The Price of War

My mother's favorite holiday was Christmas. But as much as she loved that holiday, my father hated the one we celebrate today, the Fourth of July. Not for what it stood for, of course. A World War II veteran, no one was more patriotic than my dad. He flew a flag in front of his house all year round. What he dreaded about the Fourth was the noise that accompanied it. All the firecrackers that seemed to plague their peaceful world for days before and after the designated day.

I thought for years that all the noise just made him nervous. Their little dog was jittery too, and there was fear of sparks landing on their roof, like they did one year. Besides, as a former law enforcement officer, it bothered him that city ordinances about safety were overlooked, and he couldn't abide anyone getting by with breaking the law.

But then one year my dad told me the main reason fireworks bothered him. He said he had heard plenty of noisy gunfire when he was in Japan right at the close of the war. I never thought of my father being in that much danger during the war, because his ship arrived right after the bombing of Hiroshima to help with reconstruction of the country. He had enlisted at the end of the war, when he was only fifteen (he didn't need a birth certificate for the Army, if his mother signed some papers). After some thought though, and reading more about the history of the times, I realize he was in quite a bit of danger there in Japan. We Americans were still the hated enemy for years following the destruction caused by the atom bomb.

So, now it makes more sense to me why my dad did not like firecrackers. And I'm sure that anyone who has been in a war-torn country feels the same. The noise and sparks represent war. I know they bring enjoyment for their beauty and are something to look forward to during a long, hot summer, but let's not forget what they represent. They represent the price that a few have had to pay for all of us to have the freedoms we have. The price of war. There's no glory in the trenches, even today. Let's remember.

my dad in Japan

An Invisible Injury

Memorial Day should be a day of just that--remembering those who have passed away, especially those in the military. We call them servicemen because that's exactly what they do. They serve us, so we can enjoy the freedoms and safety we have in this country. And no matter how deficient you see our country in these areas, it's hard to deny that we are better off than many places in the world.

We should honor all the men and women in uniform for their sacrifices. None of those serving in dangerous fields will come back unaffected. And many of the wounded will feel their losses every day. Even those with invisible injuries, such as PTSD and traumatic brain injuries, have given up their previous lives and are striving to create a new normal for themselves.

My personal experience with a brain-injured husband allows me to feel great empathy for that segment of the military, those with TBIs. It's a scary world when you can't remember what you did an hour ago, or even less. And the families are no less affected. I pray that God will give strength to them all and show me ways I may help lighten their load when I can.

Here's a couple of pictures of my dad--just a teenager. He was in Japan right after the bombing. They didn't exactly appreciate our presence. But who could blame them. Dad never talked about being in Japan while we were growing up. I always wondered why he didn't like going to funerals. I think dead bodies scared him. But he made it known he wanted a military funeral for himself. It was the least we could do.