You Know When You Know

Special: Home & Family

Two weeks and 14 years ago—March 16, 1998 to be exact—a young flaxen-haired beauty and I rode the tramway to the top of a mountain in Palm Springs, California. We walked out into a sunny snowfield in a clearing in the woods. I read portions of my journal to the girl, the parts that talked about the bottomless well of love I’d fallen into. And then I asked her to marry me.

Yes, she said yes, she said yes, she said yes.

Engagement picture, March 16, 1998

As far as it meshes with today’s popular notion of what’s required to get engaged, the girl and I did everything wrong. We hadn’t saved a big pile of money for a fancy wedding. I hadn’t yet bought her a diamond ring worth at least two month’s salary. We barely knew each other. We had never lived together.

They say it takes at least 12 lengthy months to properly plan a wedding. Maybe two full years, if you really want things done right. Give it five years and you’ll really be certain.

But I say you know when you know.

We were married in 12 weeks.

D-day, June 6, 1998

The girl and I moved to Washington State where I worked, and we shared the 500-square-foot apartment I’d kicked around in as a bachelor. We owned one car between us—a Jeep Wrangler—plenty of fun, but low on practicality if you wanted to talk while driving or take a trip with two suitcases. We bought one piece of expensive furniture, a gloriously comfortable couch.

As a wedding present, some jokester gave us a 20,000 piece puzzle. Most of it was featureless blue sky. Over the next six months we worked on that puzzle, frustrated but determined. We finished it, then burned it in the fireplace.

Newly married life was a bit like that puzzle. It required some adjustments, sure. About ten years’ worth, we’d both say today with a grin.

We found it challenging, for instance, to learn all those practical sides of running a household. Who puts the dishes in the dishwasher? Who makes dinner, and what kinds of comments are appropriate when it’s over?

We wrestled with unrealistic expectations. My wife would say, for instance, that no matter how romantic the movies make it seem, it’s completely revolting to wake up and straightaway smooch a person on the mouth.

Oh yeah. There’s junk. People enter a marriage as blemished, imperfect, mistake-making folks. Everyone screams and stomps and throws the remote at the wall when they’re angry.

I did.

I understand why people are hesitant today to offer marriage glowing endorsements. The institution can be a tough road to travel, one that plenty of people stumble along.

Even at the best of times, as my God-fearing grandmother Hazel used to say about her very happy 60-year-marriage to Grandpa Bob, “I never once considered divorce. Murder maybe. But never divorce.”

Strangely enough, she was quoting the late Ruth Graham, wife of Dr. Billy Graham.

That’s Ruth’s and Grandma’s wisdom. Do you see the truth in it? They knew marriage was tough. But they also knew marriage was good. Deep from the beginnings of time, people were meant to be together.

And that’s why I believe in all the potential for wonder and goodness and security and fun that a marriage holds out to people, even today. We are not modern people. Bah. We are not bound by the superfluous conventions that others insist are required before a marriage takes place.

14 years later. Still smiling. 

It takes a bold man to get married. You know when you know.

If you are married right now, take this day to remember your engagement. Remember the promise and hope that day held out. Use that memory to fan into flame the love you now have.

And if today you are in a committed relationship and vacillating on the choice of marriage, then my encouragement is to gather your journal and a bouquet of wildflowers, take the tramway to the top of the mountain, and boldly proceed.

Question: What’s the most challenging thing about being married, being single, or being in a close, unmarried relationship?

In tribute to Clarence "Clancy" Lyall, 1925-2012

Clancy Lyall, one of the original Band of Brothers, passed away about 4 a.m. March 19, 2012. He was 86.

Most recently of Leonardtown, Maryland, Clancy perhaps wasn’t as well known as some of the other men in the elite outfit of paratroopers, but his contributions were no less important. His life story was profiled in my 2009 book We Who Are Alive & Remain. Another journalist, Ronald Ooms, has been working on a full length book version of Clancy’s life.

Clancy was born October 14, 1925 in Orange, Texas. His father was a Scottish boatman who worked on oil tankers, and his mother was a full-blooded Cherokee from Oklahoma. The couple settled on a farm in Texas, which is where Clancy grew up. He was a rough and tumble boy who filled his hours by chopping wood, working on the family farm, and hunting squirrels, snakes, and cougars.

In 1939, when Clancy was 13, the family moved to Pennsylvania where Clancy’s father worked for an oil company. His mother had named him Clarence for the Latin word meaning “illustrious one,” but after the move, he changed his name to Clancy to avoid fistfights.

When Pearl Harbor hit, Clancy was only 16, but he was big for his age—5 foot 11 and about 160 pounds. He told the draft board he was 18 and was accepted. He trained at Camp Blanding in Florida, then at Fort Benning, Georgia, for Airborne training, then was sent to England with the the 2^nd Battalion, 506^th, Headquarters, heavy weapons.

Clancy jumped into Normandy on D-Day he was wounded during the battle of Carentan. He described the incident:

We attacked the town. Man, we were really fighting there. Me and a couple other guys could see around the corner of a building to a downstairs area with some Krauts in it. We decided to throw grenades at the target. As we rushed around with the grenades I ran around the corner and was stopped flat by a German. I plowed straight into his bayonet. His weapon stuck fast in my gut. We were both frozen, still standing up—I think he was as scared as I was. I shot first. As he fell backwards he pulled his bayonet out of my stomach. I put two rounds into him. I wasn’t shooting to wound then.

In the hospital in England, Clancy reunited with his father, who was being treated for hypothermia after his merchant marine ship had been torpedoed. When Clancy healed, he was reassigned to Easy Company in August 1944 and became a machine gunner.

Clancy fought valiantly in Operation Market-Garden in Holland and was wounded for the second time when shrapnel from a mortar round hit his leg. He was evacuated to a hospital in Brussels, then rejoined his company in Mourmelon, just in time for the Battle of Bastogne where he fought for forty days. Near the towns of Memming and Muhlhausen, Clancy helped liberate concentration camps.

After the war, Clancy reenlisted and was sent back to Germany. He served in the Korean was with the 187^th Airborne and also in Indo-China. He resigned from the military in 1959 with the rank of Master Sergeant.

Following his career in the military he moved to Florida and worked as marketing director for Carvel Ice Cream.

He is survived by his loving wife, Liz, five children, and nine grandchildren.

Deepest gratefulness and tribute are extended to Clancy Lyall. He was a man who led well.

Info about Lt. Buck Compton's Public Memorial Service

A public celebration of life service for Lt. Buck Compton has been set for Saturday, March 24, 2012, 2 p.m. at His Place Church, 1480 S. Burlington Blvd., Burlington, Washington, 98233.

Pastor Nick Harris is officiating the service. A slide show is planned along with select speakers, music, and remembrances coming from family members, friends, and fans.

The invitation is open to everyone. Seating is limited to about 750 people.

Hawthorne Funeral Home and Memorial Park is handling any flowers or cards.

How One Man Began to Heal

I want to tell another story about T.I. Miller, a 92-year-old WWII vet I interviewed recently who fought on Guadalcanal and New Britain.

When it came to war, Mr. Miller had seen it all. Charging banzai attacks. Severed heads. Bloody arms, legs, and torsos. The works.

After he came home, a man doesn’t forget these things instantly, he said.

I asked him what helped. This was his answer:

What helped? My wife and family were a big help, especially my wife, Recie. At the same time, it’s something you gotta just do yourself. The secret, I found out, is just to stay busy. There were no government programs to help back then. No therapists to see. Nothing like that.

I was born and raised out in the country. So after I came back from the war, I built me and Recie a house out there close to where I’d grown up. I got out there and roamed around in the mountains. That’s what helped.

One time they closed the mines down for three months. Someone said, “Where you gonna go look for a job.” I said, “I ain’t. I’m gonna spend the summer out in the sunshine.”

 And I did. I took a two pound double bladed axe, walked a half mile up above where I lived. We had a field there, and I cut down big trees and cut them into fence posts. All I had was that axe. I made my own mallet and split those trees myself.

 I got me a half acre of ground, plowed it up, and had a field. That same summer I grew potatoes, corn, and beans. The whole summer I spent growing things I wanted to. I’d be out in the woods at daylight. I just worked like that and built myself back up.

 Notice three key actions in Mr. Miller’s plan to heal. I’m no therapist, but I’d consider these important components to helping anybody out of a hard spot.

1.      He busied himself with straightforward, non-emotional work.

The war had taxed Mr. Miller’s ability to cope. During those years of horror, he had experienced too many events larger than himself. Splitting wood helped him connect with a simpler world.

2.      He got active, outside.

Fresh air, sunshine, nature, and physical exercise helped him regain a sense of security and peacefulness. Notice he didn’t turn to alcohol, drugs, or any such trappings that only result in harm.

3.      He could see what he accomplished each day.

Plenty of beneficial activities have non-identifiable benchmarks, but it’s much harder for a man doing this kind of work to feel good about what he’s done. By splitting wood and growing a garden, Mr. Miller could see clear progress on a regular basis. At the end of each day he could point to a pile of fence posts and say, “There it is. I did that.”

If you know a returning veteran, or anyone for that matter struggling with a dark place, please consider passing this article along.

The advice doesn’t come from me. It comes from someone who was there, survived, healed, and went on to thrive with the rest of his life.

Question: Have you ever been in a dark place? What’s the best thing you did to help you heal?

The City of Blinding Lights

Last night Miss Mary and I took the kiddos to IHOP for dinner. As we sat munching on funny face pancakes and omelets, it started snowing outside, big, fat flakes. This type of weather is unusual for the Pacific Northwest in March, a month typically heavy with rain and discontent. We drove home through the slush, put the kids to bed, and sat up watching sitcoms on Netflix.

This morning when I got up, I could see through a gap in the window blind the shadowy white of snow on branches in the backyard. Mary was already up, and I asked her to open the blind further, but she hesitated.

“No, look through the windows on the other side of the house,” she said with a smile. “The sun’s already shining over there.”

On the other side of the house, this is what I saw.

I went downstairs to my office and turned on my computer. Checked news and e-mail and a couple of blogs. Then I cracked open Facebook, and learned that the wife of a longtime friend had just died.

I haven’t been in contact with this friend for several years, as it often the case with Facebook. But I could see from his pictures how his wife, when she was alive, was as brilliant as a field of wildflowers. She died from some evil ailment that stole everything precious.

I couldn’t cope with this news. I think sometimes when you grieve, you grieve for everything you’ve ever grieved for. So I laced up my boots, stole quietly out of the house, and went for a walk over the big hill that’s nearby.

How overwhelming the world is this morning, I thought. Buck Compton passed away last week. Then my Facebook friend's wife. I know several other close friends who are battling cancer right now—either them or their loved ones. In the news there are tornadoes ripping the legs off young mothers in the Midwest. Children are starving in Somalia.

It’s too much.

What do you do when you feel full? Where do you turn? What keeps you going forward?

As I walked in the icy wilderness, I thought of something a mentor, Darrell Smith, told me years ago. I was working as a waiter throughout graduate school, and a job opening came up to be a youth pastor. I had never wanted to work in a church, but I felt this strange tugging in my insides that this was a direction I needed to go. I asked Darrell for advice.

“Remember who you are at the core,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if you’re a waiter or a youth pastor or an author like you want to be someday. The essential ‘you’ will be the same, no matter what your circumstances.”

What’s this “core” all about?

Jesus said only two things ultimately matter in life—loving God and loving people.

That’s what our cores are all about. No matter what we do for a living, no matter what news comes our way, no matter life’s circumstances, we keep going because we’re worshippers and ministers—in the broadest senses of the words. That’s always the invitation. To love God and to love others.

On mornings like today, when there is heaviness in hearts, somehow that thought brings perspective.

Things will be overwhelming, yes. But the call is to keep caring for people the best way we can.

Then, there is comfort in the thought that another world exists.

And in that world, the sun is already up and shining.