I posted this on Facebook, and people like it, so I thought I'd share it here.
Within those who have served in the Armed Forces, there is a certain hierarchy.
There is the one who served, all in peacetime, never in harm's away other than theoretically, and in fact just may have had the type of duty that would likely keep them out of combat anyway.
That would be me.
Then there's the one who trained for combat, was ready to fight if notified, but the action (thankfully) never started while serving.
That would be my son.
Then you have the combat veteran who saw terrible things and came out physically unscathed, although the scars on the psyche remain.
That would be my son-in-law.
Then you have the one who served and left a piece behind, to varying degrees. Maybe it was the "million-dollar" wound that provided the ticket out of combat without leaving a lasting effect. Or maybe it was a different kind of "million-dollar" wound, or wounds, that will follow that veteran and the veteran's family around for life.
No one I know of in our family. We honor these people and what they gave for us.
And then you have the one who served who never came back, who will never experience the joys, triumphs, and loves that so much of aging adult life has to offer, who left the wrenching grief of loss with family and friends back home. And all because the nation said it needed that warrior there when bullets and bombs were in play.
It is that last, and highest, group that we honor this weekend. When we're out with our barbecues, or trips, or simply enjoying extra relaxation time, take a moment - a prayerful reflection, a clinking of glasses, something - to honor their ultimate sacrifice and their memory.
Within those who have served in the Armed Forces, there is a certain hierarchy.
There is the one who served, all in peacetime, never in harm's away other than theoretically, and in fact just may have had the type of duty that would likely keep them out of combat anyway.
That would be me.
Then there's the one who trained for combat, was ready to fight if notified, but the action (thankfully) never started while serving.
That would be my son.
Then you have the combat veteran who saw terrible things and came out physically unscathed, although the scars on the psyche remain.
That would be my son-in-law.
Then you have the one who served and left a piece behind, to varying degrees. Maybe it was the "million-dollar" wound that provided the ticket out of combat without leaving a lasting effect. Or maybe it was a different kind of "million-dollar" wound, or wounds, that will follow that veteran and the veteran's family around for life.
No one I know of in our family. We honor these people and what they gave for us.
And then you have the one who served who never came back, who will never experience the joys, triumphs, and loves that so much of aging adult life has to offer, who left the wrenching grief of loss with family and friends back home. And all because the nation said it needed that warrior there when bullets and bombs were in play.
It is that last, and highest, group that we honor this weekend. When we're out with our barbecues, or trips, or simply enjoying extra relaxation time, take a moment - a prayerful reflection, a clinking of glasses, something - to honor their ultimate sacrifice and their memory.
