Comin' back from a FEW hits

I want to talk about my last blog—specifically what I’m saying about Civilian Theology, Entitlement Religion, and Toxic Pacifism. But first, here’s the song I’m listening to right now as I type, followed by an explanation: “Life We Chose” by Jared and the Mill.

This song hits me hard right now—it sinks into my soul. I feel like the narrator, speaking to Laura about the next season of our lives. It reminds me that, however hard the road has been, we chose to trust each other to be who we needed to be. For 25 years, I’ve needed to be the combative noncombatant you’ve known, “starting fights” and “burning bridges.” I’ve carried a pricked conscience, the pain of moral regret, and the weight of everyone I pissed off—each one a symbol of the systems and goals I gave my adult life to protect. I made what I believed was the right moral decision 👏 every 👏 fucking 👏 time. And nearly every time, corruption and entitlement prevailed.

I love that this song ends with an upbeat banjo—an ode to another one of my songs with Laura. But for the first two-thirds, it’s melancholy, dragging your soul down and slowing you just enough to feel what you’re supposed to feel. Without pain and sadness, goodness and beauty lose all meaning. The line that hits me most is:

“Coming back from a hit like that’s a chore.”

My back has been in pain for weeks—starting when I painted and moved books in The Chapter House and worsened while making hash, something I’m learning to do so I can make my own medicine someday. (Yes, I use cannabis medicinally, and no, I’m not being ironic.) I carry my work in my bones, and my back gives out first. It’s limited my ability to be the dad I want to be—like at the pumpkin patch, when I wanted to go down the slide with my kids but the hard landing reminded me sharply of my body’s limits, set by my soul’s pugnacious tendencies.

The last ten years have beaten the shit out of me. It’s been like ten deployments stacked together. I’ve done battle with VSOs, executive agencies, chaired professors, Congress—even fellow veterans. Each time, I’m sure they thought I walked away with my tail between my legs. That’s not how I’d describe it. I may have limped away toward the sunset, but my head was held high AF. I knew I still had my soul intact—that the high ground is holy ground because it’s moral ground. If I lose my soul, who TF cares what happens to my body?

But I need the upbeat banjo now, the last third of the song. I need to be—to think and feel at once. I need rest—not just weekly breaks, but a new pace of life. The hard-marching rhythm I’m leaving behind still lingers, and that’s okay. No habit truly leaves if you quit cold turkey; you have to replace old habits with good ones, or they’ll just lurk beneath the surface.

That brings me to George—and those like him.

I can’t live my story by ignoring the difficult parts or the lessons I wish I’d learned more easily. I’m a slow learner—sometimes I have to get the shit beaten out of me before I learn to fly low without quitting flight altogether. My hardest lessons shouldn’t stay locked inside me. And let’s be clear: abusive ass clowns don’t deserve privacy. There’s a line between gossip and putting up red flags for the soldier behind you.

George felt like one of those devils I knew—a toxic pacifist, sure, but not overtly belligerent like some Hauerwasians. I trusted him, like I trusted the Dana Point VFW commander, and I regret both. I stopped putting energy into #GruntGod to deal with what I saw as a breach of trust, and it dragged me back into conversations with more abusive ass clowns—work I just don’t have time for. I’m finally doing something that feels closer to the work I was meant to do.

That’s what I’m building now—a shelter I can share with others along The Way.

I can’t put toxic pacifism—or its intellectual funding streams (Civilian Theology and, above that, Entitlement Religion)—on the shelf without feeling like I’m losing ground in protecting my community from the next abusive ass clown. So what you saw yesterday is me packing my baggage carefully—not pretending it’s gone, but folding it neatly before I tuck it in the closet where it belongs.

I had AI write that blog to preserve my mental and spiritual energy for people who actually give AF—like my paying subscribers and FAFOs (Friends and Family Only). I don’t need to agonize over balancing integrity, moral ground, and righteous anger; let the 'bots do it! That way, I can even be fairer to people than (I think) they deserve. What matters isn’t having the last word—it’s making sure the last word I do have comes with receipts for those who need them.

That’s why I told AI who my real audience is—not too-cool-for-school professionals but the sick-and-tired rank-and-file believers and civilian allies. If you’re paying to be here, or if I comped you because you’re a friend or family member, you’ll never get the bots. The subscriber feed will always be all Logan, no filler—my rambling, rambunctious, rabbit-chasing, wonder-lad self. Thanks for reading, and for helping carry the burdens I share. If you’ve signed up or stuck around this long, maybe it’s something you chose too.

The song I’m listening to reminds me that seasons change and transitions don’t last forever. Sunsets give way to bedtime, but the sun rises again, and I reacquaint myself with my blessings with each new morning coffee. Dark clouds hover for a time, but they pass. You get through storms by finding or building shelter. Before 9/11 ended field exercises, I learned I could get through anything if I knew I had a clean, dry set of BDUs in my ruck. I never opened the Ziplock bag because knowing it was there was enough; the psyche is stronger than the soma.

Every time the dust stirred or danger appeared, I remembered the public promises I’d made: the Pledge of Allegiance, the Scout Law, the Oath of Enlistment, and my marriage and monastic vows. If I’d given up on any of them, I’d be giving up on the person I promised the world I’d (try to) become. What kind of person gives up on their Word, their conscience? I never gave in or put on my clean uniform during that last year before the towers fell—because knowing is enough.

Sometimes, knowing where you’re headed is what keeps you safe through the storm. That’s what I’m building now—a shelter I can share with others along The Way. If it seems like you’ve left the path, maybe you’re just the point man for those behind you. I’ll never forget the great responsibility my privilege bestows on me—no matter how many others do.

“There’s a land of gold where my eyes are set...
To the east I see a sunrise, but the west sunset still falls.”