By DAVID EPPS
Pastor

In the early months of 1970, I was struggling to become a U. S. Marine at Parris Island, S.C. The war in Vietnam would drag on for five more years and I had enlisted rather than wait for the draft.

It was really the first time I had ever been away from home for any length of time. Oh, when I was in high school, there were a couple of overnight trips with the football team and, when I was a senior, I traveled with some friends from East Tennessee (yes, people from east Tennessee capitalize the "East") to Nashville to watch Kingsport Dobyns-Bennett play in the state basketball championships. I also traveled to Silver Springs, Md. that year to compete in the Eastern Regional Karate Tournament, but, as far as being away from home, that was about it.

Now, at age 19, I was a million miles away from our house on the hill where I spent nearly all my life. By the time Easter Sunday arrived, I was about halfway through with boot camp. In fact, Easter Sunday was the first time in some six weeks that I had a moment to sit and reflect. I should explain that Marine drill instructors keep recruits extremely busy and highly active.

Every day we were rudely awakened at 5 a.m. and by 5:02 a.m. we were doing the first of the daily thousands of push-ups, bends and thrusts, and sit-ups. We trained, studied, ran, and sweated all day long with nary a break until 8:30 p.m. At 8:30, we had a half hour of "free time," which meant that we had 30 minutes to spit-shine boots, shine brass, shave, shower, read and write letters, prepare our uniforms for the next day, clean our rifles, and ... well, you get the idea. We were in bed at 9 p.m. and fell into an exhausted sleep immediately. We didn't get homesick because there was simply no time to get homesick.

But on Easter Sunday, along with the rest of my platoon, I was assigned to mess duty. We reported for duty at about 3 a.m. and by 5:30 a.m. we had fed hundreds of recruits and had cleaned the kitchen. The day would end at 8:30 p.m. and we would march wearily back to the barracks. After breakfast, however, the sergeant in charge gave us a smoke break and we filed outside into the dark. I didn't smoke but I took advantage of the break to go off by myself for a few moments and stare at the dark waters that surrounded the island. Slowly the sun began to rise and chase away the darkness. For some reason, we were given a full 30 minutes on break so I was able to watch as the sun illumined the bay.

I knew, of course, that it was Easter. I thought of my friends back home who would be getting up soon and celebrating this most holy of days. Soon, Reverend Austin would be going to Mountain View Methodist Church to do his final preparations for the Easter service and my friends Steve, David, Lynn and others would be gathering at 10 a.m. for Sunday School. Donna, the girl I was dating before I left for the Marines, would be attending services with her family at Colonial Heights Presbyterian Church, and my mother would soon be preparing her normal and sumptuous Sunday dinner. My parents and my 10-year-old brother would observe their first Easter without me.

There, sitting on an overturned trash can outside the mess hall, looking across the waters that reflected the orange hue of the rising sun, I was hit with an overwhelming surge of homesickness. I wanted to be home. I wanted to attend church with my friends, to eat Sunday dinner with my family, and do all the things I had done before my enlistment. For the first time at Parris Island, feeling like a lost child, I cried, careful not to let anyone see. Then, suddenly, we were called back to work and I didn't have time to be homesick again for the next six weeks. My desire was to be home. My duty was to be wherever the Marine Corps told me to be.

In just a few days, several thousand young servicemen and women will celebrate Christmas far from home. These soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines will think about their families, their wives, their friends, their children, and their girlfriends or boyfriends so far away. They will contemplate in their minds and vicariously participate in the Christmas events occurring back home. They will long to see the Christmas trees, to bask in the Christmas lights, to smell the odors of fir or pine, to feel the bite of the winter cold, to feel the warmth of the crackling fireplace, to see the joy as loved ones unwrap presents, and to taste the dinners that will be lovingly prepared.

Some will be on a ship, others assigned to far-flung bases, and still others will likely be engaged in a fierce struggle for their lives against people that want to see them, and all Americans, dead. If they have time to think, many of them will feel a deep-seated ache and shed lonely tears. Their desire is to be home for Christmas. Their duty is to be where they are, wherever that may be.

I will pray for them this Christmas, as will millions of their countrymen. I will pray that they be kept in safety, that they survive and prevail. I will pray that they all return home to their friends and families. I will pray for "peace on earth and good will toward men." I will pray that this will be the last Christmas that they will have to celebrate alone and so very far from home.

[Father David Epps is rector of Christ the King Charismatic Episcopal Church in Peachtree City. He may be contacted at FatherDavidEpps@aol.com or at www.ChristTheKingCEC.com.]

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