A Memorial Day Remembrance of the Sullivans

There were five Sullivan brothers: Depression-era, Catholic Irish-American sons of Tom and Alleta Sullivan of Davenport, Iowa. George, Francis, Joseph, Madison, and Albert Sullivan discovered that when Pearl Harbor was attacked on December 7, 1941, one of their friends was aboard the USS Arizona. In their desire to avenge a friend’s death, they did what so many other Americans did in the aftermath of that devastating attack. They enlisted in the armed forces.

They chose the U.S. Navy and insisted that they be assigned to the same ship. The Navy had a policy against such assignments, but it was loosely enforced. By August, 1942 the brothers were aboard the light cruiser USS Juneau and participating in the Guadalcanal Campaign. On November 13, 1942, their ship was hit by a torpedo and withdrew from the naval engagement. The Juneau was later hit by another torpedo which detonated near the ammunition magazine. The ship exploded and quickly sank.

Letters from the Sullivan brothers suddenly stopped arriving at their Davenport home and the parents grew worried. Letters were the lifeblood that connected anxious American families with their sons in harm’s way.

On January 12, 1943, as father Tom prepared to leave for work, three naval officers arrived at the front door. Tom knew immediately that the news would not be good.

“Which one?” Tom asked.

“I’m sorry,” one of the officers replied. “All five.”

In addition to the parents and sister Genevieve, the survivors included Albert’s wife and young son.

The loss of a single service member is a devastating event for a family. We’ve seen it repeated across the nation for the past ten years with wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Many of us can still remember the losses from Vietnam. It’s always heartbreaking, always painful and gripping.

But five?

Can you imagine the shock and inconsolable despair the Sullivan family felt on that day in 1943?

No, of course not. Only the Sullivan family knew the pain, the numbness, and the utter disbelief in losing all five of the brothers. The blue-star flag in the window, indicating sons serving in the military, would now have five gold stars. FDR would send a condolence letter and resolutions honoring the family would be passed by state and local governments. Later, a U.S. warship would be named after the Sullivan brothers. But nothing could bring those boys back.

On this Memorial Day weekend, we honor all the gold-star families who have lost sons and daughters in service to our nation. If not for the willingness of our citizens to serve and sometimes sacrifice, American history would have charted a far different course. That willingness is still on display, from the distant battlefields to the blue-star flags in the windows. Thank God for those magnificent Americans in uniform, and those equally magnificent families supporting them.

In the movie The Fighting Sullivans, made in 1944, Tom watches with pride as Alleta christens the new destroyer, the USS The Sullivans

. As the ship sails away, Alleta turns and says, “Tom, our boys are afloat again.”

Mark Zuckerberg, Can You Spare A Dime?

Facebook becomes a public company this week. It’s expected to make a google of top executives and employees wealthy, so much so that Facebook is concerned about being able to retain many of its people once they discover the condition of great wealth. CNBC Squawk Box co-host Becky Quick retweeted this week that Facebook’s chief exec Mark Zuckerberg, who turned a ripe old 28 this week, could spend an after-tax $300,000 per day until age 80, and still have money left.

Should I take the stance now in vogue in some quarters that such a huge new concentration of wealth is nothing short of obscene? And in need of regulation? And unfair at its very core? And among such young, technology-savvy people?

Heck no. On the contrary, I think it’s terrific. Someone develops a product used by 800 million people, over 10% of the world’s population, and it would appear to the untutored eye that they just might have a value proposition to take to the marketplace. Investors will elbow one another in the temples and push their grandmas out of the way to get a piece of this one. And somebody’s gonna make some big money. Ya’ think?

My twenty-something nephew told me recently that those of my generation are technology-immigrants. Those of his generation are technology-natives. And what about those who are coming along in the next 15-20 years? Interesting, huh?

Zuckerberg’s success will encourage other young Americans of the technology persuasion to keep innovating and developing. As long as our tax and other policies won’t discourage wealth building (and, importantly, wealth keeping), we’ll continue to see enormously bright and talented people bring products and services to market that will make all our lives better. Does Facebook make our lives better? Well, that’s debatable, at least to me. But social media won’t be the only business sector affected by this success story.

I can easily foresee technological innovations transforming such industries as transportation, manufacturing, and energy. Medical information and recordkeeping is another sector on the cusp of major new leaps. As a writer, technological innovation has all but turned the publishing industry on its ear.

Don’t be surprised to see Mark Zuckerberg become a major philanthropist as he grows older and thinks of ways to give back. Just like Bill Gates. Just like many wealthy Americans have been doing since our nation's founding. It’s part of our tradition, a reflection on who we are as a people. The fortunate help the less fortunate. That’s why we need more fortunates, not less. People who can spare a dime very often do.

Mr. Zuckerberg will be able to spare lots of dimes, and my guess is he’ll put most of ‘em to work in the right places.

Congrats, Facebook.

The Tim Tebow Phenomenon

Unless you were hibernating last winter or stranded on a U.S. airport taxiway awaiting takeoff, you’re no doubt aware of the attention surrounding Tim Tebow, lately of the New York Jets.

Tebow is arguably the biggest draw in the NFL, America’s premier sports league. His jersey sales are among the leaders. He is discussed in minute, excruciating detail on the sports channels. And his larger-than-life celeb status has his photo in all the magazines of choice for those who follow the gossip.

However, there are plenty of vocal critics who denigrate his throwing motion, who question a team’s need to build an offense suited to his specific (and some argue, limited) skills, and who foresee his likely inability to become a bona fide NFL quarterback over the long term.

Others detest him for his religious displays and his kneeling in prayer on the field, a fad now popularly known as “Tebowing.” Many find it offensive that he uses football to take his message beyond the playing field, which he does enthusiastically and unapologetically.

He is both loved and reviled for his religious displays and beliefs in a nation where there seems to be little or no middle ground remaining.

Why is Tebow such a polarizing figure? After all, he’s a willing role model, a good citizen, and a man of faith who is building a children’s hospital in the Philippines. His good works are authentic and numerous.

Mothers (and probably many fathers) would want him as a son-in-law. Some would prefer that he leave football and enter politics, eventually seeking the presidency itself.

And he’s a winner. Americans love winners, right? Tebow was a part of two BCS national championships at the University of Florida. He was awarded the Heisman Trophy in 2007. He’s in the conversation as being perhaps the greatest football player in collegiate history. In the pros, he lit a fire under a lackluster Denver Broncos team and took them to the playoffs last season, defying the naysayers and validating his standing among his growing legion of followers. According to Twitter, immediately after his 80-yard touchdown pass to beat the Pittsburg Steelers in the wild-card playoffs, 9,420 tweets per second were generated.

I confess to being a Tebow admirer. I certainly didn’t like it when his Florida Gators were beating my Georgia Bulldogs in all but one of their meetings, but I always admired Tebow. And I still do.

As for the controversy, is one man kneeling in prayer, humbly and sincerely, really such a threat?

The Power of Prayer

My wife and I had three robust, healthy children, who all reached full-bodied adulthood and went on to have children of their own. We have been blessed with eight grandchildren, who are all vibrant and in good health in their own right. Two of our grandchildren, however, arrived with problems at birth: One developed pneumonia and underwent months of breathing treatments; another arrived with a cleft palate which was surgically repaired 6 months after birth.

Nothing, nothing quite pulls at a grandparent (and I’m sure a parent) like a baby in the throes of a struggle. Thanks to lots of prayer, the 24X7 attentiveness of their parents, and some wonderful doctors and caregivers, both boys are today physically strong, willfully strong, and acting like, well, just like boys are supposed to act. And we are grateful beyond words, to say the least.

This week one of my daughter’s dearest friends, who is pregnant with her second child, received word that all may not be well with her baby. Recent tests indicated that the baby is at high risk for Down syndrome. Accordingly, a more specific series of tests have been performed, and this Friday they will be told whether the 5 chromosomal disorders have been detected. As you might expect, a young couple’s world has suddenly been turned upside down.

I’m asking my blog friends, my Facebook and Twitter friends, and anyone else who may read this piece to say a prayer for our friends. I am a believer in the power of prayer. So, too, is this young family. I’ll leave the parents unnamed, but since they are both loyal St. Louis Cardinals fans, we’ll call the baby Baby Redbird, and if you mention Baby Redbird in your prayers, at a time and in a manner of your own choosing, I’m quite certain that God will sort it out in his own infinite wisdom. And there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that He will answer those prayers, in His own divine way, and provide encouragement and strength to this family at a time of need only a few among us can really understand.

I sincerely thank you in advance for this young couple, and you certainly have my own appreciation.

Alma Mater

I traveled to Athens yesterday for a visit to my alma mater, the University of Georgia. The occasion was the Bulldogs annual spring football game, G-Day, where admission is free and the families bring throngs of excited kids attired in red-and-black. Along with 40,000 of my closest friends, we all enjoyed the game, the weather, and our unflagging expectations for another great season from our beloved Dawgs.

The daughter of one of our parking-lot regulars had been accepted to UGA and with great excitement she was looking forward to reporting to campus in the Fall. It reminded me of how I felt when I got my acceptance, and how the cycle of excited incoming freshmen has been repeating itself since 1785. The enrollment has grown by three times in the forty-plus years since I began as a student, and there are lots of new buildings that have been thoughtfully added to the lovely landscape. But there are enough of the old buildings and old trees and familiar road names to confirm to me that I am in a place I love and revere.

I was the first member of my family to have an opportunity to go to college. The first one, ever. The University of Georgia was my choice, and it was one of the wiser decisions I’ve made in life. UGA was plenty challenging, and my fellow accounting-major classmates still stand out in my mind as some of the brightest, most able people I’ve ever encountered, anywhere. I learned I had to work harder to compete with so many gifted, ambitious people. UGA left it up to me to make those choices—work hard and compete or fall behind; work hard and compete or always be prepared to settle for the leftovers; work hard and compete or just go home. They cared little about my self-esteem or my modest means, but only about my demonstrable grasp of the material. It prepared me for the Marine Corps, for graduate school, and for life in the rough-and-tumble of the business world. They gave me something that I needed far more than a mere understanding of balance sheets and income statements. They gave me a lesson in life.

And I am forever indebted.

I am deeply proud of my alma mater, grateful for what it did for me, for what it now means to me. The University will have my devotion and loyalty for as long as I live. I will never tire of returning to that beautiful space, breathing that refreshing air, and allowing the many memories of long ago to take me back to my youth, however briefly. I remember telling my late father upon my daughter’s UGA graduation that he should be proud of the legacy he and my mother began. And I could tell from the look on his face that he was profoundly satisfied that his children and grandchildren would all be college graduates. He was proud just like I was when my own kids graduated, just like my parking-lot friend will be in a few short years. It truly is a very special place.

Go Dawgs!

A Trip For The Ages

My wife and I recently concluded a group trip to Israel that was remarkable in this sense: I’ve never visited any other place that was so dense in human history, so diverse in language, culture, and religion, and so determinative in the origins of my own Christian faith. Too, I have never been in a land where such a perceptible spiritual presence was always hovering, unobtrusive but always there for the taking, like a refreshing, restorative breath of mountain air. It truly was a trip for the ages, and I’ll be grateful for the rest of my earthly days that I could walk where Jesus walked (even with my still floppy foot from recent back surgery).

For those of you who have yet to visit the Holy Land, nothing I could write here could adequately describe the experience in actually viewing what one has read about, been taught, and seen in pictures since childhood. I suppose it’s a bit like seeing for the first time your own newborn baby—its effects are profoundly affecting and indescribable, and only when experiencing it for yourself do you then begin to comprehend its significance. Such was my visit to Israel.

My pastor son was a co-host, together with another talented young American pastor. Our Israeli host was steeped in the history of Israel and added richness and texture with his explanations of Jewish culture and tradition. My son had a gift of providing just the right words of his own with exactly the right verse of scripture to provide context and illumination to the sites we visited.

There were many highlights, and these are but a few:

• Saying a prayer at the Western Wall (that’s me in red in the photo, hardly an Orthodox look). The 2,000-year-old Wall was itself not part of the ancient Temple, but instead a massive retaining wall. I also placed a prayer on a slip of paper into a crack between the massive stones. Jewish custom holds that as soon as the paper touches the Wall, the prayer is sent. The cracks are cleared of the written prayers several times a year, and buried with reverence in a Jewish cemetery.
• Looking out at the Sea of Galilee, hearing the water lapping at the rocks on shore, breathing the air, hearing the birds, and seeing the same surrounding hills that Jesus saw so often, along with Peter and the other disciples.
• Looking over at Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives, across the Kidron Valley, at the Temple Mount, the Lions’ Gate, and the surrounding Old City. It is firmly fixed in my mind as the single most grand and moving geographical sight I have ever before witnessed. I could have stood there for a week, contemplating its significance, its idiosyncratic (and sometimes competing) vibes of both reverence and tension, even its uniquely complex and sprawling beauty. As well, the nearby Garden of Gethsemane is equally mesmerizing in its own quiet way.
• Visiting an old synagogue in Nazareth where the stones on the floor and walls dated to the time of Jesus. He was here, I kept thinking. He played on these stones as a child. He listened to and was taught by the rabbis here. When my son read from Luke 4: 16-31, where Jesus had returned to this same small building as a minister in his own right, I’m quite certain the hair on my arms stood up. He is here, I now thought. It may have been the singular most powerful moment of the trip for me.
• Taking communion at the Garden Tomb. An empty ancient tomb, Golgotha “the place of the skull,” and the remembrance not only of a crucifixion, but also the celebration of a resurrection that forever changed the world. And me along with it.

What an experience. What a trip. Writing this makes me want to go again.

Shalom, y’all.

Get Up Offa That Thang

It’s been an interesting year thus far.

Long story short: A week before Christmas I had pain that radiated from the lower back through the hip to the leg, and eventually settled into the lower leg and foot. The pain was relentless, and sleep was scarce. I sought the help of a chiropractor whose treatments eventually moderated the pain. Then my foot dropped and became floppy (in technical medical parlance: not a good sign). I saw an orthopedist that ordered an MRI and soon thereafter advised that my back was, as we say in the South, a mess. So, in early February I underwent back surgery to relieve the compressed nerves. And the surgery went well.

Already on my schedule was a trip to Israel, the trip of a lifetime with the tour being guided by none other than my eldest son.

Yep, now I’m in a real mess.

So, less than a week after surgery I decided to start walking to strengthen the muscles in my leg. I really want to make this trip. My doc’s withholding judgment until my two-week follow up visit. The walking is physically taxing but tolerable, but the aftermath the next day hurts. I mean, really hurts. So I walk some more. And it hurts too.

I came upon a hawk in the road ahead on one of my walks, a gorgeous, golden, powerful creature, and he was busily studying something in the asphalt and paid me little heed. Finally he ascended to a nearby limb and waited for me to limp on by. He then looked down at me and made a calm, restrained noise as I passed, but since I don’t speak hawk, I greeted him in English, tipped my cap, and moved along.

It took a while, but I think the hawk was telling me, “No pain, no gain. You’re doing the right thing.”

Get up offa that thang!

At the follow up visit, my doc said he loved my motivation but didn’t want me to overdue things. After all, he had cut into the muscles in my lower back, and as you’ve already noticed they’ll bark loudly when stressed. My back is otherwise structurally sound, even though the feeling has not yet returned to my foot. He also said that if I felt like I can tolerate the trip, then he’d leave it up to me to make the decision.

So I walked some more. And the pain began to lessen. I knew my friend the hawk was right all along. And so was James Brown.

I’m going to Israel.

Shalom.