This month I’m not going to be able to write my normal post. The month of February has raced by me without notice. I have been wrapped up in the grief of a family for a man who is their hero.
My husband’s father was a Marine for 11 years and in the Army for nearly as long. He fought in Vietnam and is slowly dying a soldier’s death. The battles of that war still follow him on a daily basis. So much so that he will not close his eyes in the dark of night. He sits and holds his wife’s hand and waits. Waits for the morning sun, waits for his next breath to come, waits for the end.
It does not matter what medicine he is given, his eyes will not close. It is as if he is refusing to accept the inevitable. He will face his death, as he faced his life. On his terms, in his command and not a minute before he is ready. While others in his position would gladly sit to rest, to be wheeled to their room, to be comforted, not him. He walks. As a Marine walks. As a soldier walks. As a man walks who has fought the ultimate battle and comes home to tell about it.
He raised his family in the turmoil that filled that era with ugliness. And I am so glad he did. He has taught us all how to hold our heads high and our feet firm. He has shown the way to valor is not in acts of bravery, but of the strong courage that courses through our souls. He has believed always that the woman he fell in love with at first sight was the girl fate had brought him. It is she who holds his hand in all the minutes of the night.
So for us who write of heroes and heroines. Who write of love and of romance that lasts the stand of time. We can take a page from this Marine, his story and his girl who has loved him in return through all the battles fifty years can hold. Even this final one.
My husband’s father was a Marine for 11 years and in the Army for nearly as long. He fought in Vietnam and is slowly dying a soldier’s death. The battles of that war still follow him on a daily basis. So much so that he will not close his eyes in the dark of night. He sits and holds his wife’s hand and waits. Waits for the morning sun, waits for his next breath to come, waits for the end.
It does not matter what medicine he is given, his eyes will not close. It is as if he is refusing to accept the inevitable. He will face his death, as he faced his life. On his terms, in his command and not a minute before he is ready. While others in his position would gladly sit to rest, to be wheeled to their room, to be comforted, not him. He walks. As a Marine walks. As a soldier walks. As a man walks who has fought the ultimate battle and comes home to tell about it.
He raised his family in the turmoil that filled that era with ugliness. And I am so glad he did. He has taught us all how to hold our heads high and our feet firm. He has shown the way to valor is not in acts of bravery, but of the strong courage that courses through our souls. He has believed always that the woman he fell in love with at first sight was the girl fate had brought him. It is she who holds his hand in all the minutes of the night.
So for us who write of heroes and heroines. Who write of love and of romance that lasts the stand of time. We can take a page from this Marine, his story and his girl who has loved him in return through all the battles fifty years can hold. Even this final one.
"oo-RAH", Papa!
1 comment:
Beautiful, Rachel. We'll keep him and your family in our prayers.
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