On Veterans and Service

I have come to realize something, as I've progressed well into my 4th decade... And it's a frightening realization, a sobering one: I almost became a liberal.

Yes, it's true. I was wooed by their idealistic, unsupported course for awhile in my blooming youth; I flirted with the possibility of heading down that circuitous path. I'm not proud of this. I admit it. But that was the greatest threat to me in my post-high-school and early working years. It was not my parents' fear that in college, I was becoming a pothead (I wasn't even close) or that I was having a bit too much fun (well, that one was sort of true)—no, the greatest threat was that I'd go over to the dark side.

Then I spent a few years maturing. I gained a bit more knowledge about history; learned the difference between rights and privileges, and became more adept at managing money responsibly; and I figured out, with help, that true charity doesn't come from government, but from individuals and faith in God. I even spent some time discussing military service and the philosophies behind it with people in the know. Eventually, I straightened out. Becoming a Christian secured cautious conservatism for me... which is odd, because for some people, that same act ensures their liberalism. Weird.

Anyway. I wanted to take a moment to ponder the symbolic veteran of any armed service. There was a recent article on Facebook (why do I even bother with FB?) about how we Americans are over-revering our servicemen and women, people in uniform everywhere, and how those folks are actually terrible people who harm civilians for fun, take advantage of their power, and sexually abuse each other with abandon. And this article made me livid.

People are people, not black and white but all of us gray, and of course there are those among every rank, everywhere, who will wield their power for evil purposes. But people—isn't that the very reason we need armed services? Because sometimes, those people who allow themselves to be ruled by evil instincts are quite attractive? Charismatic? Great speakers and motivators? Don't you think Osama bin Laden had some charms about him? How else would he have inspired such evil acts in his name and the name of his cause? How about Hitler?

People are low-down and messed-up. That's why I became a Christian: because we desperately need a savior to stand in our lowly place come judgement. And when there's a void in a soul, something will always fill the void. Just like the story in the Bible, about the freshly swept out little home that was quickly re-infested because it stood empty (Matthew 11:24-26), desperate people, even well-intentioned ones, will join up with insanity to fill their void. Gangs are popular for this reason; there is even a handful of completely foolish youth from around the globe who are going to stand with ISIS for likely this same reason. There's a void, and they'll fill it with something that gives them purpose, even if there's a chance down the road that they might be asked to behead someone...

Long story short? There will always be people who choose to do bad, and they will often amass a huge crowd of [weak-minded] people to help them. For that wrong force, we need an opposing force of good. And people? A good majority of military people and police officers is good enough for me. There will be exceptions; I can live with that, much more easily than I can live with the ostrich mentality of "can't happen here." WWI and WWII happened. Ho Chi Minh, Rwanda, Darfur—they aren't made up. They're real. Terrible things happen, because of bad people, when good people permit the terrible things. If movers and shakers of those terrible things are unchecked, they will become stronger and even more terrible. Then, if they're not already there, they will visit you at your home.

I do believe that God can change hearts, but only if and when they are willing to be changed. Man has been given free will, and honestly, we do an awfully inept job of employing it wisely. Enter the soldier for the side of what is right. And even if they're not all perfect, American soldiers (and domestic law enforcement, too) of recent history have done a lot to check and/or stop evil people from doing more harm. They've suffered, died, fought, been injured and maimed and mentally haunted for life. They have preserved rights and freedoms by accepting unspeakable assignments. Anyone who sits in a peaceful country, in relative wealth, who's never set foot in danger for the sake of others they probably don't even know—that person does not have the right to speak ill of a soldier. If they sit drinking fancy coffee and typing their litany of complaints on their laptop, while scrolling through messages on their highfalutin phone, that's even more annoying. The "flag burners" need to put up or shut up. Or, they can go live in those places where they tell us our soldiers aren't needed, or are perceived as invading disrespectfully.

The sad truth is that there are bullies in this world of ours. And for the bullies who can't and won't allow their hearts to be changed, there is the American soldier. If I sound patriotic, I'm all right with that; I understand that the word patriot isn't synonymous with terrorist OR idiot. Thank you, veterans, for doing the dirty work so I don't have to.

Flag

The American flag.

You should display it somewhere.

Especially today. September 11. Do you remember?

Yesterday, I reminded my husband and son that this anniversary was upon us once again. My son said, "Yeah, I know, we talked about that at school." We quizzed him: did he really understand? "Yes," he said. "Our teacher said it was the day when there was a, um, an accident and people were hurt—"

My husband and I immediately jumped in. "Honey, we've talked about this. It was no accident. It was deliberate," I said.

"Yes," added my hubby. "It was an act of war."

"I know," said my son. "The people flew the planes. They flew them into the buildings."

We revisited that awful day in our minds, Todd and I. We re-explained to our son why one of the planes had landed in a field in Pennsylvania. We re-lived it, for a moment. The shock, the feelings, the dread that grew in my chest that day and will dwell there forever.

I will not forget. I will not let anyone misrepresent this day, not to me or my son or anyone. Listen to the roll call. All those names, all those lives. The ripples continue; the water's surface is not smooth.

The war goes on.

Balance in a world of agonies

I've been reading a book I borrowed from my dad: My War by Andy Rooney. Yes, the same Andy Rooney who's on 60 Minutes, or used to be—I haven't seen that show in ages so I'm uncertain as to whether Andy still offers his curmudgeonly commentaries there. Anyway, it's an interesting, sometimes funny, often brutal and upsetting account of Andy's time as a war correspondent during WWII.

A first-hand account of what someone sees during bloody wartime makes for some pretty awful stories. I wouldn't say the book is fun to read, because it's not. Parts of it are fun, parts are entertaining (his opinionated reports on George Patton and Ernest Hemingway are downright laughable), and parts of it are stomach-turning because they include factual accounts of death scenes I couldn't imagine in my worst nightmare.

Why am I reading this book? Well, I need to know more about American history, for one thing; I seem to be the member of my family most lacking in general historical knowledge. For another, I like Andy Rooney's style; I admire his succinct and sometimes caustic delivery. Lastly, I live in such an innocent little suburban bubble that I feel the need to expose myself to reality. Unpleasant, messy reality.

That sort of reality doesn't exist only in the past, as you well know. It's all around us. You can't turn on the news without hearing of death and destruction, fire and floods, murders and terrorists. Our world is a scary place. I can tune out and live in my bubble, but in order to exist in our culture, I have to expose myself to news coverage at least somewhat, especially if I want to know when the snowstorm is coming.

I guess if we want to live a balanced life, we need a little bit of both worlds: the dangerous place all around us versus the good place where most of us are blessed to be regularly. I read a book like the Andy Rooney account, and then I read an easier, happier, more escapist novel that gives me a little boost. Recently, I re-read The Secret Garden. That's a feel-good kind of story, and pretty much the antithesis of a war memoir.

I try to take the same approach to daily media consumption. Do I need to know that there are people in the world who are capable of burying a child alive? Is it necessary to hear that another drug deal went bad and someone was shot in the face? Must I be advised of a deadly dog attack, see pictures of a vandalized cemetary, or know the details of a little boy's drowning in a septic tank?

I don't know. I certainly don't want this information. Yet neither do I want to live so blissfully and ignorantly that I'm unaware of the fallen world around me. If I don't hear the bad news, perhaps the video of a soldier's homecoming won't touch me as deeply. If I'm never reminded of the evil that surrounds us, perhaps I'll forget to teach my child wariness of odd strangers or unfamiliar dogs. If I don't read the stories of tremendous casualties during combat, I might never truly appreciate a serviceman's duty done well, or the scars that service leaves.

We have to find balance. We have to be careful, because what you put in your mind stays there. If you fill it with gore, violence, and hatred, it will consume you. Likewise, if you fill it with mindlessness, with too many new cars and fashion and man-made fluff, it's probable you'll lose touch with real priorities. Lord knows it's easy to do that, with our silly, selfish, overly-comfortable lifestyles. It's important to read the comics; it's also important to read the headlines, the features stories.

I filter everything that comes into my world—books, papers, magazines, television, movies. You can't take something out once it lives in your mind. Be selective. Be perceptive. If something feels disturbing and wrong, walk away. I will forever be haunted by a taped 911 cell phone conversation I heard on a news show years ago: the last words of a woman who'd mistakenly driven off a bridge and into water, where she foolishly called 911 for help instead of getting out of the car immediately... That's a phone conversation I never wanted to hear, and it will never be out of my head.

Balance is difficult to achieve. I don't think I'll ever get it exactly right. I'm trying. Meantime, we watched It's a Wonderful Life the other night; it was nice to go there, and take a break from liberating the French countryside.

(Sorry—this is about as far from a light, Christmas-y post as you can get. But hey, Christmas is still almost two weeks away! Plenty of time left to be jolly! Now, where are those jingle bells!?)

"Stubbirds" (our backyard territorial warriors)

I’ve been fighting a battle. My opponents are steadfast and determined. They are beyond stubborn—the nickname I’ve assigned them does not do them justice. Their exact genus and species are insignificant. They are nondescript birds, drab little sparrows or finches or something or other, and they want to make a home in the eave of our back patio roof.

So far, we’ve been equally determined to fend them off. Todd and I have unapologetically removed their earnest home-building efforts a total of four times. Four. We’ve watched them watching us, twigs in their mouths, flashing us with the evil eye. And each time, under their baleful gaze, we’ve torn down their lovingly constructed nest.

Lest you judge us as nature haters, let me explain. Last year, some house finches built a cozy little spot in the same location. And we, sympathetic and charmed by their innocence and tweetness, permitted the intrusion. It was cute, it was dear, they hatched their little family and fed them and nurtured them and eventually the hatchlings flew away. BUT.

What remained after the coop had been flown was a nasty little microscopic creature called the bird mite. Hateful, tiny, biting, itching beast. We couldn’t shake them. We washed the patio furniture, washed it again, went from cool to warm to boiling hot water when scrubbing the cushions—all to no avail. Finally, the situation came to a standoff: any furniture item with a hard surface was bleached; anything softer was grudgingly packed in garbage bags, left out on collection morning, and replaced with new cushions. It was quite a maddening experience.

And I won’t suffer that defeat a second time. Cozy nests be damned; there are trees all around, perfectly sound, safe, stable locations for bird homes. They can just as well build there—and leave their horrific mites there as well.

So far, so good—after the fourth teardown, we’ve gone a full 24 hours without an attempted rebuild. I remain ever watchful, broom in hand. They won’t win this round. Not while I’m on guard.

WWII and humanity

Have you been watching “The War” by Ken Burns on PBS? It premiered this week and it’s phenomenal. Depressing and sometimes horrifying, yes—but phenomenal nevertheless.

It’s got me thinking about humanity: the state of being human. We all are not just fallible but also able to fall, able to be physically hurt and emotionally traumatized—and susceptible to influence by everything we encounter. “The War” features so many heartbreaking stories, told by the survivors themselves, about their shock at the reality of war. One old gent told of being revolted by his first sight of dead German soldiers, men whose lives he had taken—because he understood for the first time that they were his age, just kids. He still choked up over it, this fellow in or near his 80s. It’s still that real and awful to him. Another man told of a midnight ambush, pitch black night, in which he heard an anonymous comrade get shot and then listened, annoyed, disgusted, and mostly exhausted, as the poor dying fellow groaned and called for his mother—for hours. That annoyed man learned the next morning that it had been his best friend who was shot and suffering—and who had finally died in the night. And that man’s face was so bleak as he recounted the story of his lost friend again, all these years later. He’d never gotten over it. He never will.

I think of the many ways that horrific events can alter a life, even if experienced as an adult. We are all so vulnerable, so impressionable. I ponder the deep impression that’s left on a child who experiences something terrible. I do believe that some folks carry a predilection for making bad choices—it’s not all nurture that forms a person—but it’s undeniable that our experiences shape us, good or bad. And no one gets through unscathed. I’ll bet you could go to Japan, or Germany, and find WWII survivors there who, just like our U.S. veterans, still feel revulsion at some of the things they saw—and did.

I don’t even know what I want to say about all this. I guess I’m just coming to the conclusion that human vulnerability unites us all. Whatever side you’re on, sometimes you’re just following orders, and often the results are tragic and haunting, even if what you did was right or necessary or justified. We all come into this world with promise, on equal footing, and we all leave it bruised and bloodied by the hurt and pain that we’ve received, and caused. Even Hitler was someone’s little boy once; I read somewhere he was an excellent student, conscientious and disciplined. I wonder when, exactly, he began to move with intent toward evil dictatorship and his plan to exterminate a people group. What could have caused that plan to form? What happened?

It all makes me sad. I’m sad that people turn bad. I’m sad that some kids have it so rough. I’m sad that wars ever have to happen. This is a fallen world, for certain; I’m very glad there’s a better world to come.

P.S. Don’t worry—I won’t be this heavy every time I post an entry. Something light next time. I promise!