Dear cadets, especially Jeff and Sheena:
You’ve been waiting for years. Some of you have been waiting for decades, paying off debt, selling homes and cars, working through complicated hearts and minds in order to get into – and through – training. You’ve prayed, studied, lost sleep, sat through lectures so dull that you missed the joy-filled physics lectures from high school. You’ve listened to officers who’ve “been there,” heard about the glory days and the horror stories.
You’re weeks from commissioning. You’re working on the songs you’ll sing, practicing walking and sitting, staring at the commissioning uniform and trim hanging in the closet. It’s not much of a change, really. Red trim and a star instead of blues and bars. You can’t wait. You’re a bundle of nerves and excitement. Red shoulders… You’ve been waiting.
I am hardly the voice that your instructors want you to hear. I am the warning, the cautionary tale. Maybe that’s why I want to say something to you at all.
I used to wear red trim. I have been where you are. When I was in training, my session mates were sure we would be the exception, that none of us would leave. On one hand, I wish that had been true, that some of us had had different experiences as officers. On the other, I knew it was unrealistic.
I hope that your experience is so much different from mine.
For whatever it might be worth, here are the things I wish I had known years ago:
1. Your ordination is not given by The Salvation Army. They may be the ones to legally register you, but ordination comes from God. This is, perhaps, the most important thing. God gives you your ordination, your pastor’s heart, your love for people. That doesn’t go away. Ever. Never ever ever.
2. Most “fire” will be “friendly fire.” Unless you are in a developing country or one riddled with war, chances are, the most devastating and perpetual conflict will be with those in your corps and with other officers. Become students of conflict resolution. Try to make sure you are sending out as little fire as possible.
3. Your faith will change. You will have seasons of doubt. These are generally good things. If your faith doesn’t change in unexpected ways, you’re doing it wrong.
4. Position statements are not doctrine. There is no doctrine about abortion, homosexuality, pacifism, or the death penalty. You don’t have to agree on position statements. You won’t agree with everyone on them. This does not mean they, or you, get to judge another’s state of salvation/faith/intelligence because it is different.
5. Do not let the SA become all that you are. Please, my darlings, hold tight to what makes you so special. Stay weird, even if it means you’re not at the Cool Kids Table at officer’s councils. Keep on with your DC Comics glee, your intense love of the Oakland Raiders, your knitting needles. If you are a Cool Kid, sit with the dorks. The quiet officers, the officer who brings a Muppets blanket when she’s cold, or the one who laughs way too loudly.
6. There is life outside of the SA. There is ministry after officership. I know, you’re either nodding along and saying “I know, I know,” or you’re absolutely certain that it won’t be you, because you’re in for life. However, life, and officership, will take you in directions you cannot imagine. Please don’t ever think that this is the only way for you to fulfill your calling.
7. DHQ and THQ are not always right. Never be afraid of them. Ever. They only have as much influence and power as you give them. Do not let them intimidate you. Intimidation is the primary tool of the insecure fool and impotent manager. In the same vein, do not think that the red on your shoulder is license to intimidate employees or soldiers.
This may sound like a gloomy list, and I suppose that, when compared to a lot of what you have heard, it is. My goal isn’t to frighten you or make officership sound horrible. I just wanted to tell you a few things I learned that weren’t in the brochure, some truths that I wish I had known and held onto during my time wearing red.
You are both stronger and more fragile than you could possibly understand right now. Time and strangers will help you discover that. Whatever your journey is, however long it lasts, you are loved. By God, by me, and by every little boogery kid that walk through the door (even when none of us seem to be good at communicating that).
Please take care of yourself. Ask for help. Let others help you. Be ready to help others.
And breathe. No matter how many people are in the audience, just breathe. You can do this.