ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORM

If you have ever walked through or driven through an area that has been devastated by tornadoes or hurricanes . . . or lived in a combat zone, you know that the dregs of what is left after the power of the storm has passed or the battle has ended is nothing compared to what it was like to be in the midst of the storm or the battle.  

Nothing that is physical has been undamaged. The dregs of debris are everywhere, except they might not be visible, but swept out to sea or over miles and miles of an area that was once ordered and useful. All that can be seen is now in ruin. 

Much that is unseen-- even spirits and souls--much has been destroyed and torn apart as well. The human spirit can survive any kind of grief and turmoil, but it won't remain unchanged.

Tomorrow night is the shortest night of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.  And we can take hope that the opposite is true for the Southern Hemisphere.

Thirty-five years ago, on December 20th of 1981, I flew about 4 1/2 hours south of the Midway Atoll in a US Navy P-3.  We took off about 4:30 AM, and I saw the Southern Cross for the first time.  The constellation seemed to be lying lazily and large on its side, perched on the very corner of the steep curve of the horizon to our right as we made altitude and turned away from those beguiling stars more visible in the Southern Hemisphere.  

After taking off to the south, we were turning southwest towards the International Dateline.  We flew over and headed deeper into the great mostly empty grand Pacific Ocean in the grey blueness of the pre-dawn. 

The crew of the P-3 was tasked with several missions that kept us out over the open ocean for seventeen hours before arriving back at Naval Air Station (NAS) Midway.  At times the commander of the aircraft cut two of its four engines and we flew about fifty feet above the drink with the cabin unpressurized.  

Hot and exhausted, we were happy to be able to fly faster and higher with the cabin pressurized when that part of the mission was complete.

That was my first flight in  P-3, and I didn't have orders to be able to log flying time on any until a few months later.  

Our overall mission was monitoring the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty, keeping track of Soviet intercontinental ballistic missile tests to parts of the Pacific Ocean as far away from islands with airfields big enough for the US Air Force and US Navy aircraft that were used as possible.

The beginning of this meditation may not seem to have anything to do with wandering through memories of watching the re-entry of Soviet vehicles able to carry multiple nuclear warheads to their targets.  But even being involved in seeing a rehearsal of the performance of such a vehicle used to carry weapons for that level of destruction was terrifying.

Emotionally experiencing the gravity of potential destruction also affected us when part of our mission was to support US missile tests as well.  I briefed and flew in support of US Army "theater" rockets at Cape Canaveral Air Fore Station; and when our first solid-rocket fueled submarine-launched ballistic missiles from US nuclear powered submarines were tested.

Of course, surviving the potential of devastation and destruction is nothing compared to the real thing. I have more on my heart, but I will not continue tonight.

The most important thing to remember is that the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot and does not overcome it.