Floodplains
By: Lauren Campbell
Permanent Change of Station. PCS. This acronym is a staple in military vernacular. In fact, it has become so embedded into military rhythms that it is used as a verb: “PCS-ing.” When military orders come, the PCS-ing (or moving process) begins. It is an expected rhythm of life for members of the armed forces and their families. Yet in practice, it is paradoxical: How can the military order both permanence and change? Growing up, three-year assignments were the standard, which equated to little time for establishment and attachment. Because of PCS-ing, my address book looks more like a passport—a testimony to a life lived on the move. As a daughter of an Air Force pilot, permanence was a luxury and change was the norm.
During one assignment, PCS orders sent me and my family to Kadena Air Force Base in Okinawa, Japan. While stationed there, we lived in a little stucco house at the bottom of a sloped street. The stucco was helpful because it protected us against the stormy island weather. The bottom of the street . . . not so much. Our little stucco home’s position in front of an insufficient gutter made it particularly vulnerable during Japanese rainstorms. A perfect storm of circumstances culminated in our misfortune: the house frequently succumbed to flooding.
Once, while our family was visiting the States on vacation, my father received a stomach-wrenching call. Our squadron delivered news that storm waters had breached our front door and ruthlessly devoured the interior of our home; the useless drainage ditch was to blame. Faced with a homeowner’s nightmare, my father resolved to return home early. However, after some further exchange, and much assuring, our squadron of friends persuaded him against an early departure.
When we returned home, we did not go back to the little stucco house at the bottom of the sloped street. Instead, we lugged our luggage directly to a new house, fully furnished with all our salvaged belongings. In an unofficial PCS, our squadron had selflessly relocated us while we were away. I guess moving is instinctual by virtue of military life. It was wildly sacrificial and a beautiful testimony of community. But that did not take away from how surreal it was to see all our familiar things in an unfamiliar home—and none of it of our own doing. Our oak dining room table, chest of blankets, and military-green couches all made the journey to a new place without us.
My family still owns those near-ancient couches, which are markedly stained by floodwaters. Like the relics they are, those couches bear witness to their history: a testimony of sorts. So often, I think Christians hear the word testimony and are tempted to frantically wrack their brain for a singular, world-shattering moment. But testimonies can be found even in moved furniture and flooded houses; because it isn’t about the story itself, but our God who faithfully takes what is devoured and restores. Scripture says that believers triumph over the enemy “by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony”( Revelation 12:11). The stories we share are testaments to the God we serve. Our lives are a floodplain of testimonies.
Lauren is a third year majoring in English.
