America’s War Dead

6 comments
A Story, Love God Love People, One Nation Under God

Memorial Day.

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Ties hang in closets, sheer nylon stockings lay wadded in drawers, and lunch boxes sit empty by backdoors.

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Department stores entice spenders with all manner slick ads and bargains that are splashed with red, white, and blue.

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‘Tater salads cool in the fridge, charcoal heaps are set afire, and fresh-squeezed lemonade melts pitchers of ice. Kiddos squeal and run amuck across fresh-cut lawns.

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So, what’s this day to you? Is it merely a fanciful day off for fun in the sun? A day for yard work and home-improvement projects?

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No, sir. No ma’am. I think not.

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“Memorial Day is a time when

America’s war dead

 remind us of the price for freedom.”

~ Tim Wildmon,

American Family Association president

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America’s war dead.

 .

Father. Brother. Son. Mother. Sister. Daughter.

Husband. Wife. Friend.

.

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When soldiers are buried, they are the obvious dead because tear-stained caskets are lowered deep. Twenty-one chills rush down spines that writhe with agony and loss. But what of the soldier’s father, brother, son, mother, sister, and daughter? What of the husband, wife, and friend?

America’s war dead families need our prayers.

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What of the soldiers who cannot readily readjust to the normalcy of stateside life and wish daily to be cold and under a mound dirt? What of the soldiers who live among us, but are so often forgotten?

America’s war dead survivors need our prayers.

.

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It’s good, even grand, to celebrate Memorial Day with friends, family and food. But when heads bow and hands clasp beside platters of burgers, slices of cheese, and stacks of tomatoes, please take a few moments to remember

the price that’s still being paid

for America’s freedom.

..

the cost is high

for battles…

fought on land

sea

& air;

 

the day is not

over yet,

nary you should

ever

forget

those who died:

father. brother. son.

mother. sister. daughter.

wife. husband.

friend.

 

the cost is high

for battles…

fought inside of

broken hearts

& forlorn minds;

 

but the day is not

over yet,

nary you should

ever

forget

those who still live on:

father. brother. son.

mother. sister. daughter.

wife. husband.

friend.

 

.

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dar toddler SDLike many others out there, I am a walking, talking result of the cost. I am a Vietnam-era daughter who never knew her very own father. America’s war dead die on battlefields and in hospital beds; but, some, like mine, drown in the bottom of whiskey bottles once they’re safe and sound and back on American ground.

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I’ve never ever seen a war memorial dedicated to soldiers who couldn’t readily readjust to civilian life — those men who smoldered long and smothered heavy beneath alcohol’s vapors. Dare I say that there are others like me out there who feel secluded, isolated, and a deep down mixture of sadness, even shame? I reckon I’m not alone, but what shall I do – start a community backyard BBQ for folks whose daddies came home physically alive, yet who had already died on the inside? There ain’t much honor to be found for fallen soldier men who passed on the way my father did. 

.

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If you know a veteran, of any age, of any war(s), please reach out to them and their kinfolk.

And pray for them, too.

It is so very important.

.

..

Jesus said, “My grace is sufficient for you,

for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

~ 2 Corinthians 12:9 (NIV)

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6 thoughts on “America’s War Dead”

  1. Mrs S says:

    The honor is standing up when your name is called. Whether or not you are called to the battlefield, whether or not you lay your life there, making the commitment to do it if needed–that is where the honor is. You lost your father to war, as the war does not end when one leaves the battlefield.

  2. * I’d like to add a note of clarification to my post above…

    I’m in no way shape or form ashamed of my father, the shame I mention is in the citizens of America who let down her soldiers upon their return and instead greet men/women with scorn; the shame falls on those who accept soldier signatures on the dotted line, but who then turn a blind eye to their injured needs once they come back home.

    And the shame is never, not ever, on the soldier. Or the family.

    I had a little pity-party today in thinking that I needed a group hug, when the actual-factual source of love is the Lord God Almighty and since I already have a personal relationship with Him, all I needed to do was look up.

  3. Oh, Darlene. Amen. It’s no wonder some came back too broken to carry on with the daily banalities of life, with what was seen and done and taken. Praying for your Daddy and for all those like him…you’re so right, the price of freedom is high and yes, a monument needs to be built (in our hearts as well as on some Washington soil).

  4. Pause.

    We’ve all thrown those parties. Thankfully, HE shows up and changes the tone.

    Pause again.

    I want to say something insightful, but I’m coming up empty.

    Hugs instead.

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