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mistoferin -> RE: The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month (11/11/2008 1:22:39 PM)
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This was my response to another thread this morning. I will share it here also.
I sit here this morning in comfort. I am cloaked in the warm fleece of my winter jammies. The intoxicating smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, it’s familiar flavor gently soothes me into greeting the day. All is calm and right. My dog lies on the floor in the warm glow of the fire’s flame. The faces of my children and grandchildren smile back at me from frames scattered about this space. This space that is my sanctuary…my home. Safe.
I turn on the television and I am reminded of the purpose of this day…Veteran’s Day. Suddenly my reality begins to take on a new light and I am ashamed at how only moments before I completely took it all for granted. I am reminded of the price that was paid for my luxuries and freedoms. So far removed is my reality from that of the one that once was my father’s. As he sat in a forest in Germany in ill fitting clothing, the snow forming a heavy blanket over him as he tried to ignore the hunger in his belly, tried to ignore the painful bite of the cold, tried to ignore the sound of not too distant guns. As he lay there trying to get a few moments of much needed sleep. Or the reality as he laid in a hospital bed in that foreign land, the pain from the path of the bullet threatening his future. He was sent home, put on a bus. But he knew the job wasn't finished. He knew he was still needed. He begged the doctor to try harder...and he did. After the next surgery my father picked his gun back up and went back to finish the fight.
Realities that are far too painful to discuss. My father has them. My Sir has them. Uncles, aunts, cousins and friends have them. We all have people in our lives that have them. I can see them in their eyes but I dare not ever pry further. If I am completely honest I have to tell you that I really don’t want to know the totality of it.
I do try to remain cognizant of the sacrifices that have been made, the hardships that have been endured in order for me to be able to have my relatively trouble free existence. The existence that I am so comfortable with that I sometimes take for granted. I try to remember the price. I am sure my way of remembering doesn’t compare to the way it is for people such as my father….people who wore that uniform. He has a picture in his wallet, a picture of a man he never really knew….and yet can never forget. I guess it is his way of ensuring that the man will be remembered, that his death on a fateful day over 50 years ago will not be forgotten. I can’t ever possibly relate to what that must be like.
But veterans understand it. It’s an understanding that is palpable that occurs between them. A vast knowledge that gets shared in the time span of a moment when their eyes connect or gets passed between them in the touch of a handshake. It is a knowledge that came from walking away from the peace and comfort of their own sanctuaries…their homes and families…their dogs lying before the fire. They walked away out of a sense of duty, they walked away with courage. They walked away knowing that they would likely endure great hardships and have to make profound sacrifices. They walked away knowing that they may not ever be able to come walking back.
Can I ever possibly be grateful enough? I thank you.
~erin~
I’d like to share with you a poem from one of my favorite poets….
The Things That Make a Soldier Great
Edgar Guest
The things that make a soldier great and send him out to die,
To face the flaming cannon's mouth nor ever question why,
Are lilacs by a little porch, the row of tulips red,
The peonies and pansies, too, the old petunia bed,
The grass plot where his children play, the roses on the wall:
'Tis these that make a soldier great.
He's fighting for them all.
'Tis not the pomp and pride of kings that make a soldier brave;
'Tis not allegiance to the flag that over him may wave;
For soldiers never fight so well on land or on the foam
As when behind the cause they see the little place called home.
Endanger but that humble street whereon his children run,
You make a soldier of the man who never bore a gun.
What is it through the battle smoke the valiant soldier sees?
The little garden far away, the budding apple trees,
The little patch of ground back there, the children at their play,
Perhaps a tiny mound behind the simple church of gray.
The golden thread of courage isn't linked to castle dome
But to the spot, where'er it be — the humblest spot called home.
And now the lilacs bud again and all is lovely there
And homesick soldiers far away know spring is in the air;
The tulips come to bloom again, the grass once more is green,
And every man can see the spot where all his joys have been.
He sees his children smile at him, he hears the bugle call,
And only death can stop him now -- he's fighting for them all.
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