Growing Up Over There

Growing up in a military family in the 60’s meant traveling—almost every year. Not from one city to the next but from one country to a different continent. Dad would come home from work and try to excite us about being transferred. Usually at the end of the school year, but not always. He never had a choice of duty stations except once that I can remember. He asked if we wanted to go to Germany or Taiwan. I couldn’t find either place on a map. We went to Germany.

We would find out we were moving a few months ahead of time. Staying in one place for more than a year happened rarely. By the time I graduated from High School I had attended 13 schools. Summers were never relaxing. I thought everybody grew up like this and was mildly surprised and perplexed to discover, when talking to some of the kids I met along the way, they had lived in one place all their lives. I envied them.

Moving meant a few inconvenient things. One was going through our belongings and chucking anything we really didn’t want. Actually, I wanted to keep everything but could not. Another was shots. Going overseas always meant getting shots. Shot day was dreaded and dreadful. Sometimes we would have to go in multiple days, there were so many shots. So not only did I have to throw away my stuff, they hurt me to boot. Finally, was losing friends. The physical pain of the shots was easy to handle. The emotional pain of losing friends was not. After a few moves I simply stopped making friends. There was no sense to it.

In August of 1967, just before I turned 14, we moved from Belgium to Holland. Our move was less than 80 miles. At least we stayed on the same continent. People spoke a different language and did not dress the same. Even the geography was different. Belgium was filled with woods while Holland was flat and open. The summer before we had moved from California to Belgium, driving across most of the United States to get to an airport to catch a plane that would get us overseas.

Even at a young age I knew distances. From our house in Holland to Prague, Czechoslovakia was about 780 miles. That’s a day’s driving. It is only a couple of hours in the air. It is not far.

We were still unpacking when Russia invaded Czechoslovakia in August 1967. Against my will and rebellion at moving, I became, to some extent, politically aware. The US was deeply embedded in the Vietnam war which touched us a half a world away. We were stationed at military bases with ominous acronyms like SHAPE (Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe) and AFCENT (Armed Forces Central Europe). The whole reason we were there was to support another acronym, NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization).  I didn’t know what a cold war was but had seen the effects of a hot war. I did know moving. When Russia invaded Czechoslovakia the entire European continent watched and prepared themselves for a horrible conflict. We made ourselves ready to move quickly, evacuating back to the States. We did not evacuate but stayed in place. I remember the tension and fear.

In Germany we lived at Ramstein, the US Air Force Base and a village of the same name, less than 20 years after World War II. I remember exploring the streets of the village and would see bullet holes notched into the Cathedral. Dad took us to a death camp. I’m not sure which one. I remember staring into ovens used to incinerate the bodies of the people murdered at that camp. Without having been through the trauma of war as a young boy, I knew enough to be afraid. Our next-door neighbors in Holland spent eight years in a Japanese POW camp. They thanked us for being there. Too much for a young, barely teenaged, boy.

Looking back at what happened that summer is substantial evidence, in my mind and heart, that God is in control. I didn’t like what He was doing and would have done things differently. I would not have moved as much. I would not have been exposed to the aftereffects and possibilities of war. I would have kept all my stuff and avoided shots. I would have grown up with friends. There are a lot of things I would never have learned. The value of friends and people. The idea of war. The not holding onto that which has no eternal value. Most of the lessons I’m still learning.

Now for some self advertising.

These stories are works of fiction told in the style of first-person oral histories. Imagine someone telling you the story of their life or of an experience which changed their life.

Read one of the stories here.

I have been interested in oral histories for many years. These stories are my imagination of what might have happened. Most of the people are fictional characters, but the circumstances they live are historically possible. I have thoughtfully tried to imagine words and conversations, carefully placing those statements in the mouths of a people from two millennia ago, in a culture and with a way of thinking discovered through years of research.

Several people in the stories are real. John, the Baptizer, Thomas, the disciple and Jesus, the Christ are real people. There were real shepherds who visited Jesus on the night he was born. Other characters are those we see in the Gospels. They include Pharisees and lepers, slaves and tax-collectors, disciples and the demon-possessed.

Jesus, the Christ, is a real person. I have not put words into His mouth. Everything He says in these stories is recorded in the Gospels.  Putting words in God’s mouth is dangerous and I would even say forbidden. When Eve was speaking to the serpent, she did not quote God exactly and then added her own words to what He had commanded. Doing this made certain her fall.

Read one of the stories here.

My intent in writing these stories is to understand God’s grace and His amazing gift. You may purchase a paperback through here.


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