To Our Veteran Sons

          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)

 

 

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#tears #prayer #PTSD #disabledveteran #elections #UnitedStates #freedom #GodBlesstheUSA