(Editor’s note: Capt. Steven Givler, a member of the 116th Air Control Wing, is currently deployed to the Middle East for the second time. He writes to friends and family about his experiences on a daily basis. He is sharing these letters so people can see what it’s like in a deployed location. This is the first of a three part series. Captain Givler should be home in early February.)

Reprinted from 116th ACW "Eye in the Sky"

Something about this place, or the circumstances that brought me here, has scrubbed away a layer or two of whatever experience covers us with.

I am more aware of emotion and more susceptible to beauty than I have ever been. When I woke this morning I turned on my radio, hoping for the news.

Instead, a Bach violin concerto filled my little room with every note of sadness, joy and longing appreciable by the human ear. It so seized me that I had to quit making my bunk so I could sit and listen.

And yesterday as I waited at the gate to be admitted to the compound where I work, my eye perceived an abrupt movement in what had been an empty sky.

A small falcon hovered. Pointed wingtips flashed against cerulean sky, folded, plummeted, until the line of its descent carried it behind tall barriers. Somewhere on the other side a lizard or mouse ceased to be.

Two days ago, I ran in early morning. The stars, normally profuse and brilliant, were obscured by a thin layer of cloud. Later, on the way to work, from my elevated position on the bus, I saw the desert mottled by cloud-cast shadows.

These two observations did not raise themselves to the level of consciousness until later, when someone burst into our office to announce that it was raining outside.

You could not have cleared the area more quickly if there had been a fire. To a man, we rushed outside and gaped at the fat raindrops leaving

We climbed a ramp and craned our necks to the north, where a line of black cloud advanced like the onset of night. Lightening brightened the bottom of the line and thunder boomed in the distance. A towering cloud of dust raced before the storm.

In no time, the dust passed over and the storm was upon us. We stood with our heads thrown back, rain lashing our faces, and I remembered a story about domestic turkeys. The story has it that they must be kept out of the rain. Otherwise they stand in stupid amazement, beaks open, staring up at the sky, until their throats fill with water and they drown. We were saved from that fate by a searing purple flash followed immediately by a peal of thunder that seamed to rip the fabric of the sky. The spell broken, we filed inside, carrying with us the smell of rain.

On the way in I caught sight of the general. His stern face was coursed with raindrops. He was smiling.

Bach, a bird and a thunderstorm, each of which I’ve seen at other times, in other places. Somehow here they fall on raw nerves and seem more rare, more precious than they have ever been. This leaves me oddly thankful for the chance to be here.

I’m thankful too for your many emails, your prayers for my family, my brothers and sisters in arms and me. Keep them coming.

I’ll write again soon,