Not all wounds are visible.

“You’re pretty normal for a veteran” People have been saying that to me for years.  But what does it mean? What is normal? And what distinction do I have that separates me from the abnormal?  Is it because I’m educated?  Is it that I don’t always smell like booze?  Is it because I can hold a social life and a job, on top of being a full time college student?

Who’s the judge here?  99% of the people who say that to me are civilian.  They’re ignorant, and most of the time, it isn't their fault.  We come home, back to communities after years and years of being a warrior, and we shut ourselves in.  We separate ourselves.  We say things like, “They just don’t understand me”, or “I’m just not like them.”  We seldom take the chance to let them understand us.

Everyone leaves something behind when they come home from war.  Some of it’s obvious.  We leave arms, and legs in blown up trucks, we leave pints of blood in the sand.  But all too often we leave parts of behind that people don’t realize.  Sometimes we don’t realize it right away ourselves.  It doesn't matter if we were combat engineers or laundry specialists.  We all put our lives on hold to go out and fight a war.  We went to a strange land, lived a strange way, and when we finally were able to go home, we left our innocence, we left our childhoods, and far far too often, we left much much more.

I've lost more friends at home than I have in combat.  These are hardened warriors.  Battle tested soldiers.  Shot at, blown up, lived in the worlds worst conditions, and were coming home, and we’re dying.  Worst part about it is we know were dying.  Were so stuck in this warrior culture, that even while were dying, we can’t talk to anyone about how much it’s tearing us apart.

I pray to God that we get ourselves out of this cycle.  I pray that we make our own wounds visible to those who can help. Most of all I just pray that we stop letting ourselves die.

Veterans Day

Veterans Day has always been a day filled with emotion.  It is a day where at times I feel inadequate, a day where I feel sad, and angry.  It’s a day where I feel blessed and a day where I reflect on my own service with much pride.

            I am proud of my accomplishments while in the army.  I fought along the best young men this country had to offer, and had the privilege of calling them my friend, and the greater privilege, of having them call me the same.

            I miss my friends.  Some of them I won’t see again until Jesus Christ calls me home.  It’s a selfish thought I suppose, but I can’t help but wish they were still here.  I remember the time Hawkins and I shared beers in the hotel after basic training. I remember how real it all felt when I visited his grave, knowing it wouldn’t be the last of my friends to go home.  I remember Torre’s constant example, and his strive to be the best.  I remember Greene, and the time we made a monopoly board out of post it notes in OSUT.  I think about Dalenko and the nights at the bar singing Bohemian Rhapsody.  I think about Carol, Smiley, and all of the countless other friends who escaped with their lives, but whose wounds are visible and permanent.

            It’s a time where I thank God for everything in my life.  From having my limbs, for my family, for being home to see my brother get married.  I thank God for my health, and for the little things, like the chance to get an education for free, for meals, and a roof over my head.

            Sometimes it’s a day I feel angry.  Angry at the direction of our country, angry at politicians using servicemen and women as pawns in the game of personal interest, and sometimes, I’m just angry for no reason.

I feel inadequate. I feel like my service wasn’t enough.  I look at the lives of those left behind by heroes, and the heroes who physically left themselves in places most can’t even pronounce, and I feel guilty for the times I sit and complain, for the times that I take for granted the things these heroes fought to their last breath for.  I feel guilty for the free meal provided to veterans, knowing full well that there are homeless veterans, unemployed and underemployed vets with families they are trying to support.

            So what’s the solution?  Well I suppose the simple answer is to live.  I know if I were able to ask any of the fallen that I know if it was worth it, their answer would be a resounding, yes.  God didn’t give me these men in my life so I could mope for them and complain on their behalf.  He gave them to me the be a beacon, an example.  I’ll end with a poem by Chief Tecumseh as an anthem to the fallen, and to those of us who remain.

So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide.

Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none.

When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision.

When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.