WRITING LETTERS FOR P.J.
Well, this time I'll have to go back to July and August of 1972. Yes, a way back in the eons of time. A time when I had just graduated from high school, and I had joined Uncle Sam's Army. There we all were, at the reception station at Fort Dix, N.J. A few more days, and we would go through those big doors and get a taste of Basic Combat Training. We already met Drill Sergeant Bostik. "Once we go through those doors, I'll be a different person," he told us. "I had better see you running all the time."
Well, I got to know the guys in our platoon. We were E-4-2. Echo Company, 4th Battalion, 2nd BCT Brigade. Cpt Brown, commanding officer.
Then we had our three D.I.s: Drill Sergeant Bostik, Drill Sergeant Quiñones from Puerto Rico, and Drill Sergeant Davis, an African American. It is kind of strange that you might remember names, especially your elementary teachers names, and of course, your Drill instructors names. Or maybe it isn't so strange, they would have an everlasting influence on your life.
The other guys in our platoon had names like Venable, Pittman, Davis, Mosley, Huvaine, Madera, Nieves, and the others. Most were from New York City, from Harlem and other parts. But I especially remember "Mojica." He was from Puerto Rico and didn't speak much English. I was a bit short and wore glasses. Now we all had nicknames, I was "Springer," and Mojica they called "P.J." Why P.J.? I guess it was because he wore pajamas to bed, instead of our boxer shorts and T-shirts.
Now, P.J. spoke Spanish but never learned to write. He knew I spoke and wrote Spanish, thanks to Mrs. Tuckerman and Ms. Barrett from High School. Once time he called me over to his bunk and revealed his heart.
"Hey, I know you can speak Spanish, right? Can you write Spanish too? "Yes," I responded, "I can speak and write Spanish very well."
"OK, this is what I need," and he continued to tell me that he had a girlfriend from Puerto Rico, they were getting married, and she only spoke Spanish. He needed me to write his letters to her. He would dictate, and I would write the words on stationery paper, and he would sign the letter. "It might get a bit intimate, but I confide in you," he told me.
I was surprised that a stranger would confide and trust in me, even writing down the intimacy with his fiancée. Sure, I agreed to that. So, I was his letter writer for the 8 weeks we were in Basic Training. Sometimes I had to translate what the DIs were saying. After graduation, everyone took off in different directions. I wonder how many of those guys are still alive. So, where am I going with this?
2 Timothy 3:16 reads: All Scripture is God-breathed and is valuable for teaching the truth, convicting of sin, correcting faults, and training in right living;
Hebrews 1:1-2 reads: Long ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets, 2 but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son, whom he appointed the heir of all things, through whom also he created the world.
In a way, I felt like the scribe, the writer, writing down the words and thoughts of the one inspiring those letters. P.J., in a way, was like God telling the prophet what to write. I was that prophet writing down the thoughts and words, even the intimacies that another person would receive. But they were not my words at all. They were P.J.'s words. I wrote down each and every one of them, just as they came from the mouth of P.J.
The recipient was PJ's fiancée. She would read his letters, written by my hand, yet they were HIS letters, and I was the scribe. In the same way, we have God's written word, written by many scribes and prophets of old. In the New Covenant, we have the letters and gospels written by the hands of the disciples, yet they were ALL inspired by the Holy Spirit. We have God's letters to us today, all 66 of them. They speak to our hearts and minds. They are love letters from the bridegroom to the bride. So, I hope to see you at the wedding feast.
Well, this time I'll have to go back to July and August of 1972. Yes, a way back in the eons of time. A time when I had just graduated from high school, and I had joined Uncle Sam's Army. There we all were, at the reception station at Fort Dix, N.J. A few more days, and we would go through those big doors and get a taste of Basic Combat Training. We already met Drill Sergeant Bostik. "Once we go through those doors, I'll be a different person," he told us. "I had better see you running all the time."
Well, I got to know the guys in our platoon. We were E-4-2. Echo Company, 4th Battalion, 2nd BCT Brigade. Cpt Brown, commanding officer.
Then we had our three D.I.s: Drill Sergeant Bostik, Drill Sergeant Quiñones from Puerto Rico, and Drill Sergeant Davis, an African American. It is kind of strange that you might remember names, especially your elementary teachers names, and of course, your Drill instructors names. Or maybe it isn't so strange, they would have an everlasting influence on your life.
The other guys in our platoon had names like Venable, Pittman, Davis, Mosley, Huvaine, Madera, Nieves, and the others. Most were from New York City, from Harlem and other parts. But I especially remember "Mojica." He was from Puerto Rico and didn't speak much English. I was a bit short and wore glasses. Now we all had nicknames, I was "Springer," and Mojica they called "P.J." Why P.J.? I guess it was because he wore pajamas to bed, instead of our boxer shorts and T-shirts.
Now, P.J. spoke Spanish but never learned to write. He knew I spoke and wrote Spanish, thanks to Mrs. Tuckerman and Ms. Barrett from High School. Once time he called me over to his bunk and revealed his heart.
"Hey, I know you can speak Spanish, right? Can you write Spanish too? "Yes," I responded, "I can speak and write Spanish very well."
"OK, this is what I need," and he continued to tell me that he had a girlfriend from Puerto Rico, they were getting married, and she only spoke Spanish. He needed me to write his letters to her. He would dictate, and I would write the words on stationery paper, and he would sign the letter. "It might get a bit intimate, but I confide in you," he told me.
I was surprised that a stranger would confide and trust in me, even writing down the intimacy with his fiancée. Sure, I agreed to that. So, I was his letter writer for the 8 weeks we were in Basic Training. Sometimes I had to translate what the DIs were saying. After graduation, everyone took off in different directions. I wonder how many of those guys are still alive. So, where am I going with this?
2 Timothy 3:16 reads: All Scripture is God-breathed and is valuable for teaching the truth, convicting of sin, correcting faults, and training in right living;
Hebrews 1:1-2 reads: Long ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets, 2 but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son, whom he appointed the heir of all things, through whom also he created the world.
In a way, I felt like the scribe, the writer, writing down the words and thoughts of the one inspiring those letters. P.J., in a way, was like God telling the prophet what to write. I was that prophet writing down the thoughts and words, even the intimacies that another person would receive. But they were not my words at all. They were P.J.'s words. I wrote down each and every one of them, just as they came from the mouth of P.J.
The recipient was PJ's fiancée. She would read his letters, written by my hand, yet they were HIS letters, and I was the scribe. In the same way, we have God's written word, written by many scribes and prophets of old. In the New Covenant, we have the letters and gospels written by the hands of the disciples, yet they were ALL inspired by the Holy Spirit. We have God's letters to us today, all 66 of them. They speak to our hearts and minds. They are love letters from the bridegroom to the bride. So, I hope to see you at the wedding feast.
