Miracles

I’m a believer in miracles.

By definition, a miracle is “an event that appears inexplicable by the laws of nature and so is held to be supernatural in origin or an act of God.” (American Heritage Dictionary)

Pope John Paul II has one miracle attributed to him, and is on his way toward sainthood. Has one, needs another.

The births of each of my children, and now grandchildren, were miracles, each and every one. There’s just no other way to explain it.

That my wonderful wife has put up with me for as long as she has is nothing short of miraculous. Really, it is.

My best friend ejected out of a stricken Marine F-4 Phantom jet at an altitude of less than one-hundred feet. He was so low that his chute couldn’t deploy, and he tumbled violently across a freshly plowed field sitting atop a rocket-assisted ejection seat. Had there not been a divine intervention, I would not have had a 20+ year friendship of such quality that one is lucky if one has 2-3 such friendships over an entire lifetime. He got lucky, and consequently, so did I.

I believe the recovery of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords will be seen as miraculous before all is said and done. Actually, it seems like a miracle that she has survived at all, given her injury.

There are miracles among my fellow church members, ranging from organ transplants to sudden awakenings from deep comas.

“Do you believe in miracles?” shouted announcer Al Michaels as the young USA Olympians beat the vaunted Russians in ice hockey in 1980 Lake Placid Winter Games.

The 33 Chilean miners trapped for more than two months, and then dramatically rescued. A miracle? I certainly thought so as I watched in utter amazement.

I’m a believer in miracles, and as I finish my next novel and prepare to take it to market, guess what I’ll be hoping for?

Yep, you guessed it.

From the Hangar to the Taxiway

I have written a suspense novel that deals with the rough-and-tumble of the business world. It involves a firm that suddenly loses its longtime leader, and then struggles to put the pieces back together again in the aftermath. Along the way, there are changes that are both unpleasant and potentially destructive. The firm finds itself woefully near to the cliff’s edge.

Will someone emerge and rescue this great company from taking on more water than it can stand, and still remain afloat? Is anyone strong enough or resourceful enough to find a way? Hmmm . . . stay tuned.

In the meantime, I am ready to begin the final editing process. One of my critical readers has recently finished with her excellent review. Today I heard from a longtime, trusted friend and former colleague who was also kind enough to read and comment on the manuscript. He is the CEO of a large, respected company and has held other CEO positions in his distinguished business career. His feedback was positive and highly encouraging, not to mention useful, and he even mentioned several marketing avenues for the book that I had not previously considered (that’s why he’s a CEO).

Now it’s time to move the book to the taxiway. Fire the engines, go over the checklist, adjust where needed, make sure everything is ready. No time for sloppiness or inattention to detail. Everything needs to be in place, in good working order, ready for the next step.

Then, and only then, can it move to the runway. Then, and only then, will it be considered airworthy.

I love the sound of those engines. I feel the need for speed. And I love the excitement over where this flight could take me.

Tray tables stowed, seatbelts buckled, seatbacks in the upright and locked position.

Cleared to taxi.

The Grandkids

We fill our house with grandchildren during the holidays, and inevitably some of the kids (perhaps even most) are at some point coughing and sneezing from allergies or colds or respiratory ailments. We buy tissues by the pallet; the parents—our kids and their spouses—dutifully administer the various medications to their afflicted little charges; breathing-treatment devices and hand-held inhalers are not uncommon sites. Hey, children change environments and climates and often fall ill, at which point they are more likely to share their bugs than their Christmas toys. Since I have a propensity to transform a common cold into full-blown bronchitis, I tend to tread carefully among the ubiquitous hacking and sneezing unless . . .

One of those precious grandkids reaches up to me with an expression of happiness or trust or needed comfort, and then I reach down for them. Instantly; cheerfully; sympathetically. Even amid the bucketloads of snot and drool and the mist of coughing and sneezing, I simply can’t resist. And who could? I’m D-Daddy. I have a role to provide, and I think about that role a lot, and I want to be there to provide it, unless . . .

I feel the sniffles and slight cough beginning to find its way from the submerged to the surface, an annoyance that will eventually morph into something more. It always works that way. Then I know there’s a near certainty that I’ll end up needing a Z-pack and several days of feeling like a bird in an oil spill. I know my own health tendencies, and I know I should keep my distance, unless . . .

One of those grandkids comes crawling into the recliner with me. Those quiet moments are priceless, and I am certain beyond all doubt that I get more from their presence than they do from mine. I always hope the cold will stay just that—a cold—but I know it’s unlikely. Maybe this time I’ll be lucky, unless . . .

The cough deepens. Then I know I’m toast. After the kids have departed, I’ll go to my doctor and get the requisite prescriptions to bring me back to health. And I’ll tell him that I wouldn’t trade the visit with my sick grandkids for the avoidance of his fee. And do you know what he always tells me? He always says, “Good for you.”

And it is good for me.

Chicago the . . . Band?

At some point, all of us become the butt of a joke.

Several years ago, I made a business trip to Singapore with a U.K. friend and colleague who insisted that we "do karaoke," to which I responded in rather colorful language that it would never happen. A few hours later, and after listening to our host's rendition of a favored Doobie Brothers song go from comical to painful, I took over the microphone and proceeded to "do karaoke."

The next day, compliments of my U.K. colleague, an e-mail went all over my company declaring, "Gillis does karaoke in Singapore." That episode has followed me for years.

Around the same time, I had promised my daughter that I would take her with me on one of my trips to Colorado when she graduated from college. I arranged the business trip to the Boulder area, along with some time for the mountains and a side trip to Colorado Springs. As a nice bonus, my best friend and his wife agreed to join us.

As an additional bonus, I purchased tickets to a concert in Colorado Springs by my favorite group of all time, Chicago. I spent the day of the concert boasting to my friends just how much they would enjoy seeing/hearing America's greatest rock band. Since my daughter had grown up in my home, she had long been a fan.


With great anticipation and expectation, we all went to the concert only to find that the tickets I had purchased were for Chicago the PLAY, not Chicago the BAND. My heart sank and my face tingled with warmth when I looked at the playbill and knew beyond any doubt that this moment was about to become the stuff of legend, and at my expense. My friends and daughter were hardly delicate in their laughter at and enjoyment of my complete and utter humiliation. And once we were seated, they felt no restraint in sharing my fiasco with those nearby. I could only issue a meek threat to stand and loudly sing "Saturday in the Park" once the play had begun. We came to hear Chicago, then by God we're going to hear some Chicago. But it was an idle threat.

On the drive back to Boulder the next day, I knew my daughter was bursting at the seams to call and tell her mom and brothers about our adventure of the previous evening. Finally, I handed over my cell phone to her and said only, "Go ahead." Believe me, from that point she knew what to do. With our family and friends, it soon became the equivalent of the aforementioned e-mail from Singapore.

But you know, the play wasn't half-bad.

Happy Birthday, Marines!

On November 10, 1775, the Continental Congress authorized the raising of two battalions of Marines. Philadelphia’s Tun Tavern—yes, a beer-serving establishment as its name suggests—was the very first recruiting location of the U.S. Marine Corps.

Thus, young men were recruited with the promise of a cold beer and an opportunity to serve in a Corps of Marines. I can only imagine the excitement those young men felt at being able to attach themselves to something with equal parts of mystery, glamour, and danger. I can only imagine the yarns that followed in Tun Tavern after they had stepped forward and signed on. I can only imagine the stories that were later told in Tun Tavern after those initial recruits had served during the Revolution and returned home to tell about it. Tavern tales have become as much a Marine tradition as the eagle, globe, and anchor symbol. Not so unexpectedly, Marines have always prided themselves on the fact that their branch of service was birthed in a tavern.

And why not?

The thread of history from Tun Tavern to Afghanistan shows that Marines have served America extraordinarily well, with dedication, professional competence, and unsurpassed valor. The Marine Corps has always stood at the cutting edge of military readiness—prepared at any moment to move into harm’s way. And, as is their habit once they find themselves committed to action, they have fought and won. An adversary on the verge of a fiery encounter with U.S. Marines would hardly be in a festive mood, and for good reason. No better friend, no worse enemy.

As is the custom on 10 November, Marines will gather far and wide to celebrate the birthday of their Corps. The larger Marine Corps bases will have well-planned, well-attended, formal birthday balls. The smaller outposts will improvise, a key Marine skill. Former Marines will take a moment to reflect back on their years of service, most likely with pride and nostalgia. The history of the Corps will be commemorated; old friendships will be renewed; the fallen will be remembered. Prayers will be lifted for those still in the fight, and for the families who anxiously await their return.

Here’s to the Corps on this 235th birthday!

And here’s to the Marines whose duty and blood and sacrifice have saturated the Corps in hard-won glory.

Here’s to an organization that is not only unique, not only elite, but without equal.

Here’s to the United States Marine Corps!

Semper Fidelis.

A Family of Heroes

A recent Wall Street Journal article told of a Scion, New York family who adopted a bomb-sniffing dog suffering from canine post-traumatic stress disorder. Gunner, who was mustered out of the Marines after service in Afghanistan, was adopted by Deb and Dan Dunham who drove from their western New York home to a South Carolina kennel to claim their newest family addition.

The skittish Gunner is adjusting to his new life with the Dunhams, albeit slowly. The dog is disabled by his wartime service, like many of his human counterparts who have experienced intense, vicious firefights and horrendous bomb blasts, sometimes over oft-repeated tours of duty. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have generated large numbers of traumatic brain-injury and PTSD cases among American troops, to include a brown-eyed Lab who at some point was pushed over the edge by the explosions and the gunfire.

Nonetheless, Gunner is fortunate to be in the care of a loving, unselfish family who is nurturing him back to health, slowly but inexorably. Each day that passes helps convince Gunner that he is safe, that he is truly out of harm’s way, that the sights and sounds that were once so terrifying and damaging to his canine psyche are no longer a part of his daily routine. Gunner may not ever forget, but again like his human counterparts, and with the help and caring of others, he can recover and live a fulfilling life.

Gunner has been given a second chance by the Dunhams.

And Gunner is helping to fill a void in the Dunhams’ lives. It should be noted here that Deb and Dan Dunham are the parents of Corporal Jason Dunham, USMC, who was awarded the Medal of Honor (posthumously) for his actions in Iraq in 2004. During a hand-to-hand encounter with an enemy insurgent, Cpl. Dunham covered a grenade with his helmet, shielding several members of his squad from the resulting deadly blast. In an act of incomprehensible bravery and soldierly love, Cpl. Dunham gave his own life to save the lives of his men. He is now, and will forever be, a legendary figure in a Marine Corps replete with legendary figures.

His parents are now sharing their lives and their love with a war dog who needs them in a big way. And for a long time.

Gunner is indeed a lucky Lab. Good luck with your new life, Gunner.

To the Dunham family: God bless you. Thank you for your inexpressible sacrifice and your incomparable decency.

And to Cpl. Jason Dunham: Semper fidelis, my brother. May you rest in peace.

Book Video Trailer

My new book trailer for Shall Never See So Much is now on YouTube. You can follow the below link to view.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4OzLPJBrq0I