When the Sirens Sounded
The early interception systems weren’t always successful. When the sirens blared, everyone reacted in their own practiced way. Those caught outside ran for bunkers. Those already in buildings waited. Those already asleep simply stayed in bed, trusting the welfare check that would soon come. On average, our base was hit by rockets or mortars 2.2 times a week. This was considered the end of the war.
Each of us is shaped and molded by the experiences that form us—how we move through the world, how we understand ourselves, and even how we live into our callings in Christ. My military service is no different than the upbringing, the moving from place to place, the schooling, and the work experience that led me to say, “Okay, Lord. It’s Your turn.” God was preparing me even in the hardest situations—even where danger, fear, and evil were present—for the work of the Light.
I prayed every time before I went to sleep. I prayed every time our soldiers left the gate on patrol. I prayed every time the sirens started. And I’ll be honest: in the beginning, those prayers were mostly for myself and for the safety of my unit. But over the course of that year-long deployment, as the sirens became routine, something deeper began to shift in me. The Spirit was doing what the Spirit does—expanding my heart beyond my own perspective.
Our base was a half-mile square. Southern Baghdad surrounded us—homes, families, children, simply trying to live. During my tour, not once did any incoming rockets land within our perimeter. But they had to land somewhere. Sometimes that “somewhere” was one street over, in the neighborhoods beside us.
There was one time in particular when a rocket struck just east of our camp. If you know anything about the concept of blood-guilt in Scripture (Numbers 35:16-21), you understand how violence can create a chain that is hard to break. The response to that strike over the next few days showed me how quickly hurt turns to greater harm, and mourning to retribution.
After that moment, I stopped praying only for my safety and my brothers and sisters in uniform. I began praying for the ones firing the rockets—that they would land in an empty field and do it quickly so they would not be caught or worse. I prayed for the families in those surrounding neighborhoods, most of whom were simply trying to live their lives under the weight of an occupation. I prayed for my brothers and sisters, yes, but I also prayed for their brothers and sisters.
My faith stretched. It widened. It grew.
I began to understand that faith only for myself is not enough. Faith that only applies to people who look like me, think like me, or wear the same uniform as me is not enough. Faith is for the world God created. The world God loves. All of it. Every corner of it. Every soul in it.
It didn’t happen in a single dramatic moment. It happened the way the Spirit usually moves—quietly, persistently, over time, in the small yielding of the heart toward God’s design.
Did those prayers “work” in the sense of changing outcomes? I don’t need to know that. What I know is that those prayers changed me. They shaped how I pray today. They shaped how I preach. They shaped how I love. They shaped how I see the world that God so loves.
Hard situations are hard. The reasons I am called a veteran are not easy reasons. But faith does not stop where things become difficult. In fact, faith is often increased there.
And the faith we are called to have—the faith that is everlasting—is a faith that holds everyone as a beloved child of God.
Pastor Will Atwood is the senior pastor at First UMC Whitewright and First UMC Bells, a U.S. Army Veteran and a beloved child of God