A Patch of Grass in Iraq

“It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home.”

No one knows that more than Brook Turner, a Stayton soldier who literally lived out the Claude “Curly” Putman, Jr. song that singer Bobby Bare and others made popular in the mid-60s.

“After being in Iraq for about three months and seeing how bare, dry and dirty everything was, I really missed the green, green grass -- and Oregon as a whole – and thought about it everyday,” said Turner, now a Chief Warrant Officer 3 with the U.S. Army. “I love to play golf and would find myself just daydreaming about being on the course or in my backyard with green grass. So I had an idea. Why not try and grow some? Nothing big, just a small patch that would bring a little color to our living area.”

Five years have passed since Turner planted that small plot of grass in Iraq, but the feat still makes its rounds in cyberspace. He remains surprised and humbled by the attention.

“I never intended it to turn out the way it did,” Turner said.
Turner and his wife Kimberly, both Stayton High School graduates, married June 5, 1993, and five days later he enlisted in the Army. Turner was stationed in Hawaii in 2002, where the couple lives today with their four children, Jorden, 17, Samantha, 14, Courtney, 12 and Ja’Lynn, 9. Turner’s parents, Pearl and Jerry Turner, Kimberly’s mom, Lois Kane (dad Harry recently passed away), and other family members still live in Stayton.

In early 2004, Turner was deployed out of Schofield Barracks to Iraq with his unit, the 1st Battalion, 25th Aviation. When he told his friends he was going to plant grass, most just laughed.

“They didn’t think much of it,” Turner said. “So I told Kimmie to mail me some grass seed and fertilizer. I didn’t know if it would work, but it was worth a try.”
Turner dug up a small area of dirt outside his sleep trailer, lined it with bricks and planted his seed. He watered the approximately 3-by-7-foot plot several times a day using a plastic jug that he filled from the nearby shower trailer. Then he hit a snag – ants.

“The grass seed somehow brought out an army of ants, and they formed a very long string convoy one by one carrying off my grass seed to who knows where,” Turner said. “Obviously that wasn’t working, but that didn’t stop my desire to have a patch of grass.”

Undaunted, Turner bought seven small patches of sod – hardy, natural turfgrass - from a local Iraqi vendor and replanted the area the ants had destroyed.

“It took root, but didn’t spread at all because of the bricks,” Turner said. “I kept the grass the rest of the time we were there – about six months. It did turn brown quickly once the weather turned cold in the winter, but it was just a nice area to sit around and enjoy with my friends. More of a conversation piece than anything else.”

But when his friend, SSG Mark Grimshaw, snapped that now-famous photo of Turner trimming his plot with scissors, conversation spread way beyond those few friends.

“I sent the pictures to Kimmie, who naturally shared them with our family,” Turner said. “Her sister sent them to quite a few people, so I was told. Within a month or two from us taking them, I had guys telling me that their wife or grandma or someone had sent them a picture of me.”

When the photo hit the Internet, Turner was identified on various Web sites as an Australian, a Canadian and an American. Locations of where the photo was taken also varied. People even questioned the photo’s validity when a problem with the camera’s batteries caused the date/time stamp to reset to an earlier date than when it was actually taken. But Turner’s story spread and other small plots of grass soon sprouted at other U.S. military campsites in the Middle East.

“All I wanted was some color to remind me and guys around me that even in a dusty, sandy, colorless area, that grass was just as green there as it was at home,” Turner said of his little piece of home. “If that patch of grass brought a smile to someone’s face while we were all so far from home, it was worth it.”

Turner returned to Iraq for 15 months in 2008-09 and will be sent there again next year.

“Although I did not grow grass again, we did make a small golf driving range within our motor pool,” he said of his last deployment. “There were so many people who helped support our idea. Many places sent us driving range mats, balls and clubs. There were lots of nights with the motor pool lights on that a bunch of soldiers would be out rocketing golf balls at different targets in the motor pool.”

Whether a small patch of grass or a makeshift driving range, Turner’s projects brought much joy to himself and those he worked with. To him, that’s all that really mattered.

“At the end of the day, it is all about the great men and women I have the opportunity to serve with,” said Turner, who will be eligible to retire in three years after 20 years of service.

Written for Our Town Monthly - South
View this and other articles at www.ourtownlive.com

Loaves and Fishes and $20 Bills

During these tough economic times, trust for what we need often gets lost in the muddle of “what if’s” that the enemy assaults us with. As Christmas nears, and with an overstretched budget, the recalling of this life’s lesson comforts me and strengthens my trust in God’s provision. The story is from 1992, but its message is timely. It’s starts with a young man's testimony:

"When the Lord called me to Hawaii, I was a bit frightened. I had never faced a challenge like this before -- coming half way around the world to learn how to better serve Him. But I gave my Him my heart, so I came. In just a few weeks, I return to Africa and will give Him my life."

A quiet, persistent thought jumped into my mind as I listened to this young West African's testimony, "Give him $100, and tell him it is for him, not his school fees."

Following a round of applause, our Youth With A Mission (YWAM) leader asked us to prayerfully consider donating toward the young man's outstanding course fees. Knowing our similar circumstances, he encouraged, "Give what God leads, for He can multiply your gift many times, just as Jesus multiplied a loaf of bread and a few fishes to feed thousands."

"Give him $100," the inner voice persisted.

"Lord, is this really you?" I inwardly queried, my eyes widening, my heart racing. I knew about loaves and fishes, but I couldn't relate Jesus' miracles to my life, especially when finances were involved. Although by worldly standards $100 is not a great amount, it was about all I had to last me through my own mission studies.

After more than a decade in print journalism, there I was sitting in a Hawaiian classroom, facing up to what it takes to be God's intermediary. This sudden demand upon my finances caused me to wonder just how I came to be here.

The seed of missions was planted in my mind at the tender age of 10 when my friend and I cornered two girls who were fighting and gave them a lecture about love that, I have to admit, was less than loving.

"Stop it! Don't you know that God loves both of you, and that Jesus says fighting is wrong!" we knowingly shouted at our captives, who immediately tossed in their towels more out of fear than of conscience. Their capitulation was a heady outcome for two budding emissaries for God.

More than three decades later, as it had many times throughout my life, the urge to do more for God and a lot less for me resurfaced. But after years of struggling financially to raise two children on my own and to establish my journalism career, I was reluctant to give up the high wages now within my professional reach.

A year of prayer and soul-searching fueled my leap of faith, and I was finally on my way. But niggling doubts about money clouded my missions entry. I had yet to fully embrace God's banking system of giving and receiving.

"Give him $100 ... ," again came the inner voice. Nervously I approached the young man, fully intending to follow through with God's instruction. Once face to face, I mumbled some platitude for his faithfulness, turned and fled.

Faith-stretching is never fun. I desperately wanted to believe that my entry into missions would safeguard my future from the unwelcome hardships and obligations that had peppered my adult life. But I had more to endure to strengthen my character and prepare me for ministry.

Makapala offered me sunny days, palm trees, gorgeous beaches, chocolate macadamia nut coffee, fellowship and friends. Dollars and dimes were not items I wanted to contend with, but again came that quiet inner voice, "Give ... ."

So I prayed -- for confirmation, for more faith, for God to provide "just enough money to get me home." Then I turned over $100 to the young West African and, with $20 left, my next two weeks to God. As clearly as the call to give, I knew God was about to teach me His truth about loaves, fishes and $20 bills.

I carefully hoarded my funds until a few days before leaving for home when a friend telephoned, "Can you come to Kona this weekend?" Sandy and her husband Scott play key roles in YWAM's University of the Nations communications department. This meeting was important to my future ministry.

"Sure," I answered somewhat apprehensively. Traveling to Kona from the other side of the island would put a significant dent in my remaining funds.

My first dip into the twenty came when a friend asked me to breakfast on our way to the Kona campus. I chose the least expensive item on the menu, still a whopping $8. Then, with a little guilt at having spent more on breakfast, I deposited $5 into the collection plate at church.

At lunch at the YWAM base, Scott asked if anyone could lend him $5 for an immediate ministry need. Gulping, I inwardly heard, "Give ...." Now I was down to $2. Not five minutes had passed when Scott's friend came over to repay a debt of $10. Scott promptly gave the money to me, saying, "A lesson on how God multiplies."

With $12 in hand, I later saw a few classmates off to the Philippines. At the airport, God told me to give one classmate $5 and the message, "Let your needs be known when this is gone."

Good advice, I thought, and confided my need to another classmate. Grinning, she handed me a card with $20, a gift she was saving for my departure.

"Amazing, this provision of God's," I thought, feeling uplifted and a little embarrassed.

Arriving at the Honolulu Airport the following day, I faced a three-hour flight delay. Again God provided -- $15 dinner chits!

Hours later, I arrived in San Francisco with $27 in pocket. My sister picked me up, so I paid for parking fees and gas to get us to her home in Salinas. Down to $15.

My son came to my sister's to escort me home, and we ate dinner. Down to $6. Then came a crucial telephone call. My brother, who had been waiting for a liver transplant, was finally getting his chance -- the next day. Sometimes I drop loose coins into my purse, so I searched and found an unexpected, much-needed $20 someone had tucked into a pocket. Up to $26.

Breakfast at the hospital. Down to $20.

Lunch on my sister-in-law. Dinner on my sister. My son visited a friend with my car, reducing parking fees. Still, down to $18.

Overnight in a hospital lounge for all of our family -- free. Praise God!

"Buy breakfast for everyone," came the inner voice again. What's inexpensive for eight people? Donuts! Down to $15.

My brother's surgery went well, and with $15, my son and I headed home.

Parking fees, $14.

Toll booth? You guessed it. $1.

God not only multiplied every one of those original 20 dollars that I thought I needed, but in answer to my prayer, gave me "just enough to see me home."

When I entered YWAM ministry, I had enough funds to last three months. God saw me through six years. Oh, I can’t say it wasn’t tough, but there always seemed to be “just enough.” God faithfully filled in the blanks with “creative finances” – services traded, dinner invitations, house sitting, even envelopes with $20 tucked in from time to time.

As Philippians 4:19 tells us, God shall supply all our needs, "according to His riches in glory by Jesus Christ." Trading my last shred of independence for interdependence with Christ freed me to serve Him with all my heart, mind, soul, abilities and finances.

Several weeks after my return home from Hawaii, I received a letter from the young West African: "Thank you so much for your generous gift ... God faithfully provided me with funds to cover my schooling, but your $100 was just enough money to get me home."

I wasn't surprised!

************************************************************************************

Dear Lord,

Please meet the needs of everyone who is struggling financially this holiday season. We know that your "bank" has endless funds for those who give their trust and their lives to you. Help us to remember that you are our provider -- and help us to hear your inner voice when you ask us to give our "$20" to someone else in need, even when we need ourselves. We are not in the "earn and spend" banking of the world, but your "give and receive." Your timing is perfect, and we give glory to you now for all you will do!

Amen.

Please be patient

I just wanted to post a note to say I'm still figuring out all this blogging stuff, so please be patient with me. If you wish to pass this site URL on to friends, please feel free. Next week is fully taken up with work and appointments, so more than likely it will be the following week before I get to writing.

Meanwhile, dear friends, please be blessed in your journey until we meet again.

It's not just about winning ...

Great competitors are bred, and great sportsmen are born.

I came to that conclusion at a Little League T-ball game in Davis, Calif. for which my son, Matt, was umpiring. It was cemented solidly when a friend of mine related a “horror” tale of her son’s Little League game.

“One of the coaches just ripped off a kid’s head for making a mistake,” she noted. “What does that teach him?”

In both of our books – nothing.

We have become a nation addicted to winning. “We’re number one” puts smiles on sports fans faces. Running a good race doesn’t always.

This premise relates to every facet of life, whether at home, at church, at school, at work or at play. Numbers are crunched, awards are sought after, emotions are stifled in favor of one-upmanship. Even the Joneses have a hard time keeping up.
Life too often becomes a tough game with more losers than winners. When claiming the prize eliminates the good in playing, there is no win. Real rewards come from teamwork, playing the game unselfishly for the good of the whole.

On a hot sunny afternoon, a small boy stepped up to bat. The crowd watched like hawks for the strike, waiting for the sought-after home-run that most likely wasn’t to be. After all, these were 5- and 6-year-olds, much too little to strike a ball past the pitcher, if at all.

The little guy’s determination showed in his stance: gritted teeth, slightly bulging eyes, hat-clad head bobbing slightly, feet apart, hands with a death-grip on the bat. In front of him was a small softball, sitting perched like a parrot on a lone “tee” awaiting the six hits – allowed in this game – he would take.
Strike one.

“Come on, you can do it!” came a solitary voice out of the bleachers.
Strike two.

“Go for it son!” the proud father yelled encouragingly.

Strike three.

“Go, go, go ... .” the crowd joined in.

Strike four.

“You can do it!” Just the father and a couple of viewers crooned, others losing interest, and turning to bleacher conversations.

“YOU CAN DO IT!” And suddenly bat hit ball, amazing the crowd and the little boy, who stood rock still, watching it travel slowly past the pitcher on its way to second base.

“Run!”

The stands rumbled with stomping feet.

“Run, run!”

The little boy’s head jerked ever so slightly and he took off – toward third base.

“No,” the crowd yelled. “The other way.”

With a slight cast of his head toward the bleachers, the boy turned back toward home.

“NO!” My son, the umpire, waved him toward first base. The kids on both teams pointed the way. The crowd continued to cheer him on.

Confused, he ran back to third. Then following the third baseman’s frantic directions, finally ran toward first base but stopped triumphantly on the pitcher’s mound. The pitcher moved back, not sure what to do next. The crowd stood, shaking the bleachers with the momentum. All arms waved toward first base. And with no thought for his position, the first baseman dropped his ball and ran toward the pitcher.

“Come on,” he yelled, grabbing the hand of the errant batter, and tugged him toward first base while the crowd screamed its approval. The ball lay forgotten as a triumphant twosome hugged each other on the piece of square plastic that marked the spot where lives are forever shaped.

Two little boys, running hand in hand, towards a goal that only one should have reached. Both came out winners. In fact, there wasn’t a loser in the stands or on the fields that summer day, and that’s a lesson none of us should ever forget.
Winning is more than being “number one.” Winning is helping another when the chips are down. It’s remembering to “love one another,” as Jesus called us to do, despite the flaws that sometimes appear in the fabric of daily life.

No one will ever remember the score of that summer afternoon encounter. Competition, usually fettered by jeering remands, lost to sportsmanship, an innate formula for winning.

When you get to first base with opposing teammates, families, friends and grandstanders behind you, a home run is never that far down the road.