Belief does not necessarily imply faith. According to Dustin Morrison of New Market, Iowa, believers merely assent to God's existence while followers devote their lives to discipleship. For Morrison, it took walking through the valley of the shadow of death to understand the difference.
On April 11, 2011, Morrison, an infantryman with Bravo Company of the 1-168 INF, rolled out on mission in the Paktia province of eastern Afghanistan in a mine-resistant armored protected vehicle (MRAP).
"The last few things I remember are going to sleep the night before, rolling out on the mission, and then rounding a corner," Morrison, 21, told me. "When I finally came to, I was at Walter Reed Hospital in Maryland." Several weeks passed before Morrison regained consciousness. What Morrison didn't know is that his MRAP triggered one of the largest IED explosions in the history of Operation Enduring Freedom, instantly killing one soldier in the gunner's turret and severely injuring another.
Kelli Pedersen, Morrison's mother, knew the risks when her son enlisted at age 17. Morrison's father served 27 years as an infantry officer in the Iowa National Guard before retiring as a lieutenant colonel. Morrison's family received a phone call the same day as the accident and learned that he was in stable condition, awaiting back surgery.
Later that week, the news suddenly turned worse: acute respiratory lung failure. Immediate family members---mother, father, stepmother, older brother, and sister---were told to rush to Washington, D.C., and board an emergency flight to Germany to say their final goodbyes.
Praying for a Miracle
When she walked into his hospital room for the first time, Pedersen could hardly stifle the shock at seeing her son's swollen body resting on pillows stained with blood flowing from his ears. Listing the injuries line-by-line took more than a page to describe: burst lumbar vertebra, internal bleeding, failed lungs, and a shattered left femur, right ankle, and right hand. Morrison remembers wyrly, "You know you're bad when a broken jaw, lacerated spleen and kidneys aren't a top priority to address."
When doctors gave the family the report, Pedersen responded, "I am not in denial about how serious Dustin is, but God is so much bigger than all of this so we are not giving up."
Still, Morrison seemed to be losing the battle. Pedersen and the rest of Morrison's family prayed out loud. She told Dustin, "I don't know if you can hear us or not, but I want you to receive what we are praying for you."
Doctors told the family they had one last option: ecmo therapy. With less than a 25 percent survival rate in adults, this treatment involved cutting Morrison's jugular vein and inserting a tube passing oxygenated blood from the femoral in his thigh in order to bypass the lungs. And it would involve a life flight to Regensburg, Germany.
Five days after the procedure, the lead doctor saw no signs of progress, concluding they were delaying the inevitable. Morrison's entire family and doctors prayed. Morrison's mother---sitting before me now in a brown designer vest with a tiny silver cross hanging from her neck, speaks with her hands pointed my direction: "I made it clear to God that we would use this situation to glorify himself even if Dustin did not make it."
On Easter Sunday, doctors finally removed the machines---not to end his life but because they had witnessed a miracle. Against all odds, his lungs began to breathe on their own. When the news came to the family, Pedersen says that their reaction was overjoyed---but not shocked. "It was just like, 'We know.'" She attributed the recovery in part to the thousands of people who were praying in the small communities of Iowa back home.
Still, the doctors were realistic with Morrison, explaining that despite the miraculous recovery he would never walk again. "I knew if I did," Morrison says, "it would be of God. I've learned never to trust man before God."
Back in Iowa
Morrison fits in with his surroundings in Clarinda, Iowa, a historic town of 5,600 whose claim to fame is a native son, bandleader Glenn Miller. The gun shop, barber shop, and café can be visited within a three-block radius. We speak in Vaughn's, a café advertising "food people love" as the mainly over-60 crowd fills up on hashbrowns and eggs while discussing the price of heating bills, corn, and the Iowa caucuses. Morrison wears a green Wounded Warrior hooded sweatshirt and torn jeans while sporting a stubble mustache and scrawny dark brown goatee. Folks could be forgiven for thinking he looked like your average 18-year-old high-schooler, rather than a 21-year-old combat veteran.
Morrison enjoys these small communities of Bedford, Corning, Clarinda, New Market---and with good reason. When news of Morrison spread, the community bonded together. A benefit at a local church raised $50,000 from the surrounding communities. Pedersen was blessed by coworkers who donated vacation time so she could focus on Dustin.
Morrison's teenage years were not much different than your average rural high schooler. He liked to joke around, and he didn't mind raising a little bit of trouble---drinking too many beers and chasing too many girls. We hop into Morrison's muddied F-150 with camouflaged floor mats and a twisted grill and head to his weekly physical therapy. Morrison now walks with a severe limp and endures a few scars---most notably a 15-inch pink railroad-track scar on his left leg and two jagged scars near his ankle. Those scars include the "survivor complex," wondering why Brent Maher, a father of three, was taken instead of him.
As he mirrors the physical therapist by sidestepping with water weights in a pool, I ask Morrison if it hurts. He says, "Not really." Did I really expect him to say otherwise? The slight grimaces tell another story, a stoic mask that young soldiers learn on 20-hour days of grueling training at Fort Benning, Georgia.
New Mission
Last fall, Chaplain Skip Manus asked me, a new chaplain candidate, if I wanted to follow up with a "wounded warrior" he had deployed with in Afghanistan. Sitting and listening to Morrison, I learned about the touchstones of his faith journey---believing in God at an early age, descending into the valley of the shadow of death, and finally resolving to be a true Christ follower.
Morrison admitted that while he preached God's grace in saving him from death, his lifestyle didn't always match his words. "God just finally told me, If you aren't going to live it, then stop speaking it." Though drinking may be permissible, he's learned that he needs to abstain from alcohol. He put on hold a love interest to focus for now on being single in Christ. And some rough language, honed during years of high-school partying and overseas combat, is being conformed to the ways of Christ. Sitting beside him, Morrison's mom hears him recount these changes and simply says, "God is going to use you, Dustin."
"Us, Mom," Morrison gently corrects her. He has a story to share about answered prayer and a life course radically changed. "I'm not just a believer of Christ," he says. "I'm a follower." John 12:24 speaks of the powerful image of a seed falling to the ground to die so that it may bear much fruit. Somewhere 10,000 miles away, both in the valley of Afghanistan and back in Clarinda, Morrison saw a kind of death---a death that led to life.
An old friend recently pulled Morrison aside, complaining about his new lifestyle and all that he could be doing instead. "My buddy said, 'You're missing out on the some of the best years of your life.' I said, 'No, I'm just starting them.'"
The views represented in this article are those of the author alone and not necessarily those of the Iowa National Guard, the Department of Defense, or its various components.
Jeremy Taylor is a high school English teacher, Iowa state representative, and chaplain candidate in the Iowa National Guard. He lives in Sioux City, Iowa, with his wife and three children.
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