When I was in the Army, my barracks roommate for more than 2 years was a Christian man from Dallas, Texas, named Jimmy-T Goodson. We were very well-matched, as roommates, not least because of our common dislike for life as enlisted men in the Army. He is a remarkable person in many ways, and I remember him very fondly as a dear brother.

Each morning, as he swung his legs out of bed and his feet would slap the tile of the floor, he would say: “I hate the Army.” Each evening, as he pulled the covers up to his chin, he would conclude, “I hate the Army.” It was a daily ritual that brought, in a strange way, a considerable satisfaction to both of our lives. Some days he said it casually, in an offhand manner; other times (especially Monday mornings) he spoke with deep conviction. But in the 700-odd days we shared a room, I don’t remember him ever failing to say those words.

I hate getting up early in the morning. I strongly prefer to wake between 8 and 9, whenever possible (not so easy with 5 children). In order to catch the appropriate bus, ferry & shuttle and be in my office by 9:00, I rise and get in the shower according to the 5:42 and 5:47 am alarms set on my bedside clock. Yesterday, as my feet hit the floor at 5:46, I thought to myself, “I hate my life.”

Some time later, as I drove along route 101 in the bright morning sunshine, I listened to the morning radio show, featuring an appeal for support of the Union Gospel Mission, an outreach to homeless people in Seattle. Every ten minutes or so they played a short vignette about one of the people who had been down and out, and was reached by the Mission program. I started thinking (again) about all the blessings that I enjoy, and I felt a little ashamed of my ungrateful thoughts.

I started thinking about other times I have worked early-morning jobs, not only in the Army, and about how life was for me then. I suddenly remembered what it was like to be single and how much of my time and focus was spent looking for someone I could love, who would love me. I remember times (especially when I was in the Army) when I seriously wondered if I would ever find such a person. I talked to my geraniums and wrote bad poetry and listened to gloomy music … it was a little pathetic, in retrospect.

As a man, I tend to be achievement-oriented … it is easy to fall into the error of viewing a wife and a family as ‘possessions’ or ‘milestones met’. I was reminded of the rare and beautiful preciousness of my Kathy and her deep and abiding love for me. I remembered the times we have (even now, with my grueling work & commuting schedule) to talk, be silly and enjoy each other. I am proud of the continuing godliness of my five children, who depend on my work for food and shelter (clothing they mostly get from Mamie). I revel in the time I have to enjoy my home and the valley where I live, if only on weekends.

I guess I don’t hate my life, after all. It is hard for night-owls to see the good in the world at 5:46 in the morning. Perhaps the lesson in all of this is to avoid philosophy until I’ve had my first Diet Coke of the day.

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Today is a bright, sunny and potentially warm day, and I have much for which to be thankful. It is probably time to make a list, in no particular order:

• I am married to the most beautiful, fun, cheerful, kind and interesting woman that I have been able to find on the planet, and she really seems to love me!
• I have five delightful, godly children, three of whom have already trusted Jesus with their hearts.
• My oldest son is well on his way to becoming a man of God.
• My oldest daughter has a passion for truth and righteousness.
• My middle son is always seeking an opportunity to help.
• My youngest son patterns kindness to his little sister.
• My youngest daughter is obedient and loves to laugh.
• All of my children are healthy, happy, and seem to be developing well.
• I own a home (well, perhaps 1/4 of a home) in a beautiful, remote mountain valley.
• I have a new job that provides challenge to my mind.
• My brain is capable of complex thought and is adept at making sense of a large amount of information.
• I have a number of good friends.
• My health is reasonably good.
• I am able to move and walk and see and hear and taste and feel and (when allergy season is over) smell.
• I don’t have any significant chronic pain.
• I have hope — a firm expectation that God will take care of me in this life and that He will raise me up to live with Him forever, after I die.
• I have the complete Bible, that helps me know how to live in a way that pleases God.
• I am capable of enjoying beauty, like the Olympic mountains looming over the ferry terminal as I leave Bainbridge.
• I have good relationships with my parents and my wife’s parents.
• God loves me. He wants the very best for me.
• I am being conformed to the personality of Jesus.
• My wife is willing to stay home and homeschool our children.
• I have a fresh new haircut.
• Apart from what I owe on my house, I have hardly any debt.
• I have the opportunity to begin attending a fun new church.
• My wife and I have built good communication skills and a strong, healthy marriage.
• I am able to find much to laugh about in life.
• I have a car that has not (yet) failed to get me to and from the bus stop.

I could probably go on and on. Strange how easy it is to forget the good things and concentrate on the negative — give me a severe toothache and I’ll tell you that life isn’t worth living.

After I got out of the Army, I foolishly joined the National Guard, under the misguided impression that the State of Virginia would help to pay off some of my student loans. For reasons best known to the State, that financial assistance never materialized — but I was assigned to an artillery unit just outside of Richmond. One weekend in the middle of a Fall semester at William and Mary, I was called out on a field exercise. We spent Friday & Saturday nights out in the woods. Due to poor planning, we were provided with no equipment except our field jackets. It was unseasonably cold that weekend — I spent most of both nights pacing around the forest and shivering. When I got back to the dorms, I wanted nothing but a long, hot shower.

Before I left for the field exercise, I had been deeply worried about several papers and exams I had in the near future. Spending a few nights laying on the cold, damp ground, really brought my life back into perspective. If you have food, clothing, and shelter, you’re well ahead of many and you probably have enough to be happy, if only for a little while.

I think a big part of contentment is thankfulness — I feel much more content just having written this blog entry.

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Driving along 101 this morning, I was nearly blinded by the glory of the early morning sun, reflected in the waters of the Hood Canal. My soul was touched with wonder in the way the light edges the greens of grass and trees and the mountains with gold. No one else was driving past at that time, and I cast only a fleeting glance toward the mountains — it seems such a shame to let that depth of rich color go unrecorded. And yet God expends such beauty every day in profligate waste. By rights, there should have been bleachers full of people watching that sunrise for an hour or more.

As we pull away from the docks of Bainbridge Island, the hazy bulk of Mount Rainier becomes visible around the end of the coastline, suspended in ghostly majesty at the horizon. How terrible it would be to lose my sight, to no longer enjoy the subtle shadings of greens and blues in the water, sky, and forested shore. Even the works of man, ugly off-white storage tanks and rusty breakwaters cannot mar the stunning beauty of this day.

I am often frustrated by my inability to capture and store up the scenes my eye can see. I remember camping as a child in Kandersteg, Switzerland, and rising early one morning to take snapshots of the alps. I was bitterly disappointed when my pictures came back from the developer — how bland and colorless they seemed in comparison to the glorious blues and golds I remembered. Although my digital camera performs much better than that ancient children’s camera, I frequently feel dissatisfied with the pictures I take, particularly of distant landscapes.

Our ferry had to slow and turn to avoid a small boat that had plotted an intercept course — finally the boat’s captain realized his peril and swerved to avoid us — a jarring note to the morning. As the Coast Guard patrol boat’s hovering presence reminds, we live under the constant threat of terrorist activity. Thoughts of the attack against the USS Cole casts a sobering pall over my enjoyment of the morning light.

What would it be like to enjoy the glorious goodness and beauty of God without the ugly intrusion of man’s sin? C.S. Lewis has perhaps described it best, in the final paragraph of The Last Battle:

… but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us, this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.

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