In Loving and Respectful Memory

Whereas I usually post something about purity on Mondays, in deference to Memorial Day let’s remember, and respect the memory of, the Veterans who are still with us and those who’ve gone on.

There’s honor in fighting, assuming the situation calls for it and the fighting is fair. So our Memorial Day remembrances and appreciations are good and relevant, and my hat tips while my heart says Thank You and Thank God for You to our servicemen and women, past and present. Today’s the day for reflections on both the nobility of sacrifice and the misery warfare brings.

Not that I know, not really. Scratch that – not at all. I never fought, and to this day I don’t know how to feel about that. When I was 18 (1973) we still had the draft and the lottery system, under which you were randomly assigned a number and, the lower your number on the lottery scale, the higher your chance of being shipped off to Viet Nam. It was a hugely unpopular war, polarizing the country and striking understandable dread in the hearts of young men who were largely unsure of our reasons for being there, much less of their chances of coming home alive and whole. Still, we went, first to the draft board offices, then to the local lottery center, and then, depending on the results, back to school, home or war.

My number came up low, way low. I was dubbed Meat for the Viet Nam Grinder, which I may well have been had I not also been in full time ministry at the time, so I was granted a ministerial deferral.

Not that I’m one to run away from fights. I was challenged twice during my school years to an afterschool showdown. I showed; my challengers didn’t. Then a couple drunken brawls during my backslidden years, which we’ll skip. Other than that, my resume doesn’t include much literal fighting. And for that I’m essentially glad.

But the act of taking up arms to defend – I almost said Your Country, but I’d rather say, The people within your country, most of whom will always be strangers to you, yet for whom you are putting your life on the line – that’s something I’ll never know. That’s real fighting, unlike boyish afterschool punch-outs or the silliness of a barroom tiff. It’s deadly serious and sacrificial, in that it’s fighting not just for yourself but for citizens who’ll benefit from your courage without knowing who to thank. Millions of men and women have experienced it, and they carry their scars.

That much I understand, because my step-father was awarded the Silver Star (the third highest decoration for valor anyone in any branch can be awarded) for his World War II heroism as a Flight Deck Officer aboard the carrier ship Saratoga, which was attacked by Japanese kamikazes. He supervised the evacuation and rescue of the wounded, never bragging, always reluctant to discuss it. In fact, he only spoke to me about it in detail shortly before he died. Even then, it was the pain on his face that expressed the nightmare more vividly than his verbal account. War is hell, and you don’t have to go to hell to know it’s indescribable.

So today I’m sorry war happens, grateful to the honorable women and men who’ve met its challenges, full of hate for the sin nature that causes conflicts causing skirmishes causing death, and hopeful that His appearance which I learned to expect decades ago is, by virtue of those decades passing, that much nearer. God bless our Veterans, and come quickly, Lord Jesus our Prince of Peace.