They began to trickle in to the gate area, some in uniform
some in civilian clothes but all carrying the tell-tale Army camouflage
backpacks. They were young. Very young. Wide-eyed and willing to serve, not yet
having faced the front and felt the ravages of actual battle. One was wearing a
Nirvana shirt. He wasn’t even born when Nirvana still existed. “Please don’t
let me cry on this flight.” That’s the text I shot off to my mom and three
sisters as the gate area became packed with young Army men. And then entered a
veteran, likely a young Vietnam Vet or perhaps Gulf War. He wore a leather vest
with various Army and Harley patches. Had I not had my seven-year-old daughter
with me I would have quickly made my way to the nearest bathroom to have a good
cry before boarding the flight. But I couldn’t do that.
The same phrase entered my head, the one that haunts me
every time I see a service member or recall my father’s time in the Army –
“between me and God.” That was his mantra. He likely repeated it to himself the
last forty years of his life. I say the “last forty years” because that’s how I
think of my dad’s existence. Before the war and after. He repeated that phrase
to us several times in the years and months before his death. It referred to
his greatest demon, the one he met in the jungles of Vietnam, the one he would
never divulge or let go of.
I thanked the young soldiers for their service and I touched
the shoulder of the older veteran, thanking him for his. Any time I see an
older veteran I want to tell them about my dad, how he served two years in the
jungles, how he earned a bronze star for saving a boat, how he came back
forever changed. But I don’t because that’s not playing by the rules. We don’t
talk to strangers that way, especially in passing on an airplane. So I just
settled for a touch on the shoulder or a handshake and a thank you. And I
wonder what demons he’s living with.
I sit on the plane surrounded by these young men and women
willing to serve our country in a way I’ve never been. I pray over them – for
their protection, that they never meet the demons so many others have, and
selfishly that my own children never follow in their footsteps.
We sing songs about them, tell stories about them, have
parades and special days for them, but few of us will ever understand what they
carry. It’s an indoctrination into a life and existence that we wouldn’t wish
on our enemies. And yet our enemies carry the demons as well. That’s the result
of war. Men, women, civilians – in the jungles, deserts, mountains, trenches –
all must forever suffer the consequences of brokenness. Some may return home
with whole bodies, having escaped the physical damages of battle yet all return
fighting mental brokenness. Those who deny it are simply avoiding reality.
My father never revealed what happened in those jungles. He
said he’d take it to his grave and he kept his promise. He did tell stories and
they were graphic, something out of a high-budget war movie. I wonder what
could possibly be worse. In a way, I’m thankful he never told us. I wonder if
his carrying that burden on his own was a huge sacrifice he made for our
family. For years I’ve regretted that I couldn’t carry it for him or with him
to lessen the load but now I realize that he kept his secret because he knew it
was too heavy for the rest of us. He was brave, as he was in the jungles, as he
was for forty years after the demons latched on, as he was when he slipped away
from us.
As I sit next to my sweet baby girl, the one who was born
six weeks after my dad passed, I think of the joy she would have brought him.
Today she’s sporting unicorn shoes, a unicorn dress, and a unicorn backpack for
the trip. He would have laughed to no end over her style choices. He would have
hugged and kissed her, told her he loved her, held her hand and gone to grandparent’s
breakfast at her school. He would have done all the things his demons never let
him do for his own children.
And so I pray again – let these young soldiers find solace
in their families. Let them unburden to trusted people when they need to. Let
them be fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters who live full, unbroken lives
after their tours are done. Let them have nothing that stays just between them
and God.
