A Tale of Two Soldiers

I’m here today because two young soldiers, against all odds, returned home from World War II seventy years ago.

The one with the slight build barely looked old enough to man a tractor, much less a machine gun that stretched out of a plane’s backside.

But his small frame was the ideal size for that of a tail-gunner. I’m told that the “life expectancy” of tail-gunners was less than three minutes. Yet the small shooter with ruddy cheeks and blue eyes survived countless missions and two plane crashes. We have pictures of him standing beside the wreckage, arms crossed, an “all-in-a-day’s-work” expression on his face.

When he left his job as a college professor to serve on the the European front, he said goodbye to a young wife who carried fear and hope along with their unborn child. Miraculously, the young gunner returned home to hope-realized and a two-year-old son. The soldier and his lovely bride would have six more children across the years. Their second child is my mother.

The other soldier was eighteen and also newly married. He spent twenty-one days on a boat from his base in California to the war-front in the Philippines. By God’s grace he survived hell on earth in the damp jungles of the Pacific, and his wife survived days turned weeks turned sometimes months without knowing whether her young husband was dead or alive.

Underground and in the rain, the soldier read his Bible aloud to fellow comrades and I’ve no doubt they needed every word of that good news. Trapped in foxholes with disease-ridden feet, perpetually wet and starving, they dug graves in the wet jungle floor for dead Japanese soldiers and for their own fallen brothers. Day in and day out, they suffered and stared death in the face and prayed for home.

You’ve probably guessed that the Bible-reading soldier made it back too. He spent months in several hospitals, recovering from cholera and putting on weight and shaking horror from his mind.

But he finally came home.

He and his beautiful bride had three children across the years. The oldest child is my dad.

The tail-gunner and his wife are with Jesus now. I miss them terribly.

But the infantryman who fought in the Philippines is as spirited as ever.At 91 years old, he’s one of the youngest World War II vets. There are few left now. His war bride is now 92, still beautiful and resilient even in her frailty. Even though I taught American History and am the granddaughter of two veterans, I tend to forget their sacrifice. I’m here because even though they were terrified, they chose courage. And God chose to bring them back. They left behind all that was dear to secure freedom for the rest of us. We’ll never be able to fully appreciate the remarkable lives of the “greatest generation.”

I think on these things every Veterans Day. I’ve considered the variables and what ifs and knowing that one misfire 70 years ago could have written a different story, one without me in it.

Today as I left my morning job at the school, I stopped to watch my son’s second grade class stand inside the front door and give homemade cards to the veterans passing through their two straight lines on the way to a special lunch. The teacher and I fought back tears because there’s something almost sacred about seeing the older generation reach out and touch the heads of our own children waving flags and saying “Thank you for your service.”

I considered my grandfathers and thought to myself, There are a million reasons I shouldn’t be here. But I am. There’s purpose to my life. Honestly, I was surprised by gratitude. Sometimes it’s that simple:

I’m supposed to be here.

I’ve also considered the connection between sacrifice and freedom. I realized that they’re opposites. {Because I’m a genius.} Sacrifice implies restraint and restriction and going without. Freedom implies boundlessness and peace and fullness.

Sacrifice giving birth to freedom is a completely upside-down thing.

And because I’m a Christian, this thought took me to the cross. The more I consider the overwhelming sacrifice of a perfect Savior on my behalf, the more passionate I am about the freedom He secured for me. There’s a direct correlation between our appreciation of the sacrifice that came before us and our appreciation of the freedom we now enjoy as a result.

This is the only patriotic post I’ve ever written. I’m not a military wife or a “God and country” sort of writer. The problem with studying our nation’s history is that I’m more aware than I’d like to be about some of the darker moments and motives of our past. It’s not all glory and honor and equality; this we know. But I absolutely believe that we can be honest about our history while bowing to the courage and sacrifice of noble men and women who have served valiantly and who continue to devote their lives for the protection of others, hopeful for a more secure future.

Honesty and honor are not mutually exclusive. May grace always have the final word.

We have never been a perfect nation. But it’s the everydayness of our people that has made America such a unique and storied place. We are not descendants of royalty. We are rebels and misfits and commoners. We are 18-year-olds who left behind small, southern, mill towns for lands they had never seen, fighting for the future of great-grandchildren they had never met.

Thinking about the two soldiers nearest and dearest to my heart, remembering the stories they’ve shared with me and with my kids, I’m grateful beyond words for their sacrifice and service. I’m so thankful that they dared to hope.

This Veteran’s Day, might we consider the sacrifice of those who have gone before us and cherish anew the freedom we enjoy?

And for those who are in Christ, it’s a reminder to think upon an even greater sacrifice — his sacrifice for us in order that we might fully dance in the freedom and security that is ours.

/////It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.{Galatians 5:1a}/////Thanks for reading this updated repost from the archives.