More Of It Seen, Not Quite All Of It Yet.

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This morning I was travelling down the highway when a Prius pulled out in front of me, in the left lane, with emergency flashers going and two pieces of particle board strapped to the roof.

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This is on a road under construction, lane restrictions, average speed 55+. He’s going maybe 18.7, passenger and driver both have outside hand out the window holding down the boards. Tied down with at least two wraps of cheap twine.

Every time I witness such an exhibition I despair for the driving public. There are maroons, and then there are maroons, to cite that eminent philosopher Buggs Bunny.

I think Buggs would be a better driver. I was in Florida for the past week. I think Elmer Fudd has a shot at being a better driver. This is largely due to the demographic: older than me. Elmer’s covering the younger demographic: road ragers.

I might have some road rage if I drove here long enough. Younger drivers lose it after a while due to the heart-pounding adrenaline dumps you get when seniors pull out in front of you at freeway speeds. I have learned to keep my idiot box about 5x it’s normal size this past week. I will be as bad, or worse, when my hearing and sight decline to the level of my motor skills. This is just aging taking its toll.

The Prius, however, topped the cake.

I’m going to risk it all in a few minutes and head out to a local restaurant with my mom and wife. I will set the blog to post automatically tomorrow – just in case I don’t make it back.

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The Names Don’t Matter. The Healing Does.

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Posts like this one are touchy. I want to tell this story because it has taken a beautiful turn, yet I don’t want to hurt anyone by telling it in the wrong way. I will try my hardest to put it in the positive light it deserves.

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Several years ago I was heavily involved in an organization as a volunteer. I put in long hours, had great responsibilities, and loved the people I was involved with each day. Over time that relationship quit “doing it” for me. I became disenchanted with things, was sure I knew a better path, and eventually wound up leaving.

I did not take that step lightly. I had dear friends within those walls. People whom I considered brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. I prayed for a very long time. I sought guidance from people I respected. I listened to what I was sure God was telling me to do in order to regain my joy with life.

My departure was orderly. I turned over all of my materials, showed the leader of the group where everything was, prepared a pass-down briefing, and quietly said goodbye all in the space of a single day. I thought I’d done things the right way.

It turns out that something I had done/not done caused a resentment to smolder. It burst into flame some time later. I was crushed: I could not figure out what I’d done wrong.

Over all the time since I left, I’ve continued to volunteer with two associated groups in the same building. This brought me into contact with my old group on a semi-regular basis. It was almost as cold a relationship as the weather in Minnesota.

One evening, as I got out of my car, the wind almost knocked me over. I finished my work with one group and got ready to leave the building. I’d done some good work, accomplished a lot of what was needed and helped them move toward their goals. They’re a good bunch, they don’t need me, but they appreciate the help and experience. It was fulfilling.

An old friend was between me and the door. We gave each other a hug and chatted for a moment. As I looked up one of the people whom I had been estranged from was walking by on the way to their office. I spoke up and offered some words of comfort for a sick relative of theirs. I extended that olive branch at the risk of a rebuke. Instead, “We all need that prayer. Thank you.” A kind response. A good response. A smile.

My friend then informed me that the person we were speaking of was in the next room. God, who is merciful and great, moved me across the room to talk to a person I had given up hope of ever talking to again. I got down on my knees (she was seated) so that we would be at eye level and as I knelt she said, “I just asked God to bring you to me yesterday. I want to apologize.”

If that moment hadn’t happened to me, I’d suspect it as bad writing in a poorly written novel. There, next to the Christmas tree we traded apologies, talked about life and illness, and smiled at each other for the first time in years. It felt good. It was the right thing to do. I gained back a friend by listening to God.

In the next few moments I had a chance to make amends with another person. All I could say was that I was glad we were healing and letting the enmity go. I had regained two people who mean a very great deal to me. I was blessed.

As I left, I was walking on a cushion of joy. God had healed broken hearts, including mine. I had carried around that hurt for way too long. I was released from yet another bond of that liar, Satan. In the space of fifteen minutes I had gained back a large part of my life that I had assumed was lost forever.

Today, if you’re up to it, I’d like you to search your heart for a missing piece. Look for that broken bit that you can heal by stepping out in faith. I’m not asking you to walk into a buzz-saw, or risk your physical well-being. But pray about fixing a broken friendship. Look at the possibility of finding peace with an estranged friend.

Most of all, trust God when he tells you to say a kind word to a person in need.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

CLICK: Attention All Hands. Now Hear This…

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Item 1: The staff of this blog is touched by the outpouring of messages, comments, and contacts from former shipmates about the crew of Ranger 12. I am still seeking pictures. If any of you have pictures of the guys, or know their families, I’d like to use them down the road to honor the crew.

Item 2: I realized a lot of you are still hurting all these years later from the loss of those fine men. I want to talk about that below the bar here.

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Ladies and gentlemen: I realize that spooks don’t have mental health problems. Not a one of us. You get your badge pulled for admitting that you have issues.

Well, that may have been true 27 years ago, but I’m begging you to listen to the reality of today: If you’re feeling overwhelmed and sad, thinking about harming yourself, call 800-273-8255 and talk to someone immediately. If you want to chat, hit the bottom of the page and use that logo. If you’re a friend of mine, call me. But don’t sit there and stew: reach out.

I’m a blunt person: I’ve lost too many friends in the last 30 years to suicide. Reading some of the stuff this brought up I worried about all of you and wondering how we ever made it this far. We didn’t go for help, we just gutted it out. That’s not working. I’m weary of opening my email and Facebook and reading of another CT who took their own life.

People, you’re all amazing if you were in the business. Not a one of you is anything less than a valuable asset to national security. Each of you is smart and a part of the family. I realize depression and suicide don’t let you think rationally about things when you’re in the midst of the darkness. So I’ll say it loud and clear:

YOU ARE LOVED. YOU ARE ONE OF US. CALL A SHIPMATE OR 800-273-8255 AND GET HELP NOW!!!

I hate caps lock, but that needed to be shouted out.

Now, for the rest of you hoodlums, the ones who are momentarily in full possession of your faculties, resume your preparation for the snooperdull on Sunday.

That is all. Now sweepers…

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

Bangles On The Radio, Reagan In The White House, Memorial Services Back Home.

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In 1987 The Bangles were capturing the airways of the world with their music. Ronald Reagan was in the White House winning the battle for the soul of the human race and crushing the Soviets, and the crew of Ranger 12 joined me under the ocean. I would return to the surface, they are still lost all these decades later.

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The first paragraph might sound disrespectful to the crew of the mission, but it was part of the joking back and forth between the submarine riders and the flight crew of the era that “there were a lot more airplanes in the ocean than submarines in the sky.” We busted each other’s chops all the time back in 32 Division: where the riders, flyers, and skimmers came to roost between deployments. The humor of that statement left when I found out about the death of my friends CTI3 Patrick Price and CTI3 Craig Rudolph a few weeks later. (I’d love to link pictures of them, but the web wasn’t around yet. I can still picture them in my mind. Forever young.)

I’d been out on a mission on a submarine with a detachment of people who knew the air crew. We’d been a tad bit busy, and we had not received word of the crash that killed our friends. But the dark depths we’d just left were the grave of our comrades. When we found out, weeks after the deaths and the memorial service, we held our own impromptu memorial at the enlisted club in Naples, Italy.

The Cold War wasn’t all that cold for the people who flew the missions from carriers, or who rode the submarines. Nor was it cold for the men on the DMZ in Korea, or the plains of the Fulda Gap in West Germany. It was hot. Shots were fired, people hacked to death with axes, and planes plummeted to the bottom of the sea with the crew still strapped in their seats. We lived in a Europe racked with terrorist actions. It impacted our lives directly.

Today, 28 years later, people in the United States think that terrorism is something relatively new. Not for us. We all had stories about places we’d just left being blown up. I can count two different places that went bang within 24 (or 2-4) hours of my departing. It was a tense time for everyone. Every mission we went on, surface/subsurface/air, could be the one that started WW III. Sound like an exaggeration? Not to us: we were the guys who collected the intelligence that war decisions would be based on back in Washington. If we hit the panic button, bad things would happen to people as a result. Consequently we trained hard, we treated every single trip as a wartime event. We had fun like all young men like to (it was just men back in the 80’s) but when things got tense, we hunkered down and did our best.

I remember Craig as a quiet guy who was a good student. He sat across the aisle from me in class for the final part of our spook training. He had a partner in crime in another student (who didn’t complete the training pipeline: about 40% drop rate at that time) and so our contact was somewhat minimal. He went to flight school and I went to surface school.

Pat was the quintessential southern gentleman. I remember him as a friend of everyone. He was the guy who would hold the door open for you in a driving rain even if he didn’t know you. There was a smile in his eyes whenever you talked to him. He was in love with his wife. He loved to fly, and I know he’d think it funny and touching that the gymnasium at the Defense Language Institute is named in his honor, yet there is nothing about him on the webpage for the facility: not even a picture. That’s sad. He was a good looking young man.

This weekend marked that anniversary for the people who were friends and relatives of the crew of Ranger 12. I’ve written about it before, I’ll write about it again. Those deaths were part of the sacrifice made to keep a nation free. The deaths of my friends and classmates on Ranger 12 were the last Cryptologic Technicians to die during the Cold War. I know it’s not how some would view the military during the Cold War era, but they were brave young men on the front lines of a struggle for the soul of mankind. If you doubt their integrity, loyalty, or zeal for the mission, I pity you.

Freedom isn’t free. RIP, shipmates. I still miss you.

LT Stephen H. Batchelder
LCDR Ronald R. Callander
AT2 Richard A. Herzing
LT Alan A. Levine
CTI3 Patrick R. Price
LT James D. Richards
CTI3 Craig H. Rudolf

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If you have a photo of the crew members (any of them) or a picture of just Pat and/or Craig, please contact me privately. We have a DLI contact who will get that web page updated with info if he can. joseph AT commotioninthepews.com Thanks.

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Ranger 12 Memorial

Ranger 12 Memorial

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

Another Miracle To Report

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Discretion sometimes causes a lag on items in this blog. Specifically, I hesitate to talk about children that I come in contact with as Santa.

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Today that cannot be the case. I have three miracles to report. Not the “Oh, that’s cool” kind of miracles, but the stuff of biblical proportions.

No names, not fair to minors. But this past year I have seen two children who were not supposed to make it come through and thrive. There is a third who just got a clean bill of health after a major surgery to remove a tumor. A tumor that was ruled untreatable just a month ago.

It may just be me, but it seems that most people think miracles are reserved for the Bible. Since Jesus went to Heaven nothing all that special has happened according to many people. Like someone forgot the recipe for something complicated and nobody has been able to recreate it in the meantime.

Miracles are like ice cubes: the recipe is simple. For miracles you need faith and prayer. Great doctors, inspired and guided by God, are certainly a part of that equation. But more than once I’ve seen those who would be ruled beyond hope come back and continue. It moves me each time.

God works in our lives. Just the fact that people know you have prayed for them does them a world of good. It inspires them to know that you love them enough to ask God for His help. Think about that: this person is so important to you that you take the time of the Creator of the universe to ask for His intercession.

I post prayer requests here from time to time. More often, as in almost daily, I stop what I’m doing and ask for God to help lead someone, heal someone, or bring joy to someone. It’s rewarding to me to have that time with Him. It also benefits someone else.

Today, when you are finished reading this piece, take a couple of minutes to pray for someone who needs your help. If you don’t know someone, here’s a list of names:

Ken
Bruce
Deb
Bob
Pamela
Craig

Each of them could use a bit of prayer. Thank you for interceding with God on their behalf.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.