The Theft of Honor

One of the things that crosses my mind as I work with people is how often the idea of honor is forgotten in relationships of any kind. Marriages especially require us to honor and respect each other, but outside of marriages, the idea of treating others with dignity and respect seems to be at an all time low. What has happened? Human beings, no matter who we are have value and in that understanding, it is important to treat each other well.
When you go to the grocery store or to Costco, how often does it cross our minds to ask someone who is emptying out their cart if we can take it back in for them...especially if we are heading in that direction? Little things, which don't cost us much can mean a lot to another person. In marriage relationships I hear it all the time..."It isn't the big things, its the little things that matter". Those little things are the things we do for each other that make us feel as if we are important or respected or honored by another person. Saying please and thank you, asking rather than telling, smiling and even.....perhaps....now don't freak out anyone...opening a door for another person.
Manners don't cost us anything, but they express volumes to the people in our lives who mean something to us. If you wouldn't treat your boss in a certain way, why would you treat your wife, husband or children in a way that is hurtful or disrespectful? Honestly, if we made even the smallest effort to be kind to one another we could make significant changes in our homes, our schools and our communities. I loved the whole "random acts of kindness" thing when it was going around and I really believe in those things. However, it means more when we treat our families with kindness.
Could I challenge you today? For the next week, do something at least once a day to be kind to someone you love. It doesn't have to be flamboyant....tell them they have a beautiful smile or they look especially nice today. Pick a flower from your garden and give it to your neighbor across the street or to the person who makes your coffee at the drive up. It's a great thing to do and it also makes you feel good! If you see a veteran at the restaurant you are having lunch at, buy their lunch or their coffee, just to say thank you.
If we pay kindness forward, it will eventually get back to us!

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Another Great Story

Thank you to all who have written with stories and sentiments about our veterans. I have permission to share one more with you and I believe you'll find it enjoyable. It's great to see wonderful things like this:

"My dad had a quite unusual experience in WWII. He grew up in the hills of Okanogan, then moved to Longview in 1929 when he was a teenager. The army first tried to draft him in early 1942, but he was underweight. Then he decided he needed to do something for the country, plus one of his older brothers had just been drafted into the infantry, so he put on some weight and then on the second try to draft him he weighed enough. The army gave him some aptitude tests, and then told him, “You WILL be a radio operator.” He was sent to the Signal Corps radio/telegraph school in Georgia, and decided he would give it everything he had. Out of a group of 85 guys, he was at the top of the class with Morse Code, and was the only one from that outfit selected for a very special assignment: being part of a crack team of radio operators in England whose job was to intercept German communications. These were those Enigma Code transmissions you may have heard about.

Just before going overseas, he was sent to the Pentagon for a week. He was thinking, “Here I am, a guy from the sticks who only went through the 8th grade, standing in the Pentagon. How did I get this far so fast?” When he got to England, he became seriously ill and could not eat, and ended up in hospital, as they say. If he had been there for 30 days they would have sent him home, but on the 29th day he recuperated, and went to his assignment in a castle outside of London.

The codes had to be copied perfectly, so the army needed these guys to be well rested and taken care of. The codes were in five letter groups, random characters, and they had to be handwritten, then these were given to the commanding officer who sent them to a then-unknown location to be translated. He slept on a cot in the castle, had to be at his station for 8 hours a day with no breaks whatsoever, and had weekends off. As the war wound down in 1945, and they were waiting to go back home, he was put up in a nearby hotel, and got room service, 3 big meals a day including steak, and slept on a feather bed. As he used to say, “It was some army life!!”

Meanwhile, his older brother Buster came in on Utah Beach the second day of the invasion. He was living in foxholes. There were many instances of God’s miraculous protection over him. Shortly after arriving at Normandy, he got a mail package from his mother: it was a pocket size Bible, Old and New Testaments, very small print. (Today I carry that little book at my work on the mail route. It is getting hard to read now except in sunlight.) In 1945, he and my dad were out touring the country on bicycles while waiting to go home, and they met. They had a big laugh about the extreme contrast between their lifestyles."

From the perspective of one who served...

I have received some very meaningful responses to my last post, and I wanted to share one with you. This person has given permission to share his story and I think it illustrates so well what I was trying to say before. Our military personnel do not see themselves as anything special. They are just doing their jobs....however, when you step back a bit and overlay what they do in the context of history, it can look very different and that is where we are provided with the understanding of just what kind of meaning is ascribed to the jobs that they do.
"It has taken a while to respond because I wanted to give this some thought, in between the many fires one puts out while consulting on a state representative campaign, a prosecutor campaign and a US Senate campaign.
I enlisted during the Vietnam War. They weren’t shipping 17 year olds or I most likely would have wound up jungle temperature because I wasn’t the most savvy individual wearing a uniform. I had a lot of book-learning: scored very high in tests, but lacked the skill set necessary to put it all together for at least 2 years. But in all of that, I don’t recall thinking profound thoughts. We very much lived in the moment.
They were, arguably, moments that varied from the searing heat of Saudi Arabia to the mind numbing cold of Grafenwhoer or the East German border. They were moments of sheer, unadulterated boredom to indescribable, white light excitement.
But in all of that, we viewed the forest with the tree bark within inches of our faces. We mostly weren’t big-picture guys. I knew the quasi-isolation of living on the East German border a long way away from Frankfurt Airport/Rhein Main Air Base… which would have been taken out immediately if the balloon went up, quickly killing any expectation of evacuating dependents.
Because of our proximity to the border and the fact that I knew the dependent evacuation plan was just so much eye wash, I knew the feeling of teaching my former wife the rudimentary knowledge she needed to have of a .45… of putting that .45 away into a closet and turning to look at her to tell her that she should not allow herself or the children to be taken alive.
I knew that.
But there was no historical perspective for me, since I was in the moment.
Much like viewing life from the wrong end of a telescope, the view was stilted and primarily focused on the maximum range of the 120 MM smoothbore cannon on an Abrams tank (3000 meters) and how far the M3 Cavalry Fighting Vehicle (Bradley) could go on a tank of fuel. The things we did were things we had to do and conditions we had to live in, places frequently hostile to us and our mission. During that time, I saw the best and the worst of men. I saw great commanders and mediocre officers. I saw the political animals and the truly great.
But it was rarely, if ever, viewed in terms of sacrifice at the time.
I spent 6 years in the middle of one battlefield or another in Germany and other places where horrific things were the insane order of the day. I visited the ancestral estates of the Count of Dachau… twice… and you’re right… you DO “feel it.”
If you have not served… or have not suffered the loss of a loved one… or part of a loved one… you can never truly know or understand these things. That vacuum is now felt at the highest levels and shows in the cluelessness of this nation’s leadership.
I don’t feel worse for our civilian culture that neither has nor wants to find that understanding. I don’t know that there’s ever enough that we can do for our combat veterans… the risks and costs are so great, and they’ve frequently paid it.
But I don’t view the time I spent in the military as a sacrifice. We all owe a debt at some level; the question is which?
I was hard wired for the Army. I wasn’t perfect for it, and for me, it was extremely difficult to traverse the political terrain (I frequently did not play well with the other children) and I made some very bad judgments in the area of my personal life. But most likely, I would have made them regardless of my chosen vocation.
I probably would have stayed in another 6 years or so until retirement (Sheesh… retirement at age 37) and I would have caught the first Persian gulf war. But the family situation killed that off. I regret missing that war. But in saying that, it isn’t because of a duty to my country so much as it is the latent desire to engage in the thing I knew best how to do under the conditions I was meant to do it in. Not to worry. Others have taken my place.
I just wish our country would keep its word to us about what we would receive in return for service. But since that is not going to happen, I leave you with this:
You can bet that I stand ready when the wolf growls at the door,
Hey, I'm solid, hey I'm steady, hey I'm true down to the core,
And I will always do my duty, no matter what the price,
I've counted up the cost, I know the sacrifice,
Oh, and I don't want to die for you,
But if dying's asked of me,
I'll bear that cross with an honor,
'Cause freedom don't come free.
I'm an American Soldier, an American,
Beside my Brothers and my Sisters I will proudly take a stand.
When liberty's in jeopardy I'll always do what's right.
I'm out here on the front lines, sleep in peace tonight.
American Soldier,
I'm an American Soldier.
It’s what I was meant to be. And the greatest loss within my life, outside my son, will be that I did not die in uniform.
I don’t write this out of any sense of sacrifice for doing that which I chose to do for the country that has provided me with the ability to succeed beyond my wildest dreams. But part of me never stopped being a soldier. And even now, after being out for 23 years… I still miss it terribly. Most of us, given a choice, wouldn’t have it any other way.

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In Memory of those who serve

In the 55 years of my life, I’ve watched quite a few war movies. When I was younger, they didn’t impact me the way they do now…perhaps because at this stage of my life I have begun to understand the sacrifice that is made by each and every person who puts on a military uniform and heads off to a war, or a police action, or whatever it is that governments decide to call it when they send human beings off to face the hell that is armed conflict. Over the last few weekends I’ve watched the Clint Eastwood movies, “Letters from Iwo Jima” and “Flags of our Fathers”, only to be reduced to tears, not only at the end of each story, but most of the way through them. I have always had an emotional response, no only to war movies, but each time I think of those who have put themselves in harm’s way so I can live the way I live in such a wonderful country. My heart fills with such gratitude that I can only express what I feel with tears, at least that is what I think it is. I know there is also a measure of sadness that comes over me as well, because to even be able to feel a little bit of what these people must have experienced is overwhelming to me.
I remember when I was 19….my mom, dad and I took a trip back to Washington DC. It was the year before the bi-centennial so many of the touristy places were closed or semi-closed for cleaning, repairing or something so they would be ready for the celebration that was to take place the following year. One of the days that we were there, we decided to visit one of the civil war battlefields at Manassas, VA. Even then, when I stepped out onto the battlefield, I felt such a sense of grief for what had gone on there. It was as if, on that quiet day, there was a solemn spirit in every tree, every bird….and on the wind, it carried the memory of what had happened there for every visitor to feel. I have never forgotten that day. Since then I have come to understand some of the terrible and frightful things that happened during that war. I have letters written home from a great-great grandfather who fought for the Union army that described his loneliness and how much he wanted to hear from his family. William Tecumseh Sherman said “War is hell” and on this day so many years later, I must say that I agree.
Six years ago I had the privilege of going to Hawaii to visit the Arizona memorial. The day I was there was December 6th and I was on the first launch that took visitors over to the memorial that day, so accompanying us was a compliment of servicemen from each branch of the service. Their task that day was to place a wreath on the memorial, so we had been instructed as to how to behave while the short ceremony was taking place. It was very moving, and of course I cried.
We’ve all seen the Pearl Harbor movies so are familiar with what happened and what the memorial looks like, but what I wasn’t prepared for was the understanding of what had happened for so many of those men. As I watched the movie that they show you before going over to the memorial, I saw, for probably the first time some original footage from the attack that you just don’t see in the movies or on TV. I saw men jumping into the water from burning ships….jumping into water covered with oil that was burning as well. Can you imagine what that is like? Can you imagine how frightening that must have been to not only jump into burning water, but to have to decide, while under the water, where you are going to surface for your next breath of air, when everything is on fire? Where is there a place on the surface that is safe to poke your head up, where you won’t breathe in flames or diesel fuel? For several brief moments I allowed myself to imagine….to feel what it might have been like for them and I was overwhelmed. The sense of that moment stayed with me as we entered the launch and were taken over to the memorial. Once the wreath was placed, we were free to walk around the memorial, look at the pictures and visit the sanctuary where all the names of the missing and the dead were written on the walls. Again, it was a sobering time, but for me, although I was moved by the surroundings, I wasn’t as moved by the atmosphere as I was by several gentlemen who were standing quietly, searching the wall for the names of their buddies who had died on that day so many years ago. They had placed flowers on the memorial, but as they turned to go and walked past me, the pain in their eyes, the tears on their cheeks said more than words could ever say. As a counselor, I could see some of what was underneath and I cried for them as well. These men were never given any kind of emotional help, to allow them to process through the immense amount of emotion that must have come, not only from that day, but in the days after. The grief that comes from knowing people you served with, who were your family and had died so tragically…the guilt that sometimes comes from being a survivor….the shock of going through such an overwhelming series of events. Human beings aren’t prepared or equipped to go through that kind of thing alone, yet this generation of men did just that. My heart broke and still does for what they went through.
Then I had to recognize that these men were not the only ones who dealt with this kind of pain. There was the Korean War and Viet Nam. Each of these combat situations afforded the servicemen and women who served in them their own unique brand of trauma. I grew up during the Viet Nam war and I remember watching the news every night and listening to Dan Rather report on how many hundreds and thousands of men had died that particular day in the war. They don’t do that kind of thing now, but it was an every day event at the time. Viet Nam was an unpopular war and I remember how tragically the protestors took out their opposition to the war on the returning soldiers. They were cursed and spat upon, as if they had no feelings and didn’t need our acceptance and gratitude for what they had gone through. Yes, disagree with the government, but it was not necessary or appropriate to show such contempt and hatred for those who were coming home from their own versions of hell abroad.
From each of these wars, we had and still have generations of brave soldiers who live the trauma of war every day in their minds. It has not been until recently that any type of help was offered that could bring peace to the chaos of the PTSD as we call it now, or the shell shock as it was called in WWII or battle fatigue as it was referred to in the previous wars.
After watching these two movies about Iwo Jima, the horrors of war are brought to the silver screen in all their hideous glory and I cried again. I can’t even begin to explain why, except my heart continued to break for the pain it caused and there is still that overwhelming gratitude that I feel when I see what courage each one had to be able to do what they did. No, I didn’t know any of the soldiers who died in the Pacific theater, but my mother did. Many of her friends were killed on Iwo Jima, Guadal Canal and Saipan and I know from the stories that she told over my lifetime, she was not the same after their loss.
I think what touches my heart more than anything is that the men and women who presently serve and have served in our military understand, at least to some extent, what they are looking forward to when they serve in combat and they have chosen to do it anyway. Yes, there was a time when joining the service wasn’t voluntary…I remember the draft as well as anyone my age, but the majority of them faced their duty with great grace. War is hell…just being in its presence changes people on a fundamental level. There is no one who goes through combat who comes out on the other side the same. I believe that is also what my tears are for. How do we, as civilians, ever repay someone for changing who they are, for bearing the pain of seeing someone you love get blown apart or die in your arms, for going through the “dark night of the soul” while we stay in the comfort of our homes and hear about it on the news? I just don’t know that we can, and that breaks my heart as well.
There was a line at the end of “Flags of our Fathers” that said, “Heros are something we create, something we need. It’s a way for us to understand what is almost incomprehensible… how people could sacrifice so much for us…but for my dad and these men, the risks they took, the wounds they suffered, they did that for their buddies. They may have fought for their country, but they died for their friends…for the man in front, for the man beside them, and if we truly wish to honor these men, we should remember them the way they really were…….
I have never served in the military, although I have people in my life who I care very much about who have. I’ve never been in combat, so I don’t know if this profound sentiment is just a line in a movie or if it represents what our troops really feel…..but as I watch snippets of history such as this, and feel the love in my heart for the people who are in my life that represent these special men who have fought and died for our nation, my heart fills with gratitude, I grieve for their loss and celebrate their lives…….and I cry.