Today
we went to the polls to vote. You were on our minds. Why? Because we’re
conscious how we vote for several reasons—one of those being you volunteered
years of your lives and even the outcome of your well-being by serving in our
military.
I
think the way our country’s gone since the time you fought to preserve our
freedom must make you sad, if not angry. Maybe you feel like we wasted your
service. I think I’d feel that way if I were in your shoes. Your boots.
No one
made you go. You volunteered. In fact, you did so at a time the United
States suffered the worst terrorist attack ever on our soil. You could’ve just
gone on with plans for college, but you didn’t.
You
were boys turned men in an instant.
I must
say this wasn’t the coming-of-age method we’d envisioned. Ever. But here you
were, dressed in camouflage.
Oh,
you’d done that in your youth. You know, those crazy paint-ball parties you had
that also made me cringe, but this?
This
was different.
Way
different.
Our
hearts were in our throats all those years—intensified times three when the
Military called you into active duty with overlapping deployments.
Seven
in all.
I
remember when you all went at once. I couldn’t grasp the magnitude of this
ripping away. We hurt to the nth degree. Both of us.
Your
dad cried. He didn’t do that often, but he did every time you left and now let
tears flow times three. And his parting words to you, our toweringly tall sons?
“Don’t forget to duck.” That made us smile—blanketing our fears.
I recall
phoning a friend to tell her you’d all be in the warzone at one time. I
remember my idiotic statement, which I likely screeched in a higher pitch voice
than usual. “I can’t take this! I feel like opening the window and jumping!”
“Sarah,
don’t you live in a ranch-style house?”
“Yeah,”
I cried.
“Then all
you’ll likely do is sprain an ankle. And you really don’t want to hurt
yourself. Right?”
“No,
but I just don’t know how to handle this!”
When
my wits were about me again, I cried hard.
Long.
Agonizing tears.
And I
prayed, asking God to protect our sons, and—if it be His Will, that we’d have
no gold stars to put in our window. Ever.
Then I
prayed for the ones who did. Grieving parents who’d never welcome home their
soldiers.
I
remember the times you were able to call from overseas—Afghanistan and Iraq.
We’d be in the midst of a conversation when you blurted—“Gotta go!” and we heard
BOOM before the connection failed.
Please,
God, protect our sons!
The
wait until the next phone call seemed endless, not knowing if you’d survived
the blast we’d heard in the background. After three weeks, we half expected
someone in uniform to knock on our door. We dreaded that thought.
Then
another call would come from you, and we’d heave a sigh of relief.
Thank You, dear God!
Although
you returned with marks of war—some that will never go away, some that will—you
did come home. You fought honorably. Served well.
To
you, our sons, we thank you. Honor you. Love you. What you sacrificed can never
be yours. That’s gone now. In the past. But what you gave changed the times we
lived in during that period of history.
Sons,
warriors, we thank you. We salute you.
God Bless the U.S.A.
— Lee Greenwood
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yH61hFsma24
Dedicated to three amongst thousands who
served in this century’s wars—
Michael, Nathan, & Stephen,
in honor of all who served & are still
serving in the United States Military,
and in memory of our fathers—
Thomas Archer Burns & John Richard
Hampshire! (World War II)
#vote #elections #Veterans #war #Military
#terroristattacks #serve #volunteer #sacrifice #deployments
#tears #prayer #PTSD #disabledveteran #elections
#UnitedStates #freedom #GodBlesstheUSA