It was one of those mornings in June when the air was so thick you could almost bottle it like syrup and put it on your pancakes. In fact, I did have pancakes that morning. We’d loaded the van early, picked up my Nanny Karen, and stopped for breakfast at Perkins somewhere off the highway. We rolled through towns like Rosebud, the state capital, Sedalia where Dad was born, and fields of hay ready for baling, until we arrived at Whiteman Air Force Base outside of Knob Noster, Missouri.
My dad’s best friend from high school was retiring from the Air Force as a colonel. We sat in white chairs in an open hangar, facing the yawning doorways. The Colonel arrived in a bus, and when his daughters swept out behind him in bright blue and sleek dresses, escorted by their boyfriends, I remember immediately wishing I’d worn something nicer. As civilians, I think we were all about as out of place as Gomer Pyle in the Marines. The Colonel, however, had personally invited us and acted as if the gold ring and fattened calf weren’t in his honor, but for us to enjoy.
After the ceremony, we were escorted to the AFB bowling alley and served a catered lunch. This was followed by another bus-trip to another hangar, where we were given a guided tour of one of the most massive objects I’ve ever seen next to a humpback whale: the U.S. B-2 Spirit stealth bomber—a flat, sleek aircraft weighing 160,000 pounds and with a wingspan of 172 feet. A tour like this was so privileged that we weren’t allowed to take pictures or even stand in certain places, so we couldn’t see every angle of the beast. My siblings and I got to climb into the cockpit, which really did feel like the eye of a great, black dragon.
After another tour to an underground location I wish I could remember for its significance, we were served dinner at a country club offsite before a long drive home. As we pulled away from Whiteman, a B-2 happened to lift over the Interstate in front of us, like a last salute goodbye from Knob Noster.
It’s June again, and this memory came to mind for a few reasons. One, I now live within miles of a Joint Maneuver Training Center, where I’m still getting used to F-16s roaring over the garden and making the dishes in our China cabinet rattle. But more importantly, it’s Father’s Day, and I’ve been thinking about the day my dad took us to Knob Noster.
Standing next to his Colonel friend that day—who wore a kaleidoscope of pendants on his breast—you could see how time had changed each of them since high school, the different fields the Good Shepherd had led them into. Colonel S., an Air Force veteran. My dad, a pastor still in active duty. It reminds me that when Paul wrote to Timothy, his language was that of a colonel to his lieutenant:
“But as for you, O man of God, flee these things. Pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, steadfastness, gentleness. Fight the good fight of the faith” (1 Tim. 6:11-12).
“Share in suffering as a good soldier of Christ Jesus. No soldier gets entangled in civilian pursuits, since his aim is to please the one who enlisted him” (2 Tim. 2:3).
I love talking to old veterans like my Papa Jay, because when you ask them about their service, they’ll often dismiss you with, I only did what was my duty. It’s an attitude that comes from a man who knows he’s serving something bigger than himself.
This attitude marks my dad.
Two months married to a pastor has given me a new kind of respect for these men who are, quite literally, on the front lines of the faith. Theirs may be a quieter calling, but it’s a calling no less dangerous. Souls depend on it. Colonel S. thought his great homeland was worth enlisting for—how much greater the King of the Nations, immortal, invisible, who alone dwells in unapproachable light, whose roar splits louder than a dozen bombers in formation, who needs no aircraft, but makes the clouds his chariot, and walks on the wings of the wind (Ps. 104:3)?
On that hot day at Whiteman, with ranks of soldiers flanked in salute, it was clear Colonel S. had pleased the one who’d enlisted him. And standing in the second row, wearing a dress shirt, was my dad—a good and faithful servant of the Master who called him. I’m grateful for men in service, whatever that service may be.
bethanyjlincks.com 
By grace and spiritual gift you have mastered the art of writing. I always enjoy being given the opportunity to share your thoughts. I have no doubt that the two of you met by Devine appointment.
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How encouraging! Thank you so much for reading!
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