Lessons From Backyard Gardening

 Lessons from Backyard Gardening

12 There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way to death. Proverbs 14:12

I enjoy dabbling at gardening, and when I say dabble, I mean dabble. There are those who truly love gardening. They can grub up a handful of soil, smell it, roll it between their palms, taste some, and then tell you what will grow in your yard. Me, I troll the nurseries, reading those little tags and hope for the best. Occasionally when a worker approaches and asks if I need help, I reply, “I need tough plants. Plants that can deal with Lubbock weather and ham-fisted care. I need the Green-Berets of the plant world. I need leafy Rangers, ready to take the hill.” 

That said, I do enjoy gardening. I like the process. I thrill at the results when you get a group of flowering plants that signal God’s creative might with plashes of color scattered across the yard. I enjoy seeing the various pollinators buzz and flop around the yard, doing their bit to make things nice. I enjoy eating al-fresco with Christy or the rest of the family in an environ pleasing to the eye. But most of all, I enjoy the learning experience.

When I garden, it is as if the Lord takes time out to teach me about myself, to reveal areas in my life that need more attention, pruning as it were. As I poke, prod, and prune, God reveals His heart. He, the ultimate gardener, shares Himself with me. In some small ways, my little spot of green shares similar traits with His gardening of my human heart. He lavishes great effort on me, finding me an often-unruly plant, much like my Butterfly Bush.

One of the first things I planted in our backyard was a Butterfly Bush. I enjoy their colorful profuse lavender blooms and subtle scents. I also like their hardy nature which allows them to flourish here in Lubbock. Drive around our town during the summer and you will see Butterfly Bushes all over, peeking past fences or gracing business along major thoroughfares. Often you see them trained into small quirky trees.

I decided that is what I wanted in a nice sunny corner of our backyard. I envisioned a small flowering tree with a couple of Adirondack Chairs in the mottled shade. But how to get there? How do you turn a bush into a tree? Slowly is the answer. Once the bush establishes itself, you choose three or so branches to turn into trunks. Then, you relentlessly trim back any growth on those limbs. By cutting off the smaller branches, you force the bush to grow up. Eventually, the chosen branches thicken into trunks, and the bush grows taller. I planted my Butterfly Bush the first summer here, 2011. Now, ten years later, we enjoy a small tree close to twenty feet in height…tall enough so as to prohibit me from trimming from the ground, and I’m not planning on climbing any ladders to trim. Late each spring, I go through the same procedure.

I grab my clippers and get to work lopping off any new growth on the trunks and clearing out dead growth. It does not take long, but the result pleases me. The bush is now a small tree with space for two or three Adirondack Chairs to sit in the evening shade. Every year my tree wants to fill in the empty space in the middle. I know that it is a forlorn and useless effort. The sun does not shine enough in the middle of the tree. The canopy blocks the sun. The new limbs will grow well for a year, but they do not survive. The lack of sun stunts them and the next spring they do not put out leaves. What starts off with great promise and profuse growth ends up stunted, withered, and dead. I know this. The plant does not. Each year I trim, and the plant responds by pushing higher and growing bushier limbs. The plant and I share characteristics.

Often, I think things look great and push forward without consideration or prayer. The Lord knows what is best for me and works to train me to His vision. He sees a spot for a small tree in His garden. I see a fine place for a bush. I try my best to grow into a bush. That’s my natural inclination. He wants a tree to enjoy, one that reflects His work. My vision is really too small. So I put effort into fruitless pursuits, ones that He knows will not lead me to the shape He envisions. He knows that there is no future in that direction, no sunlight reaches that place. I do not know if my Butterfly Bush feels pain during the pruning process.

I can say with certainty, that I do not enjoy spiritual pruning. For a variety of reasons, I find the process painful or constraining. But I know that if I trust Him, I will enjoy the result. Like my Butterfly Bush, I have limited ability to see the future. I can envision, but the Lord can see. I recently was afforded an opportunity to take part in a ministry as a member of the leadership team; but, I felt no peace with the decision. As an officer in the Army, I trained to never turn down an opportunity to be in a leadership position. My natural inclination tends toward taking action, moving forward, and doing something. Sometimes, God would have us wait because He knows that proceeding in that direction is not what He sees. With great reluctance, I demurred, declining the opportunity and accepting God’s gentle pruning. 

It is hard to accept God’s will sometimes. Isaiah 55:8-9 reminds me that God’s ways are not my ways. He sees with clear vision; consequently, He sees that the path that seems so good will only lead to disappointment and ruin. I have to learn to trust Him. In chapter 55, Isaiah reminds the children of Israel that God has a plan, a plan for our good, a plan that will result in something we cannot envision. So like Israel, I must learn to accept His pruning. After all, in John 15, Jesus calls upon the image of a gardener carefully tending his vineyard. Interestingly, Jesus likens himself to a plant, ceding the role of gardener to the father. If Jesus can submit to the father accepting ministrations, so can I…with practice. And if I let Him have His way, perhaps I will grow into something pleasing, something that gives Him joy and pleasure. 

And There I Was # 14

 And There I Was # 14

What Became of the M-60 Toting Cook

“You want me to do what,” I replied incredulously?

“I want you to send SPC Milmoe to PLDC,” said SFC Borlongo calmly.

“But, you remember what he did in Tularosa during Exercise Roving Sands.”

“Yes, I do. He made sure that our soldiers sent up to the north end of White Sands ate two hot meals a day. He signed for and returned an MKT with no issues. And from what I’ve heard, the food he served was quite good. He made sure that he and SPC Jenkins did the right thing at the right time, with no supervision from you or me,” SFC Borlongo paused, “Isn’t that what we expect our NCOs to do?

“Well, yes,” I grudgingly admitted, “But he’s not on the OML. None of his uniforms or TA-50 have been inspected. And, he’s not had anyone refresh him on land-nav and that’s the biggest reason why soldiers fail out of PLDC.”

“I will make sure his uniforms are ready. And sir, he’s a much better soldier than you realize.”

I thought about her last statement. SPC Milmoe was a decent troop. As a young soldier, he was given to a certain level of goofiness. He never did anything particularly wrong. He just never did anything that particularly stood out as good. Recently married, he and his young wife often zoomed through the company area in their cool bright yellow Carmen-Ghia convertible, belching clouds of blue smoke that would have made any Smoke Platoon LDR happy. He possessed enough military bearing to keep him out of trouble, but PLDC! PLDC slots were few and far between, parceled out like gold by CSMs across Fort Hood.

Getting SPC Milmoe into PLDC would require that I prostrate myself in front of CSM Terry. CSM Terry and I had a certain amount of history. I’d first met him when assigned as the BN S-4 for the Signal Battalion that supported the 2nd Armored Division. This was before we reflagged 2nd to 4th ID (Somewhere amongst all my old Army stuff is a BDU top with the 2AD scar.). Through some rather painful moments that included a rather dented-up wall-locker, CSM Terry had made me into a better officer. Then an opportunity for company command had taken me away from CSM Terry and his stringent ministrations. Then he showed up to replace our retiring CSM. When LTC McKowen was introducing him to all of the company commanders and 1SGs, CSM Terry dropped this pearl in front of everyone.

“I know CPT Robinson. We were in 4ID together. In fact, I had to follow him over here in order to finish my project. I wasn’t through training him into a decent officer when he left.”

Don’t get me wrong. I liked CSM Terry. He was a fine soldier and as good a CSM as you can imagine. He just had this unvarnished way of calling a spade a spade. But, you could not find a CSM who would fight harder for his soldiers…including the officers in his unit. So after SFC Borlongo pestered the frog out of me, I found myself in CSM Terry’s office begging for a PLDC slot for SPC Milmoe. But after extracting promises of SPC Milmoe’s preparedness and ultimate success from SFC Borlongo and myself, he and the appropriate PLDC CSM exchanged the secret handshake and Milmoe was in. We sweated out receiving the results of Milmoe’s initial PT and Land-Nav test; however, he passed both with no problems. Then, SFC Borlongo made another visit to my office.

“Sir, I have another request,” she said fixing me with a stare, “The points have dropped for cooks, and I want to pin Sergeant Stripes on Milmoe as he walks across the stage at graduation.”

“SFC Borlongo, you’ve got to be kidding,” I said, desperation rising in my throat.

“No, I’m not, he doesn’t know that I’m doing this. It would mean a great deal to him. His family will be here for graduation. He’s a good soldier with a good future in the Army. You need to do this.”

“But, I’ll have to get CSM Terry to make the arrangements at the PSB, a place he doesn’t like, and he will extract demands from me.”

“Like what,” she replied, staring me down.

“I don’t know,” I mused, “But it will be painful.” So after much prodding by SFC Borlongo, CSM Terry and I made the trip to the CSM of the PSB. I was privileged to witness the CSM pow-wow and ju-ju. I cannot reveal any of the details as I was sworn to life-long secrecy; but, at the end, we walked out with orders promoting SPC Milmoe to SGT. 

It was a good day when SGT Milmoe graduated from PLDC. His family was ecstatic. His wife jumped up and down, squealing with joy. SGT Milmoe stood tall, proudly checking out the new stripes on his collar. SFC Borlongo, the creator of it all beamed in pleasure. 

“Milmoe,” growled CSM Terry, “You owe this to SFC Borlongo and CPT Robinson. They fought hard for this. Don’t let them down!”

And he didn’t. He turned out to be a great NCO. He went from marginally meeting the standard to excelling and exceeding the standard. He led his troops well, always looking sharp, and more importantly, being sharp. He and his wife still laid smoke when ripping through the BN area, but he did not let SFC Borlongo down. She saw in him something the rest of us missed, the potential to be a great leader.

Years later, when walking across a FOB in Iraq, I heard someone call out, “LTC Robinson!”

I turned around, and it was MSG Milmoe! He’d stayed in and climbed the ranks. This was his last tour in Iraq. He’d dropped his retirement paperwork and would hang up the uniforms upon his return. He and I sat and reminisced about SFC Borlongo, CSM Terry, and Roving Sands. He’d enjoyed his time in the Army, as had I. We laughed together as we remembered the lessons we’d learned back at “the Hood.” 

And There I Was #13 A Lighter Convoy

 And There I Was # 13

A Lighter Convoy

“Excuse me, Captain, may I speak with you please?”

I turned around to see an Otero County Sheriff, complete with mirrored shades standing there looking concerned. “Yes, Sheriff. What do you need,” I replied concern growing? 

“Well, Captain. I was wondering if you could come with me.” My signal company was supporting Operation Roving Sands, a multi-national Air Defense Artillery exercise in central New Mexico. I had pestered my BN CDR, LTC Wendell McKowen, for the off-post deployment. I had wanted a chance to move my company by rail and convoy from Fort Hood to Fort Bliss. Supporting such a large exercise would stress my company quite a bit. Even though we’d spent quite a bit of time in the field at Fort Hood, we all knew the post quite well, and operating in a different environment would be good for us. Also, getting my company to and from Fort Bliss would make us learn new skills in rail-loading and integration with foreign forces. Eventually, he’d acquiesced and assigned us the mission. My 1SG and I went to Fort Bliss to meet with the other units to hash out the support relationships. 

During the meetings, we both developed concerns for certain aspects of the support arrangements. The field feeding plans seemed a bit weak, especially since my company would be spread out from Fort Bliss in Texas to the northern end of White Sands Missel Range all the way up in New Mexico. All the associated units wanted to do the right thing. We just felt that they had not done their homework. When we presented the maintenance unit with our list of vehicles, they were quite surprised. At any rate, upon our return to Fort Hood, I button-holed LTC McKowen for permission to add a field feeding and maintenance section to my deployment package. Mildly amused, he agreed but required that I make arrangements to sign for an MKT from a Fort Bliss unit. A series of phone-calls later and the arrangements were made. Once on the ground, the small mess section would sign for an MKT and I would take them up to the north end of the missile range where they would provide hot chow for the Signal Team there. So far, the plan had unfolded as I hoped.

We’d railed a Mess-Section duce to Fort Bliss, linked up with a sister Signal unit, and signed for a complete MKT. Signing for the MKT took quite some time…there are a lot of bits and pieces to an MKT. Drawing rations was a bit of an adventure (See #6); however, we managed to get the rations, the cooks, and the equipment all together in the same place. Early in the morning, my small two-vehicle convoy pulled out from Fort Bliss headed for Stallion Army Airfield at the north end of the White Sands Missile Range, a drive of about one-hundred-fifty miles or so. After an hour and a half or so, we trundled into Tularosa, a small dusty town about halfway there. I placed SPC Milmoe and SPC Jenkins and their duce in a parking lot across from the elementary school and told them to wait right there. Having been to this area of New Mexico before, I knew of a good place to get breakfast burritos and coffee. And that is where I was when the Sheriff found me.

Concerned, I returned to my HMMWV and instructed SPC Lilly to follow the Sheriff. Tularosa is not very large, so the trip did not take too long. In fact, thankfully, we returned to the place where I’d left the two Specialists, the duce, and the MKT, all of which were where I’d left them. The sheriff parked across the street out of sight and motioned for me to come over to his cruiser. I complied and without a word, he pointed across the street. 

There was SPC Milmoe. He’d shed his BDU top, donned some mirrored aviator shades, was wearing his flack-vest, had draped two belts of 7.62 blank ammunition across his chest, and was parading around with the M-60, doing his best imitation of Rambo. Meanwhile, SPC Jenkins had dug out some foil and cardboard from the back of the duce and constructed a tanning aid. She’d also shed her BDU top and was reclining on the hood of the duce, catching some rays. The Sheriff then pointed across the street to the elementary school, where all the kids were lined up at the fence ogling my two soldiers.

“Now Captain, far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, but I kinda don’t think that’s the best use of their time,” he drawled. Then smiling, he climbed back into his cruiser and drove off, leaving me to deal with my two soldiers. After SPC Lilly and I laughed and rolled our eyes. I went and squared away my troops…at least for a few minutes…passed out coffee and breakfast burritos and headed off to finish our convoy. The exercise turned out very well. We all learned a lot, and no one died. This was not the end of SPC Milmoe’s story.

And There I Was # 12

 And There I was # 12

Not All Lives are Lost in Combat

Dirt and gravel sprayed up in a perfect arc as the five-ton bridge hauler (M-945) plowed into the bar-ditch. The passenger side front wheel collapsed, the bumper dug in, and the entire truck and bridge component it was carrying slow-rolled grinding the canvass toped cab into the dirt as BII and other debris scattered across the central Texas landscape. Horrified, I braked, downshifted, and scrunched to a halt enveloped in a cloud of dust. A couple of other convoy vehicles, unable to slow down quickly enough, rushed past and pulled over. We all pelted to the hulking wreck hoping for the best as a lime green Ford Escort exited the Interstate and disappeared down the access road.

Convoy operations consumed much of the training schedule in the early and mid-eighties. Of course as a SPC, I did not give it much thought. By now, I’d figured out that if I showed up at the right place, at the right time, in the right uniform, and did what I was told, life was good. It seemed as if our commander had a special love of convoys. Every post FTX involved driving around the impact area of Fort Hood, and we were always moving equipment from one place to another. I often wondered how much heavy engineer equipment the Army actually had. Sometimes it was a short trip up to a MATES facility to borrow or store some odd piece of equipment.

I always enjoyed trips to the MATES facility. In the early eighties, all of the men who worked there were ancient crusty NCOs or Warrants; many of which I was convinced had ridden with General “Blackjack” Pershing. They were not above yanking your chain or sending you on a wild-goose chase (I still haven’t found frequency grease). But, if you were patient, they eventually finished their war story and provided one with excellent information…sometimes it was even about military equipment still in the inventory. Periodically we trekked out to a Texas Army National Guard Armory to deliver some bit of heavy equipment. I found the number of Armories Texas had tucked away in small towns amazing. 

So there we were, running up to an Armory in Abilene, northwest central Texas for those who care. A new lieutenant led this convoy. A recent arrival to the battalion, he worked in the S-3 (operations section) while waiting for a platoon leader slot to open up. As an officer, he occupied a position far removed from my day-to-day existence or realm of care. He was there in the motor pool before duty call, calmly oversaw the lineup of the small convoy, quickly inspected the vehicles, and gave an appropriate safety briefing. He then turned the speaking over to SFC Williams, the Convoy NCOIC. We all knew SFC Williams as one of the more capable NCOs in the battalion. He was a grizzled old hand and gave us a thorough briefing on the convoy route and procedures, handing out strip maps. As a junior soldier, I was assigned an aging duce and a half carrying an assortment of rations and spare parts the motor warrant thought we might need. I should have paid attention to the strip map; but knew that I was to follow the five-ton, which was even slower than my old duce. I figured as long as I kept up with the five-ton all would be well. After he finished, SFC Williams turned to the lieutenant and asked if he had anything else to say. I noted that SFC Williams nodded appreciatively when the LT replied, “Not really, just be safe out there and let’s mount up and get on the road.”

We all knew that the SFC was training the LT. He had carefully walked him through all what would take place the day before, made sure he knew what to say, and would report back to the CSM concerning his LTs performance. Our battalion was a good one. The old soldiers brought the new ones…me included…along with very little fanfare. The CDR and CSM were in charge without being overbearing about it. We worked hard, played hard, and took our lumps when required. It was an excellent place to be a young troop.

Several droning hours later, we were somewhere north and west of Fort Hood. The convoy had proceeded with nothing unusual. We took the occasional smoke break, during which the LT and the SFC walked up and down the line, checking on vehicles and drivers. We stopped for lunch, ate C-Rations, and griped. I’d been introduced to MREs in basic at Fort Leonard-Wood, but we were still working the C-Rats out of the inventory at the 111th. After policing up our trash, we moved out again. The OD vehicles slowly ate up the miles. 

One hazard we all understood was civilian drivers. Big heavy military trucks do not stop quickly, something about the laws of physics. Civilians often wove in and out of convoys trying to make an exit, ignoring the big yellow and black “convoy ahead” or “convoy follows” signs. Everyone had convoy stories to tell about some bone-headed civilian hitting the breaks. So, it did not surprise me when the bright green Ford Escort appeared in my mirror, weaving in and out of the convoy. I understood their frustration and impatience trying to get past the slow-moving line of military vehicles. But I also knew that they did not appreciate how long it takes to slow something that big and heavy down.

Eventually, they worked their way up to the space between me and the five-ton. I backed off a bit, giving myself a bit of space. Sure enough, when they thought they were clear, they darted out and headed around the lumbering bridge truck. They must not have realized how close to their exit they were. Suddenly they swerved back in front of the bridge truck, slammed on their brakes, and aimed for the fast-approaching exit. At this point, the laws of physics took over.

Smoke roiled as the five-ton driver stood on his brakes, but there was no way to avoid crushing the little car. Then he turned toward the bar-ditch, hoping to avoid the Ford. He managed to not hit the small car, at the cost of the five-ton, his life, as well as that of his TC’s. We ran up to the pinging wreck and around to the front. The crushed blood-smeared cab spoke eloquently of two lives lost. There was nothing to be done. All the weight of the truck and bridge and ground out two lives as surely as I ground out cigarette buts on the roadside. 

Later I felt badly for the LT and SFC. They’d done everything right. This was not their fault and no one blamed them…but they blamed themselves. Oh, they got past it of course. But those sorts of things leave a mark. They went on with their careers. I have no idea what happened to them. SFC Williams surely became an MSG, probably a CSM. The LT probably made CPT; however, this was a day none of us would forget. The Army is a tough place and at times a very dangerous place, even when you do the right thing. 

A Prayer For Our Nation

 A prayer for our nation:

Dear Lord, creator of all that we know and understand as this universe and ruler of here and beyond,

We come before you acknowledging our own weakness and failure. We’ve loved too much and too little…to much the things of this world that enthrall us and too little your children who we let languish in pain and suffering. We’ve squandered the great resources and beauty of your creation merely satiating our own lusts. You’ve given us so much and we simply grasp for more.

Please grant us leaders that pursue truth and justice, motivated by kindness, mercy, love, and compassion. Tamp down our partisan passions and fan into flame our passion to bind up the weak, care for the sick and halt, protect the widow and orphan, feed the hungry, and shelter the homeless and indigent. Let us be known as those who welcome the sojourner with open hearts and open hands.

As we avidly seek your forgiveness. And in a like manner, birth in us a readiness to forgive others, remembering our own desperate need for grace and mercy. Let us be thankful for all the blessings you freely bestow, without regard to our own inept and bungling efforts to understand and reflect you. Thank you for not giving us what we deserve, which is wrath and punishment. And give us the strength to extend forgiveness and patience without stinting.

Help us to lay aside prejudice, that overweening pride that assumes we know the other person. Teach us to truly listen. Each of us have a story and we need to learn to listen to and come to know and start to love one another. Let us come to that place where we evaluate each other not on exteriors drapements, but on interior structures. You look into our hearts, help us look into each others’ hearts. 

Help us to grow in humility, remembering that we know so little and our way is not the only way and our ideas not the sole font of wisdom. Father, we need patience, patience with each other and patience with you for in so many ways we do not understand who you are and what you truly desire. Incline our hearts toward you and let us hunger for you and the things you desire. 

Lord God, you created such a marvelous world and have in your graciousness granted our nation vast natural resources, yet we so often use them only to satiate our craven desires. Let your Holy Spirit teach us to walk lightly, to use your gifts to help others, to be those careful stewards of these things that actually belong to you. 

You are great, mighty, and holy. We are insignificant, weak, and fallen. We are astounded that you would take notice of us, desire us, and work so hard to save us. Thank you.

In the name of Jesus, we offer this prayer,

Amen. 

June 'Teenth

 June ‘Teenth

Today, we as a nation celebrate June ‘Teenth together for the first time. It has been a long time coming and is but one of the many steps we must take on our corporate journey towards a more just society. While no one living owned slaves, many of us have profited from a tacit system that has not, and sadly often still does not fully recognize the inherent rights of the individual. We must gird up our intellectual loins and take a bracing look in the mirror. Every generation must pick up the banner and join in the fight for a just society, one in which the individual is weighed not on the color of their skin, but instead on the quality of their character. So we celebrate June ‘Teenth joyfully and soberly; joyfully in the recognition of a bold step once taken and soberly in the realization of the bold steps left to take. 

Diversity in the Military

  Those that choose life in the Army choose life in a crucible. Long hours, physically demanding labor, periodic relocations, frequent deployments, mentally challenging tasks, and combat combine to make a uniquely difficult, yet rewarding, lifestyle. Those that surmount these trials find a singularly close-knit community replete with tight, life-long, bonds. Enduring the stresses and trials of the crucible produces individuals of great strength and an immense capacity for loyalty. But prejudice and associated traits corrode the amalgam produced through life in the intense crucible.

One of the first acts of embarking on life in the military is taking the following oath:

“I Matthew E. Robinson, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic, and that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice, so help me God.”

The oath for officers is quite similar:

"I Matthew E. Robinson, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.

Over the course of my career, I took both oaths. It is important to note that both officers and enlisted first swear to support and defend the Constitution. We take the charge to embrace a body of ideas. Now, I must admit that when I first took the oath as a young private, I did not seriously consider the import of those words and ideals expressed in the Constitution and other important foundational documents. I was young, thoughtless, and immature. I wanted the bonus associated with my enlistment to purchase a truck; however, as the years passed and I advanced in rank, my responsibility grew and so did my understanding of the importance of those words and associated ideals.

As the Army and other branches take on the task of combating prejudice in all its forms, some decry the campaign as a wrongheaded assault on a target of dubious worth. They assert that efforts to ensure that the Army is a diverse force free from prejudice and representative of the nation as a whole will erode its effectiveness as a fighting force. As a twenty-seven-year veteran with multiple combat and operational assignments, I must disagree. The success of the Army depends upon trust, trust that the soldier on your right and left will do the right thing and will not cut and run when things get tough, or the rounds start going back and forth in earnest. Any kind of prejudice, bigotry, or partiality elides such trust. Long ago, the United States embarked upon this great experiment of making one out of many through democratic processes. This is a messy, difficult experiment but well worth the effort. And, due to human nature, one that requires constant attention. We build our Army out of individuals from across the nation, bringing in recruits from all stations of life. As the force of a pluralistic nation, we accept individuals regardless of race, sex, or creed. Consequently, they bring with them all their preconceived ideas regarding how we treat one another. The military must take on the task of ensuring that they willingly divest themselves of those behaviors and ideas that are not congruent with the constitution or conducive to military life. 

       Embracing diversity and inclusion brings its own set of challenges and problems. We often find the unknown threatening. But we have built our military on embracing those noble ideals, and it is these ideals that build a cohesive, unified force. Ideals that all are created equal, that those who wish to strive, and work can excel despite their background, that those of different races and creeds can work together for a common larger goal. These ideals spring from our foundational documents and make a military worth serving in and worth representing all that is best in our nation. As a military must continually recruit and develop leaders, so we must also continually train to ensure that those in the ranks not only are possessed of great physical strength, intelligence, and stamina and that they also embrace these ideals as the intellectual and moral underpinning of our military strength. Those that refuse to accept such ideals cannot adequately represent our nation and must exit the ranks. To allow those who continually harbor prejudice of any type in the ranks destroys trust. This training effort requires a clear-eyed stringent self-examination. Such introspection often uncovers deep, unseen, problems that take great effort to unseat; however, such work pays great dividends. Those willing to shed prejudicial attitudes find life in the military community highly rewarding. They also find that this sense of solidarity carries them through the taxing situations that accompany life in the Army.

       We demand much from our service-members. The work is hard, often dangerous, frequently in uncomfortable situations, and often life-threatening, even in training. They deserve to serve in a work environment that does not subject them to the deprivations of bigotry in any form. They represent the best of our nation and have sworn to uphold the ideals found in our constitution and other foundational documents. This oath guides their lives and governs their behaviors. Continual training and self-examination are part of the processes that ensure that our military members comport themselves according to the principles that make our nation great. We need not fear such introspection and training. It only makes our Army stronger, more cohesive. It also spills over into the civilian community when service members eventually hang up their uniforms and return to civilian life better understanding those things that make our nation great.