This statement, of being broken
by God, comes across piously. We sing about being broken, we talk about being
broken – about bring our brokenness to God, and we generally do it with all the
warmth and emotion of a Sunday school discussion. But being broken is not just
an emotional change or a slight humbling of our spirit, it is destruction. Most
people don’t know what it is to be broken, but I do. I was broken in 1995.
1995 was the year I joined the
Marine Corps. I had such great dreams about who I would be as a Marine. I
dreamed about being one of the take charge guys – a squad leader or the guidon.
Then, it got real. The guidon and squad leaders got thrashed for the things
other guys did. I was having enough trouble with myself; I didn’t really want
to get that kind of notoriety.
On top of that, I had these ideas
about esprit de corps and helping the other recruits – encouraging them and
driving them on. We had a fat guy that was miserable, and I stayed with him and
encouraged him to run during our first Physical Fitness Test. We crossed the
finish line of the run and he wrapped his arms around me in gratitude. Awhile
later, we were both in the duty hut being chewed out by our DI who wanted to
know if we were queer - it was still illegal back then. I don’t remember much
about the interchange; other than he asked us what our fathers would have
thought and was actually flummoxed when I suggested my dad wouldn’t have a
problem with what transpired. I do remember that I gave that recruit a wide
birth from then on, and that I put my romanticized ideas of esprit de corps on
hold until we actually were Marines – don’t perform low on account of these
guys just yet!
The physical break happened at
Camp Pendleton during the down time - on a Sunday, I believe. We were being
thrashed and our DI had us doing modified push-ups with our butts about a foot
higher in the air. This caused intense pain in my back, especially when we
would remain still in the up position. I kept shifting and shifting until a DI
kicked me out of the formation for not doing the push-ups properly (I was practically
doing toe-touches I had scooted my hands so close to my feet). Even now,
writing this, my back is hurting from the tension I am feeling. I wasn’t alone
in being called out of formation, and so joined the other guys who were already
moving a pile of sandbags. It was simple: we relocated this massive pile of
sandbags, one at a time, at a run. Back and forth, back and forth. Then, when
the pile was moved, we had to bring it back. The rest of the platoon was
relieved from the push-ups in about five minutes and back in the squad bay in
about ten. We didn’t get back till much later. Funny thing - I preferred that
tiresome work of running those sandbags back and forth to even five seconds
more of those push-ups.
By the time I graduated boot
camp, I really didn’t feel like much of a Marine. We had been broken down, as
promised, but I never really felt like I was put back together. I was still
scared of doing the wrong thing, popping up when I should duck, and speaking
when I shouldn’t or not speaking when I should. There were a lot more failures
during that training, many times that I was chewed out, whether I earned it or
not. There were times when my true colors shined through, like the time a DI
was telling us what was going to happen and I jokingly breathed, “Oh, sh*t.”
and he heard it! “That’s right! Just one ‘Oh Sh*t’ ruins the
whole bushel.” I don’t think he knew who said it, but I don’t think it matters;
it didn’t say anything about him, only about me. I guess my 8th grade Home Room teacher was right, I was a
class clown.
So, getting back to God and
me, I feel like I know something about being broken, and I had enough fun doing
it with DI’s and would rather not discover what games God had in store. This is
especially true because I had a hunch that I was stubborn enough to need a lot
of breaking. I think I was right. I also think He’s finally done it.
No comments:
Post a Comment