As I prepared to return to Texas for the long winter break, my mind was filled with thoughts of catching up on everything I'd been missing, everything from favorite foods to favorite friends and, of course, time with family. Far from my mind was the thought of attending any funerals and although it saddens me, I'm also grateful not to add that to the list of things I've missed while overseas.
Last week, as I joined thousands of others for the memorial service of a man who willingly sacrificed so much for his country and fellow warriors, I felt privileged to have the opportunity to pay tribute to his memory, even just by attending, so that his family might further glimpse the impact of his life and feel the support of others mourning their loss. As I listened to those closest to him talk about the way he lived his life, the depth of his faith, his love for others, and his commitment to family, I couldn't help but think of another man. A man who shared the same values, though perhaps it looked a bit different.
As I heard about how the young man had time and again placed himself in danger to protect his comrades from enemy fire, I thought of another war, a much earlier one in a much different time, where another brave man also placed himself in danger to protect those he fought alongside. In my mind I saw him, about seventy years ago, as he climbed out onto the bomb that was still stuck in the plane's belly because it had failed to release over enemy territory. I remembered the story of how his efforts, rife with selfless risk, allowed his crew to land safely back in England, thereby allowing them all to complete other missions as the war drew on...a story I'd never even heard until about a year ago when his mind was no longer able to keep his most haunting memories of war at bay. I remember how he told me that wars don't ever really end, but they send you home all the same. In that moment I saw how his war, so carefully hidden for so many years, had indeed continued on for so long even after victory had been proclaimed in the streets.
But the fact that he acted bravely in the face of danger or that he was able to do so well while battling such dark memories weren't what, in my opinion, made this man a true hero. No, like the one mentioned above, it was more - it was in the way he lived his life, the depth of his faith, his love for others, and his commitment to family. Most of all, I remember a man who was patient enough to take a restless little girl with him fishing (knowing full well that meant he wouldn't catch anything!) or to check the ag fields for pests, a man who put great stock in academic achievements, a man who promoted generosity by ensuring I never let an offering plate pass me by without tossing in at least a dime and a nickel, a man who laughed whenever he had the chance, and a man who loved his family so fiercely that at times it was even almost intimidating. I am so proud that I was able to call this man "Granddad" and I can't help but look forward to the day when he'll lead me through the heavenly gardens, put on his boyish grin, and proudly tell me there haven't been any of those dadburned aphids since he arrived.
Last week, as I joined thousands of others for the memorial service of a man who willingly sacrificed so much for his country and fellow warriors, I felt privileged to have the opportunity to pay tribute to his memory, even just by attending, so that his family might further glimpse the impact of his life and feel the support of others mourning their loss. As I listened to those closest to him talk about the way he lived his life, the depth of his faith, his love for others, and his commitment to family, I couldn't help but think of another man. A man who shared the same values, though perhaps it looked a bit different.
As I heard about how the young man had time and again placed himself in danger to protect his comrades from enemy fire, I thought of another war, a much earlier one in a much different time, where another brave man also placed himself in danger to protect those he fought alongside. In my mind I saw him, about seventy years ago, as he climbed out onto the bomb that was still stuck in the plane's belly because it had failed to release over enemy territory. I remembered the story of how his efforts, rife with selfless risk, allowed his crew to land safely back in England, thereby allowing them all to complete other missions as the war drew on...a story I'd never even heard until about a year ago when his mind was no longer able to keep his most haunting memories of war at bay. I remember how he told me that wars don't ever really end, but they send you home all the same. In that moment I saw how his war, so carefully hidden for so many years, had indeed continued on for so long even after victory had been proclaimed in the streets.
But the fact that he acted bravely in the face of danger or that he was able to do so well while battling such dark memories weren't what, in my opinion, made this man a true hero. No, like the one mentioned above, it was more - it was in the way he lived his life, the depth of his faith, his love for others, and his commitment to family. Most of all, I remember a man who was patient enough to take a restless little girl with him fishing (knowing full well that meant he wouldn't catch anything!) or to check the ag fields for pests, a man who put great stock in academic achievements, a man who promoted generosity by ensuring I never let an offering plate pass me by without tossing in at least a dime and a nickel, a man who laughed whenever he had the chance, and a man who loved his family so fiercely that at times it was even almost intimidating. I am so proud that I was able to call this man "Granddad" and I can't help but look forward to the day when he'll lead me through the heavenly gardens, put on his boyish grin, and proudly tell me there haven't been any of those dadburned aphids since he arrived.
No comments:
Post a Comment