Welcome home
One high school weekend, a friend of mine and I decided to take a walk through the majestic forests of Chunky. Well, the pine trees and undergrowth. Let’s not argue over details.
We threw rocks, climbed through electric fences, pretended to shoot squirrels and tried not to step in anything that might bite us or make us smell worse than we probably already did. I have no idea whose property we trespassed on, but I offer a slightly belated apology.
At one point in the day, we walked in the drainage ditches alongside the interstate, yelling at each other over the roar of 18-wheelers and other traffic on the asphalt. We walked inside one of the biggest culverts I’ve ever stood in and I remember the awe and timidity at realizing we were just yards below thousands of pounds of speeding vehicles and their cargo.
We were safe, but I knew the danger was there, not far away.
I remembered the trek this past weekend on Veterans Day. I thought of the dangers that are out of my line of sight and often, frankly, not on my mind at all. I thought of the men and women who are this very day stationed around the world in order to ensure peace and freedom.
I thought of those who have fought or have been ready to fight for my sake and the sake of my family, having never known I existed. I thought of my family and friends who have served and still serve.
And I am grateful.
Once my friend Tim G. and I decided to take a day trip to New Orleans to visit the World War II museum. Tim is a recently-retired First Sergeant from the Army, but I don’t recall what his rank was at that time. Nevertheless, he was in a wheelchair due to some life-threatening injuries he suffered in Iraq, still recovering and fighting to remain active in the military, and to once again serve in the military police.
When Tim and I went to the museum, he wore his uniform — partly because I encouraged him to — and I rolled him toward the entrance. An Army veteran wearing his VFW hat and a museum volunteer ID met us on the sidewalk and greeted Tim with a hearty welcome and a word of gratitude for his service.
From that moment until we wheeled away from the museum a couple of hours later, the entire staff treated Tim like he was the most important visitor they’d ever had. He couldn’t have been better regarded, I think, if he’d been a five-star general.
And me? I was almost completely ignored.
And it was great that way.
I remember a young girl staring at Tim in his wheelchair. Here sat this tall, muscular man with a stern jaw, closely-cropped blonde hair and an intense gaze as he watched a film clip in one of the displays.
The little girl walked up to Tim and he smiled down at her.
“Did you fight in the war?” she asked him.
“I fought in a war,” he replied.
“Thank you,” she said, and trotted off to her family.
Tim’s eyes filled with tears and he smiled bigger than at any other time that day.
At least, I think that’s what happened. I couldn’t see clearly.
When I think of Tim — and the other veterans in my family and circle of friends, especially — I am often reminded that, like those yards of compacted dirt, asphalt, rock and concrete that separated me from danger that one late-1980s afternoon, the military has often stood as the safety barrier between danger and our safety and freedom.
I wonder if “thank you” is enough. It’s a good place to start.
But I’ll also try to do what two of my friends were doing this past weekend, telling Vietnam veterans something they may not have heard many years ago when they first set foot back on American soil — “Welcome home.”
So to all those of you who have served or are serving this great nation of ours, “Thank you! Welcome home.” And if you’re not yet home, I pray someone is there to greet you when you return and offer those same words of welcome.
We threw rocks, climbed through electric fences, pretended to shoot squirrels and tried not to step in anything that might bite us or make us smell worse than we probably already did. I have no idea whose property we trespassed on, but I offer a slightly belated apology.
At one point in the day, we walked in the drainage ditches alongside the interstate, yelling at each other over the roar of 18-wheelers and other traffic on the asphalt. We walked inside one of the biggest culverts I’ve ever stood in and I remember the awe and timidity at realizing we were just yards below thousands of pounds of speeding vehicles and their cargo.
We were safe, but I knew the danger was there, not far away.
I remembered the trek this past weekend on Veterans Day. I thought of the dangers that are out of my line of sight and often, frankly, not on my mind at all. I thought of the men and women who are this very day stationed around the world in order to ensure peace and freedom.
I thought of those who have fought or have been ready to fight for my sake and the sake of my family, having never known I existed. I thought of my family and friends who have served and still serve.
And I am grateful.
Once my friend Tim G. and I decided to take a day trip to New Orleans to visit the World War II museum. Tim is a recently-retired First Sergeant from the Army, but I don’t recall what his rank was at that time. Nevertheless, he was in a wheelchair due to some life-threatening injuries he suffered in Iraq, still recovering and fighting to remain active in the military, and to once again serve in the military police.
When Tim and I went to the museum, he wore his uniform — partly because I encouraged him to — and I rolled him toward the entrance. An Army veteran wearing his VFW hat and a museum volunteer ID met us on the sidewalk and greeted Tim with a hearty welcome and a word of gratitude for his service.
From that moment until we wheeled away from the museum a couple of hours later, the entire staff treated Tim like he was the most important visitor they’d ever had. He couldn’t have been better regarded, I think, if he’d been a five-star general.
And me? I was almost completely ignored.
And it was great that way.
I remember a young girl staring at Tim in his wheelchair. Here sat this tall, muscular man with a stern jaw, closely-cropped blonde hair and an intense gaze as he watched a film clip in one of the displays.
The little girl walked up to Tim and he smiled down at her.
“Did you fight in the war?” she asked him.
“I fought in a war,” he replied.
“Thank you,” she said, and trotted off to her family.
Tim’s eyes filled with tears and he smiled bigger than at any other time that day.
At least, I think that’s what happened. I couldn’t see clearly.
When I think of Tim — and the other veterans in my family and circle of friends, especially — I am often reminded that, like those yards of compacted dirt, asphalt, rock and concrete that separated me from danger that one late-1980s afternoon, the military has often stood as the safety barrier between danger and our safety and freedom.
I wonder if “thank you” is enough. It’s a good place to start.
But I’ll also try to do what two of my friends were doing this past weekend, telling Vietnam veterans something they may not have heard many years ago when they first set foot back on American soil — “Welcome home.”
So to all those of you who have served or are serving this great nation of ours, “Thank you! Welcome home.” And if you’re not yet home, I pray someone is there to greet you when you return and offer those same words of welcome.
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