In 2002, shortly after the attacks of 9/11, I was in Iraq tasked to train a group of soldiers, many still teenagers, in the use of a new weapon system. As a former Marine, field life in a combat zone was strangely comfortable. When I was on active duty, it was customary, even expected, to enthusiastically bark orders or have orders barked at you. As a civilian contractor, it was oddly entertaining to watch these soldier games going on, but when the games got too tiresome or the day’s mission and training too long, I could always find a little time to recharge in my hootch. The “hootch”, might be any cleft formed by fallen rubble, or a canvas hovel reinforced by sandbags. Mine was previously a jail cell, a concrete enclosure with iron bars at the window and lined with sandbags along the top. Pretty comfy actually.
Soon after the combat engineers arrived, anything and everything that could be fabricated from plywood, canvas, or tarp began to materialize. First a main chapel, and then several smaller ones scattered across our FOB (forward operating base). Large canvas tents began to sprout in orderly rows, in anticipation of troops yet to arrive. To accommodate the wild temperature changes, each tent was lined with saffron colored material that had a pattern of little palm trees and camels. December arrived, and even though the mission and circumstances were the focal point for all activities; it was beginning to feel a bit like Christmas.
At first, I missed being surround by the warmth and color that my wife Robin liked to display beginning on the 1st day of December. Instead, there in Iraq, I busied myself with the missions and training that went on around the clock. Word got around that on Christmas Eve, there would be a get-together in one of the yet-to-be-occupied tents; nothing mandatory, just there if you wanted. Navigating on a pitch-black Iraqi night is a skill you develop after tripping over your 5th tent stake. Those field tents have a clever double flap arrangement. In total darkness you step into the vestibule closing yourself in, then open the inner flap to gain entrance, which by comparison is as bright as setting foot on the surface of the sun.
A guitar strummed, a harmonica warbled, then voices joined in singing Christmas carols. A soldier produced one of those pocket-sized New Testament, Psalms, and Proverbs Bibles, the kind with the desert camo waterproof cover and read the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke. Several others shared their favorite scriptures. Impromptu skits and stories sparked hearty laughter. After an hour or so, a Chaplin’s assistant offered a closing prayer, giving thanks for the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Under the circumstances one could muse that it was the most rag-tag Christmas on record. Yes, our gathering lacked every sparkling and foil wrapped tradition you can think of. However, it was the purest Christmas I can remember. Pure because, freed from all the typical trappings of the season, the focal point could entirely be centered on our Savior and His mission on earth.
From the mission field of Guatemala, this is Chuck & Robin and SGSP Aviation Ministries, wishing each of you a pure and peaceful Christmas.