I was walking back from the chow hall in the dark after breakfast the other morning. A lonely, wide, gravel path between encampments where armored vehicles sometimes wait for diners to return, it was rather quiet at this time. Keeping my eyes sharp to avoid stumbling, and always on the alert for the unexpected, I saw out of the corner of my eye a strange, quick movement above the berm. Something was scrambling rapidly and erratically over one of the synthetic canopies that stretch between poles to cover either small buildings or areas where people gather out of the sun and view. The creative ways Marines erect these often produce interesting rolling landscapes. This thing darted in and out of shadows, creases, folds, and over every synthetic hill created by a pole. I couldn't guess what it might be, since it seemed to barely dent the fabric at all.

I suspected it was not a threat to me - across the concertina wire atop the berm - so I walked close to get a better view. It was a kitten. Or maybe more of a teenage cat, having the time of his life. He was running to and fro, capturing imagined prey, avoiding pretend predators. When he saw me, he stopped and stared, eyes and ears at full attention. When he soon became bored by me, he went back to the challenges of the acrylic hills. As I continued on my way to my office, I noticed the birds singing in the eucalyptus trees. They were not bothered by the sound of the cannons doing terrain denial around the base, nor the machine gun fire coming from the range.

There is a war out here. But nature doesn't always seem to notice. The world goes on, and the wind whispers, "This too shall pass." Though we need to remain alert, aware of our surroundings and conscious of our purpose, we could also learn from the play of the kitten and the song of the birds. In the midst of all this, I too can find peace.

The Christian communities have just celebrated Easter and continue in the next few weeks in the Easter Season. The Gospel reading on the second Sunday of Easter reports on some of Jesus' post-resurrection appearances to his disciples and others. In that passage Jesus says several times to his disciples, "Peace be with you" - a normal Jewish greeting - but he says it repeatedly, even in the same visit. They may have been frightened by his sudden appearance, or even still rattled by witnessing such a momentous event. But what Jesus wished for them was peace. In their hearts, in their lives, in the midst of all the terror and loss of the crucifixion of their leader. Peace.
If the one they called the Prince of Peace offers peace in times of trial, we might begin to recognize that peace is not dependent on the world's cooperation. Peace can be in our hearts even in the middle of struggle, pain, fear and war. A calm assurance that despite all that may assail me, I can have peace.

Look to your sources of peace, whether it be your faith, your training, or your love and loved ones, and be at peace, even during war. Though we need to remain alert, aware of our surroundings and conscious of our purpose, we could also learn from the play of the kitten and the song of the birds. In the midst of all this, we too can find peace.

Peace be with you.

It's Chaplain Jamie Deason's first night on FOB Diamondback. Alone at last in his seven-by-twenty-foot shipping container, Deason, a Southern Baptist, is unpacking his rucksack and praying about a mosque.

Earlier over dinner in the chow hall, Deason met the outgoing chaplain he'll be replacing at the chapel. Major Michael Morehouse was charging through the long list of responsibilities he'll be handing off to Deason -- advising the FOB command on morale, caring for soldiers in units without a chaplain, humanitarian missions, Sunday services, meetings, reports, R&R briefs, and critical incident debriefs. During one of those debriefs, after a military police unit had been ambused and one of them wounded, Chaplain Morehouse sat with the 50 MPs in a big circle while they tried to come to grips with the fact that they could die here.

As Morehouse ran through this list of responsibilities with Deason, he said, "There's a mosque on the FOB, and I've been trying to get some work done on it," as if to say this mosque, which was here long before the Americans, would soon be Deason's responsibility, too.

That took Deason by surprise.

"The Muslims on the FOB are all coming to clean up the yard day after tomorrow," said Morehouse. "They say, 'We can't believe a Christian minister is helping us clean up our mosque!' And I say, 'In America, we play nicely.'"

"Mm hm," Deason murmured, as if he was still listening. But his eyes were already far away.

Now he's praying for guidance. He's all for cooperation, he says. But helping a religion that is not Christian, if it's not a military activity, is a compromise he doesn't think he can let himself make. It's a long way from the west Tennessee hills where he grew up. You've got to stand for something or you'll fall for anything. He heard that line about the same time he found Jesus, and he never forgot it, a line from a song by country musician Aaron Tippin. Outside, the nightly song that calls Mosul to prayer rises and falls in a minor key.