FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES 

I reach to the dusty footlocker in the back of the attic, pull it out, and kneel before it. My fingers remember the combination as they turn the dial on the old lock: 31...23...03...click. It opens and drops to the floor with a thud. I open the footlocker, revealing the relics of a closed chapter within. As I dig through, I’m unaware of the forgotten item deep inside. Eventually I find it: a small glass bottle corked and filled with sand. The sand is a reddish brown, not the normal tan coloring that defines much of Iraq’s landscape. And it’s because of this difference that I immediately remember the source. This item brings back the memory of the most breathtaking moment of my life.

On our last night in Iraq, boredom gives way to adventure. The deafening hum of engines fills the air at Tallil Air Force Base. Mammoth planes known as Hercules idle on the tarmac. Tomorrow they will take us home. The setting sun coats the whole airfield in orange, yellow and red. As I sit inside a massive concrete air hangar, my stomach churns with hunger. Noise of thumping packs and clanking buckles echo inside as men get situated for the night.  I wipe the thick layer of sweat from my forehead and join my squad sitting outside. Through conversation, my friend Rubio and I learn of an ancient temple outside the base. The Great Ziggurat of Ur is over three thousand years old and marks the birthplace of Abraham. Our sergeant gives us permission to go granted that we leave our rifles, are back by nightfall, and tell no one.

To be back by nightfall, we’ll have to hurry; we have quite a journey ahead of us. We make our way past the Marines and turn between the two air hangars. Following the long alley between them leads us to the perimeter of the base. After climbing over the base wall, we begin our trek towards the plateau in the distance. Rocks and dead brush litter the landscape. The only sound is the crunching of the dirt under our boots. Eventually, we near the base of the plateau and begin our climb. As we climb, the soil beneath our feet slides, and rocks give way unexpectedly. Panting and sweating, we reach the top and pull ourselves up onto flat land. Staring at the temple now, I try to catch my breath.

The colossal temple stands before us like an ancient giant. I close my eyes and reopen them. It’s real. Standing frozen, I gaze at its enormous size. It’s a three-tiered pyramid like those of the Aztecs and Mayans. I walk up close to it and place my hand on the wall. The hard surface is firm yet gritty like stucco. Turning the corner, I see Rubio standing at the foot of a long stairway. It leads us all the way to the top of the six story high structure. We look out in amazement at the extraordinary view. From up here, we can see way off into the distance in every direction; to the south lies the nation of Kuwait; to the north, thin highways stretch off into the horizon, and to the west the sun is dipping out of sight.

The spiritual energy of the temple begins to seep into us. Rubio speaks with a soft voice, respectful of our surroundings: “I’m gonna go say a prayer.” He walks to the north side, leaving me alone on the south. I gaze into the distance and notice a shepherd tending his flock. I try to imagine everything this temple has witnessed over the past few millennia. So much life has taken place here- and so much death: tribal conflicts, medieval conquests, religious wars, and now, this war. Many battles have been fought here and countless lives lost. I pause and think of the blood I’ve shed and ask for forgiveness. A chill washes over my body. I take a deep breath and sit. My legs are weak. I light a cigarette, smoke it, and contemplate my actions over the past few months. I feel an acceptance resonate within me and goose bumps glide down my skin. I finish the cigarette, dry my eyes and approach the top of the stairs. Rubio calls to me quietly. He’s rubbing his hand along the surface of the temple. After pulling out two baggies, he fills them with the reddish brown sand of the temple. He hands one to me, and we descend the stairs. We look one last time in awe of the temple before climbing back down the plateau. Back on base later that night, I lay peacefully below the desert sky with the small bag of dark sand in my hands. A burden had been lifted.

Kneeling now before the footlocker, I place the bottle back inside. It rests quietly among the other items. A shadow falls on the interior as I slowly lower the top. The only sound in the dim attic is a soft click as I place the lock back on. I stand and turn towards the door. Sometimes the blood on my hands overwhelms me. But when I think of that cleansing night atop the temple, the pain fades away. As I depart the attic, I leave the sand behind, but the redemption I carry within me always.