He came from a broken home in the middle of nowhere, Texas. He was the oldest of three children, raised by his nurse’s aide mother. There were times they had no money for food, much less luxuries such as toothpaste. As a child, he did odd jobs, like delivering milk, and when he became old enough to enlist, he signed up. I knew these bits and pieces, but the horrors he and his comrades experienced were never mentioned in our home.
So, fast forward to that Sunday morning. I sat in shock, sobbing as I read the words, for all he had done and witnessed. Guilty, that although he was asked from time to time with no response, that I had lived eighteen years in a home, with a man that carried more pain than most of us will ever see, except on a movie screen. I felt bad that I had never pressed him more, or offered to pray for him, and especially for teasing him for his quiet, tearful times. His generation was that of inherent protection, strength and moving on from the past. His medals hanging in a frame over his dresser and a faded military picture on my mother’s bedside table signed, “To Mother”, were the only hints to his previous life.
In the bright sunlight, sitting in my car, I came back from the images running through my head, seeing my father in a whole new light. He had given seventeen years of his life, some of which were spent in the jungle or on the beaches of a foreign land, sitting in foxholes, hungry and wet. He watched people die all around him and at one time, before being evacuated, contracted malaria. All in the name of defending our country from foreign enemies. At the age my son is now. My lanky, eighteen year old that towers over me, likes to skateboard, and to hang out with his friends.
Now my son’s name sits on a list somewhere in an office full of bureaucrats that spend their time finding ways to funnel money, deleting emails and worrying about how something will appear on social media. My son’s name sits on a list that could be used to call up innocent boys to fight. In my father’s day, the mission was clear and so was the enemy. But in the course of two generations, we no longer are sure who our enemy is, and if we do, we are afraid to say their names for fear of offending them. In my father’s day, society was concerned about protecting women and children. Now, in a few short years, because of women’s “equality”, my three girls could be on that same list--sitting on a bureaucrat’s desk.
I recently watched The Patriot, for the hundredth time, and although the personal story is fiction, I was again reminded of the sacrifices average, hardworking people made to establish this country. Families ripped apart and men died for a cause, a specific cause called freedom that was bigger than themselves. What if they hadn’t? What if they had not stood up to the tyranny of Britain and believed there was a better way to govern?
Someone recently told me the story of a family that lost five sons in an American war. I looked it up and actually found several instances where families were almost completely wiped out in service to our country. Fortunately, because of these horrific scenarios, the military now has a Sole Survivor policy. One such instance was a woman named Mrs. Bixby. She had six sons, all of which joined the Union. Five died in battle and the sixth laid in a hospital, wounded from war.
Six.
Sit and think on that one when you peer over your computer screen, at your children playing in the floor. I dare you to lay in bed and remember all the memories you have with one child, much less six. And then ask yourself this: which one is worth giving up for our nation? Which person that you pass in traffic or lawmaker you see on the television is worth your child? The reality is families have given their children up daily across this land and have for more than two centuries.
Another instance was Thomas and Alleta Sullivan from Iowa. They lost all five of their sons during World War II.
All five.
The circumstances around their deaths on the USS Juneau during the Battle of Guadalcanal is so tragic, I almost lost my lunch reading their story. And after their death, where most mothers I know would never get out of bed again, the Sullivans continued to support the war effort and the soldiers fighting for this country.
I ran across a picture of a plaque in Texas that quotes George Washington regarding the 2nd amendment.
“A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed. A free people ought not only be armed and disciplined, but they should have sufficient arms and ammunition to maintain a status of independence from any who might attempt to abuse them, which would include their own government.”
When I read it, I was reminded of Mr. Greg Chandler (Government) and Mrs. Delores Thompson (History), that spent countless hours teaching us to realize how important it is to know history and how it impacts our future. The 2nd amendment was not written to be able to shoot a deer in your back forty. The 2nd amendment was not written to go turkey hunting on Saturday. The authors of our constitution lived firsthand what it meant to prevent the government from becoming a dictatorship and saw the graves of men all over our new country that fought for that right. Unfortunately, people throughout history have been proven to do crazy things, with or without guns, but restricting weapons only keeps one thing safe--the government.
Many years ago, I had the privilege of traveling to another country to pick up our daughter. The people of that land were some of the kindest and welcoming I have ever encountered. Everywhere I went, parents would shove their child forward to speak to me. Being about a head above the average person and my skin as white as a ghost, I stood out. People would stop me on the street, take my daughter’s hand and speak to her. I asked my guide what they were saying, as it happened everywhere we went. She looked at me and replied, “Lucky baby.”
The guide, my interpreter, was a well-educated, multilingual woman, who had spent years babysitting foreigners in her country. During a quiet time on a long ride, I talked to her about her career and her experiences. She mentioned that she would love to visit the United States, but was skeptical that it would ever happen. I dismissed it and told her that she would come one day and to look me up when she did. It wasn’t until several days later, that I understood her discouragement.
One morning, we gathered in front of our hotel, babies in tow, armed with handfuls of paperwork. Guides clucked around, looking through our material to be sure it was all in order. We boarded a van and drove a few blocks away. When we turned the corner, there were lines of people, like you would see waiting to enter a concert. Our driver pulled up to the curb and helped us out of the van and up the steps into the building. That building was the U.S. Embassy.
The people. They gather every day, I’m told hours before the building opens, hoping to get a chance to apply to visit the U.S. As citizens, we were ushered in and bypassed the line. As citizens, we went into a large room full of people, had our paperwork stamped and signed, raised our hand and promised to uphold the Constitution of the United States. Upholding the Constitution--the Constitution that is constantly under fire and trying to be rewritten. That was authored by a group of men that had put it all on the line, wealth, family, and life for a system of government that works better than any other in the world. That my father, as well as countless others, fought to defend and secure our land from outside evil. Men that endured hunger, sickness, injury and death to uphold. That because I am a citizen by birth, inherited all the privileges of. That as I raised my hand, for my daughter, promised to uphold the constitution that I was willing to give up my children in service of. All the while, outside the doors, there were hundreds of people waiting for just the chance to visit this land.
You see, if I am passionate about the state of our country, about the true foundation it was built on, about the value of life in all human stages, it is because I know there are people in this world that see the U.S. as heaven. A utopia from dictatorship and corruption. A utopia from a government that screens and filters their televisions, their internet, and their news coverage.
As I took my new daughter, a process 2 years in the making, into the airport to leave her birth country, all the legalities became worth the wait. It became apparent to me why, whether it is long and arduous or not, it is worth becoming a citizen of this nation. My guide grabbed my suitcase and pulled it and me through the hundreds of people in line at the airport and walked up to the front. I argued all the way and apologized to the people as we passed. In America, that would never happen--not without an angry mob yelling and cursing at me. But there, in that beautiful country, they made way for the American, anxious to show hospitality.
When we arrived at the gate, I looked at my guide that I had grown to love over the past few weeks and I knew in my heart she would most likely never make it to this country. She spent her days dragging visitors from all of the world around her country, all the while wishing she was the one getting on the plane instead. She was beautiful, inside and out, articulate and intelligent, but because of a government that has control of its people at every turn, her dreams will most likely be filled with only the feeble attempts of people like me describing our country.
So, before you fill in the blank on your ballot, remember the people that made it possible for you to stand there. The men around the table signing their name to a declaration that was ultimately their death sentence, the Constitution housed in Washington that they penned, and the families, like Mrs. Bixby and the Sullivans, who lived pain unimaginable to parents. Even my father and thousands like him, who laid in foxholes with guns heavier than them, trying to outsmart an enemy that oppressed its people and threatened our security. Remember your own family, and whether you believe in your country enough to sacrifice them, if duty called.
And remember our God that is so much bigger than any election or official or government. Pray his mercy on our country.
