Hero

     They wore that uniform with pride.  There was determination in their focus and purpose in their heart.  They knew precisely who they were and exactly that for which they were fighting.  If I were a betting man, I would wager to say that perhaps they even knew the price.  You can almost see them standing in front of the mirror of their bedroom, just staring, almost as if they were catching a glimpse of their image as a whole, to remember, to memorize, as if they would not see it in the same light again.  

     In walks their spouse, their husband, their wife.  He turns to face her at attention with head held high.  Her hand over her face, not knowing whether to smile at this strong, beloved soldier...or to cry with uncontrollable tears at the overwhelming thought that he may not return.  What if this was to be their last hour together?  What words do they exchange, or does it speak louder to remain silent and simply cherish the moment.

     Not too much time passes before the kids burst into the bedroom with a breath of fresh air thus lightening the heavy load which lay ahead.  There is something so disarming about the sincere embrace from your son and daughter.  When all they want to do is hold on for a few more seconds...all other woes fade into the distance.  They are the apple of his eye, and the arrows in his quiver.  

     He pointed the sorrowful chin of his boy upward and charged him to take care of his mother and younger sisters in his absence for a short while thus knighting him Man of the House and needed to step up accordingly.

     What tears must have befallen his worn cheeks as he lifted his little girls in a George Bailey fashion and vowed to never let go.  I would go so far as to guess there may have been something like promises of large stuffed giraffes and a trip to the zoo upon Dad’s return from the war.

     Finally, holding his wife one last time, one ultimate kiss, one more dance to close down the house and a promise to always remember and to return home alive...which could only be fulfilled by the Good Lord above.  Can you imagine...headed into battle with an incredibly low chance of survival with a shred of hope that in the sacrifice your wife and children will live in Freedom.  Can you imagine the sadness of never being able to hear you nieces' giggle at a dumb joke, or never again being able to wrestle your boys to the ground or smooth your fingers over the cheeks of your wife as you brush the loose hair behind her to reveal her radiance.  

     They shall march before us once again in uniform with pins in place, a straight gig line, and a firm grip on Old Glory as she waves her beauty in bright colors with Style and Then Some.  Can I encourage you then as our colors parade through, to hold your hand over your heart in remembrance of the fallen soldiers, in salute to those who sacrificed their lives, who proudly hold the flag high, seeing it the frame of Francis Scott Key who longed for, who looked for, who hoped that when the dust settled, and the fog cleared, that our beautiful flag, though tattered and torn, crimson with the blood of family men, of sons and fathers, of countrymen, would still be flying high - protected by the many soldiers who defended our freedom and fought against injustice for liberty so that we may live and work and play and worship in a country like this.  O' say does that Star Bangled banner yet wave?  I guess that is a question only you can answer, but...then again...that's just my humble opinion.

Keeping America Beautiful

     Up until recently I have always spent my lunches pouring over work, or in meetings, or working lunch meetings, but now I find myself investing a few minutes at a nearby park swatting away the bees and increasing the pollution threat by exhaling harmful carbon dioxide. (Hey, I do what I can.)  I was polishing off an apple with a few last bites when in rolls an 80's era Ford truck and an elderly gentleman stumbles out of the drivers side and I thought to myself, "I didn't pay for this ticket, but I'll gladly accept the entertainment."  He makes his way to the back of the beat-up truck, opens the lid and downs the tailgate to reveal a not-so-mint condition couch to which my grand-folks would lovingly refer as a "davenport".  You should have seen the badly-contrasting flannel covers weaved together in between the dangling lint, grease spots, and ripped fabric.

     He peeked back at me a couple of times before he grabbed the bottom of the monstrosity and dragged it from the pickup bed to the curb of the park and began to stumble his way back to the door, which is about the same time that I grabbed my phone and opened my camera and voice note apps as I was unsure as to which would be needed, and quickly walked towards the truck from the distant pavilion from which I sought office salvation.  He rolled down his window and the conversation went something like this..."How are you guys doing this afternoon?"

     "We're donating it to the park."

     "You're doing what, now?"

     "We're gonna' donate that to the park."

     "You're going to donate...that...couch...to the park...?"

     "We're from Fort Wayne."

     "Ok...but the park doesn't need any more couches.  They got some in just last week (snicker, laugh)  This couch doesn't have any cushions on it"

     "Oh?  We didn't know that.  We're from Fort Wayne, we're sorry about that."

     I helped the old man prop the couch back into his truck and directed them to a nearby disposal, and in my short time on this rock called Earth...never have I seen a couple, young or old, try to pawn off their cushion-less junk of a couch, which would better serve as a pinup-poster for bed bug homes than as firewood, let alone something to donate to a non-proft organization to simply get the stanky item out of your home while making yourself feel good about it because those people can no longer say that you never gave them anything due to the fact that they now have the lice to prove you did...give them something.

     May I offer a thought here?  If it is not something you would accept as a donation into your home, business, or non-profit...there's a good chance that no one else will either, and it might be time to call in the Father to render its last rights, exercise any demons which may be possessing the 40yr old davenport, mattress, or exercise equipment,  and let the poor thing die, but…then again…that's just my humble opinion.