This tale is embarrassing and still stings. That’s why it’s taken me 29 years to tell it. Stories of epic journeys, heroic deeds, and grand accomplishments are easy to recount. You see them on social media every day. In some form or another, we all hold up signs saying, “Look at what I did.” We long for acceptance—to be noticed by someone. Anyone. 

But some of life’s greatest lessons come wrapped in shame rather than glory—in embarrassment rather than exhilaration. 

I must get this off my chest.

I was a 24-year-old second lieutenant, or “butter bar” in Air Force vernacular. As military officers go, no one was below me on the totem pole. Despite my lowly rank, inexperience, and still developing frontal lobe, I was confident. I had (and continue to have) the kind of wife you had better hang on to because you won’t find one any better. We were living in a three bedroom house in the middle of Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain. I had a college degree, an Air Force commission, and had been entrusted to administer a $128 million computer contract for the Office of the Secretary of Defense. With all that going for me, who needed a fully developed frontal lobe?

One aspect of being an officer at the low end of the totem pull is a propensity to be assigned additional duties. I was our organization’s “designated rep” on more than a dozen committees, including the holiday party committee. The main incentive of getting promoted in the Air Force is not the additional rank, pay or responsibilities, but to no longer have to be on the holiday party committee. In fact, if I had known there was such a committee and I would be assigned to it, I would have become a dentist.

Another of my additional duties was being on-call as Staff Duty Officer (SDO) for a couple of days each quarter. Whenever a Distinguished Visitor (DV) flew into Tinker Air Force Base, the 24/7 on-call SDO had to don his or her uniform, travel to the Passenger Terminal, and assist a colonel or general in welcoming the DV. By “assist,” I mean carry luggage, fetch a cold beverage, and do whatever else the DV needs you to do. 

On one occasion, in the early days of Operation Desert Shield, I was on SDO duty and was called in to greet and assist an arriving DV. An Army lieutenant general (3-star) was arriving with a traveling contingent for some business at Tinker AFB and to be the keynote speaker at a luncheon in downtown Oklahoma City.

The Army general was high enough up the totem pole to warrant a dedicated jet plane, a protocol officer, a communications officer, and other support staff. This traveling posse allowed him to monitor Desert Shield activities from the air or ground. As his plane taxied in front of us on the flight line, a Tinker AFB official and I rendered salutes and then welcomed the general as he exited the plane. The senior officers made their way to the DV Lounge to do whatever senior officers do in a DV Lounge. Meanwhile, I made three trips across the tarmac in the searing Oklahoma sun to transport the luggage of our distinguished guest and his staff. With sweat rings forming on my recently dry-cleaned blue Air Force shirt, I almost wished I was at a holiday party committee meeting. Almost.

An Army captain, the general’s protocol officer, asked me if there was a landline phone he could use to call the venue where the general was scheduled to speak later that day. I escorted him to a nearby phone, then plopped down in a seat close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation.

The protocol officer requested to speak to the luncheon meal coordinator and was placed on hold for a moment. For the next several minutes, the officer went into excruciating detail over the opening course, a dinner salad. He spoke of nuts, seeds, crude fiber, salad dressing and spices. From where I sat, it seemed the person on the other end of the line was in “receive mode.” I shook my head, silently wondering if I would ever be high enough on the totem pole to have an assistant manage my crude fiber.

The conversation then turned to the main course where, again, a lengthy discussion ensued over the general’s desire for a specially cooked chicken breast along with his favorite vegetables. Once again, I shook my head—a little disgusted this time. I wondered how much additional trouble the meal coordinator and kitchen staff would have to go to in order to satisfy the needs of this Army general. I silently vowed to never be the kind of officer or person who was too big for his britches—who had to be constantly pampered like that.

The phone conversation finally and mercifully came to an end. The protocol officer hung up the phone and walked over to thank me. Unable to keep what I was thinking inside, I looked at him and asked, “Does that ever get old?”

“What do you mean?” he answered.

“Having to call ahead and go through every item of your boss’s meals. It seems like that would get tiresome.”

“No, not at all. It’s an honor, in fact.”

I gave him a puzzled look, the kind you have when your undeveloped frontal lobe is having trouble grasping what is being said.

Sensing my confusion, he continued.

“The general had part of his stomach blown off in Vietnam. Nearly killed him. They sewed him back together and, after several months in the hospital, he was able to continue his career. But he has to be really careful about what he eats. Well, it looks like we’re getting ready to go. Nice meeting you, Lieutenant. Thanks again for your help.”

Devastated.

Crushed.

Pained—even to this day.

There I was, a lowly butter bar, who hadn’t done squat in his career, doubting and questioning the care and attention being given to a senior Army officer. An officer who nearly gave his life in the service of his country. An officer who had served his country 15 times longer than I had. An officer whose scar tissue across his torso is a permanent reminder of what it means to be a warrior and a hero—to value the lives of others more than your own. An officer whose only kryptonite came in the form of fried foods, crude fiber, spices and large seeds.

Stunned by my insensitivity and ignorance, I added insult to injury. I sat there silently, rather than apologize to the protocol officer and the general. Shame on me.

Few of us readily admit to being prejudice, but how often do we pre-judge people? How often do we secretly harbor, or even openly share, an opinion without fully understanding the facts or context? How often do we reach conclusions on someone’s character or predict their behavior based on nothing more than skin color, gender, age, nationality, or some other factor? How often do we ignore James 1:19, preferring to be slow to listen, quick to speak, and quick to become angry?

That seemingly inattentive, distracted waitress who doesn’t deserve a tip—what if her husband left her this morning?

That juvenile busted for shoplifting—what if he’s never had a father figure…and hasn’t eaten in a couple of days?

That “liberal Democrat” or “Bible-thumping conservative”—what if they love their country just as much as you do?

That “trailer trash” walking the aisle at Walmart—what if she’s caught up in a human trafficking ring and needs your help more than your condescension?

As for that “pampered” Army general, there was more to his story, wasn’t there? 

Given a do over, I would thank the general for his service and heroism. I would proudly carry his bags and fetch him a bottle of water. I would ask him if he ever ran into my father, a C-123 pilot in Vietnam. And, given an opportunity to salute the general again, I would hold it a little while longer.