble about it a bit too much. But if there is a vet anywhere who doesn’t think that their time in the military wasn’t one of the greatest influences in their life I haven’t met them yet.
This morning I have on my dad’s watch in honor of the Marine Corps birthday.
Dad's watch.
The next picture sits on the plate rail in my dining room. (Yes, we were both undesignated E-3 students in our wedding photo.)
My wedding photo - she's a beauty!
I could not be more proud of my service. I was blessed by God to serve a great nation with good people. Many of whom are no longer here today to enjoy a discount at a restaurant or a thank you from a grateful citizen. And many more suffer from injuries, both physical and mental, much more profound than my creaky damaged parts and lousy hearing. I’m up and about. I’m one of the fortunate ones.
I won’t ramble too much today but I do ask that you salute the vets that you meet along the path in your life. Don’t wait for November 11th each year, do it every day. They are the true 1%.
And if you ever wore the uniform: Thanks. I’m grateful to you. Doesn’t matter if you cooked in a kitchen in Kansas, served in Vietnam, flew over the Gulf of Sidra, or handed out sick-call chits to malingerers in Florida. You served. Be proud of that and enjoy the day.
I salute all of those who are now serving, have honorably served in the past, or will honorably serve in the future in the United States Marine Corps.
I hoist a tankard of ale from Tun’s Tavern to the “Shores of Tripoli” and all the places where my brothers in arms in the finest Naval Infantry outfit in the universe have laid down their lives for this country and each other. May they rest in peace.
There is a special brotherhood in the Corps. 
I served in the Navy but my Dad was a retired Marine. The man earned advanced degrees and was eventually a major player in the Saint Paul Schools. But until the day he died he was first, and foremost, Staff Sergeant Oliver Courtemanche, U.S.M.C. Retired. Scratch him and he bled that amazing Scarlet that belongs only to the Marines.
I have other friends that are Marines. And they are all proud of that background. They should be – wimps need not apply. They are forever part of that organization. And, as I point out each year, I am envious of their camaraderie and sense of history. So, with an especially hale shout, I thank my Father Oliver Courtemanche, his best friend Harold Schwartz, Francis Brown, Frank the scrounger, George Heatherington, Paul Sharpe, General Hanlon, Gunnery Sergeant Smith, Lieutenant Colonel Bob Stephenson U.S.M.C. Ret, Tolor White, Dusty Liston (Sergeant of Marines and Mother of fine Daughters), Sergeant Dave Vig, Rick at Mickey’s, Staff Sergeant Gordon Goetz, Sergeant Clyde Smith, Mark and Josh from D.L.I. whose last names the years have vaporized, Sergeant Mark Herzog, Master Gunnery Sergeant George Gubko U.S.M.C. Retired, and the hundreds of other members of the Marine Corps I have served with in joint commands, schools, the workplace, and Toys – For -Tots. To a person, I love you all and honor you this day. (All ranks where as of when I knew them. I’m sure more than one went on to be Commandant. If not, the Corps screwed up somewhere.)
Semper Fi, Marines.
