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THROUGH ALL THE PLAIN
Benjamin John Peters
THROUGH ALL THE PLAIN
Copyright © 2014 Benjamin John Peters. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions. Wipf and Stock Publishers,199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Cascade Books
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
ISBN 13: 978-1-62032-332-8
EISBN 13: 978-1-63087-171-0
Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Peters, Benjamin John
Through all the plain
xiv + 192 p. ; 23 cm.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62032-332-8
1. Literature 2. Memoir 3. Iraq War 4. Chrisian non-violence I. Title
PS130 P64 2014
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
To Andrea
So violence
Proceeded, and oppression, and sword-law
Through all the plain, and refuge none was found.
Adam was all in tears, and to his guide
Lamenting turned full sad: ‘O what are these,
Death’s ministers, not men, who thus deal death
Inhumanly to men, and multiply
Ten-thousandfold the sin of him who slew
His brother; for of whom such massacre
Make they but of their brethren, men of men?’
—John Milton, Paradise Lost
Acknowledgments
One man is rarely responsible for a text. I am indebted to those countless teachers, friends, and loved ones who have partnered with me in the shaping of this book. I am but one where they are both many and formative. To all who have participated in the life of Benjamin John Peters, to all who have—if ever so slightly—entered into my journey, I thank you. I am who I am because of you.
To the Marines who died in Iraq, I wake with the burden of honoring your death.
To my professors at seminary who both eagerly and readily taught me the truer meanings of faith and practice.
To my colleagues in Cambodia who extended infinite amounts of grace in an environment riddled with complexity.
To my parents for investing their resources, time, and lifeblood into a quiet, introverted, and, at times, scared boy.
To my wife and children for their bottomless pit of both understanding and support.
To Mike van Mantgem—editor, teacher, and writing confidant—this book is because of you.
To Christian Amondson, a friend who saw and believed, thank you for both your insight and critique. Without you, Through All the Plain would be a lesser book.
To Caitlin Mackenzie for her skillful, subtle, and clarifying edits.
To Cascade Books for taking the time to read a book proposal from an unknown, agent-less author. I am in your debt.
Introduction
Three births. Three lives. Three trajectories. This is a story of reconciliation, of that longing within us all to create one from three.
I was born of my mother in the craggy hills of northern California. Shortly thereafter, she and my father divorced. Life through the eyes of a child is foggy. I have only glimpses and partial memories of my father. I was fourteen when, once again, I entered his household. This was precipitated by the abusive actions of a stepfather. I was weary with both his anger and my mother’s acquiescence to it.
In many ways, my life has been a series of choices seeking to reconcile those lost years when my father was but a shadow. Through his absence, I lost identity. I wanted both self and belonging. And so, when approached with the story of a first-century prophet, I ached with hope and was later baptized into a new family. I was taught and mentored in the ways of Jesus. I had no understanding of conservative or liberal. I knew only Christ. I wrestled with old habits and new truths. I would be better than my mother. I would outpace my father. I would find myself in the Church. I would become a son of God.
A final birth issued from death: after September 11, 2001, I enlisted. Six months later I stood on the parade grounds of Recruit Depot, San Diego, and was awarded the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor of the United States Marine Corps. It was pinned on my breast by the man who, more than any other, fashioned me. I was proud, I was honorable—I had found myself, again. I was a warrior defending God and country. I did not question. I obeyed orders. I was born to embody death.
Three births. Three lives. Three trajectories.
This is my story, cemented in history. It is a true story, though not always accurate. As one writer claims, “Memory is creatively reproductive rather than accurately recollective.”1 I will tell it as I remember it, though another’s tale would doubtlessly diverge from mine.
‡ ‡ ‡
I reached for the doorknob. It was thin and silver, a sliver on which my hope rested. Images raced through my mind, pictures of the desert: heat, bombs, the cries of the fallen. I could never move past this juncture. I was broken. The war had done this. I hated it and myself. This was a chance, however, an opportunity for salvation. I had to open it. I had to stop hesitating. Life must continue. Even if I revered the past, allowed it to shape me, I still had to leave. I had to move on and into the future, so I could embrace the present.
I opened the door.
Sitting opposite me was an elderly man, gray with age and experience. He told me he, once, had returned from war. “Korea,” he said. He knew. He understood. He told me wounds could heal. “What do you want?”
What did I want? The silence, thick and tense, hung between us. There would be no return from the ledge upon which I now stood. “I want,” I started, “to feel whole.”
“And,” my counselor followed,
