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Published On: Apr 26, 2006 10:02 PM
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Published On: Apr 26, 2006 10:02 PM
I'm Not Worthy! (Caution: EXTREMELY Personal, and may make the reader
uncomfortable)
Don't say I didn't warn you. This one is very
personal, and may touch on the concept of male weeping. If you don't like that,
then stop right here.
I'd like to start with an event from 18 years ago. I was 14 at the time (must have been 1987 or so), and had somehow convinced my parents that a 14 year old should be able to go on a Spring Break 4-H trip to Washington DC, by bus. It was a fantastic week; I took lots of pictures, got my first romantic kiss, saw Cats (the musical), and visited lots of interesting places. One that stands out in my mind to this day was Arlington National Cemetery.
When I say it stands out in my mind, I don't want to give you the wrong impression. My actual memories of the cemetery itself are hazy and incomplete. I can remember rows of white stones, the eternal flame, and all those things, but they're not crystal-clear. What I do recall was the effect that all this had on me, when combined with viewing the Changing of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers.
Perhaps I was too young for all this; at fourteen I was immature, even for fourteen. Suddenly it all just swept home for me; all the dead around us, the ceremony about to take place, the huge vast emptiness left behind by all those lying here dead. I started to cry. Fairly quietly, I think, but steadily, with those shudders that accompany such strong emotion.
One of the trip's "camp counselors" took me aside. All I could stammer out was "They're all dead for us, and I'm not worthy of it at all!" (This was long before the Wayne's World movies, so my repititions of "I'm not worthy" cannot be blamed on Wayne and Garth.) That was the underlying feeling -- What had I done to deserve the deaths of all these people, so that I could enjoy the gift of freedom.
The counselor person was good at what she did. I don't remember her exact words, but I still remember the underlying meaning. None of us are worthy of such a sacrifice, but by appreciating and hanging on to our freedoms, we thereby provide the sacrifice with meaning.
(You're now past the crying part. Although I got a little teary in the upcoming parts of the story, I never actually break into weeping.)
Fast forward to 2 July, 2005. There I was, sitting in a C-130, about to leave Iraq and head back to Kuwait as the second leg of a long journey home. Little did I know I was about to share my ride home with a hero.
The loadmasters are about to bring onboard our luggage pallet, and fasten it into place. First, though, they bring a long metal box, about 7 feet long and 3.5 feet wide. They fasten it down.
Man sitting next to me: "Do you think there's a body in there?"
Me: "Don't be silly. You don't transport deceased people without an escort. It's probably just some equipment or something."
I went to sleep after the plane took off, So I barely had time to think about the box anymore, until the plane landed. After the back hatch was opened, I saw a group of people milling around outside, and wondered idly if something was wrong with the plane. After our luggage pallet was removed, six of these people climbed on board and arranged themselves along the long sides of the metal box. After being called to attention by the leader of this solemn ceremony, they worked together to lift the box, and then began slowly marching off of the C-130 to a waiting truck. As the box was carried off, I saw the word "Head" written on the nearer short side.
Man sitting next to me: "I KNEW it was a body!"
Me: "..."
All unknowing, this part of my trip home was also a part of this fallen hero's final trip home. I don't know who he (or she) was, nor the circumstances surrounding their death. I know they went to Iraq to defend freedom (regardless of your feelings about the value of the war in Iraq, I think it can be acknowledged that this is the underlying root reason the soldiers are supposed to be here), and lost their life while over there to do that.
And again, I know that I'm not worthy of that sacrifice, and maybe none of us are. But maybe just by acknowledging that lack of worth, we take the first step toward being worthy of it.
Ya'll take care; I'm getting teary-eyed again. But for the record, I still don't like war very much.
I'd like to start with an event from 18 years ago. I was 14 at the time (must have been 1987 or so), and had somehow convinced my parents that a 14 year old should be able to go on a Spring Break 4-H trip to Washington DC, by bus. It was a fantastic week; I took lots of pictures, got my first romantic kiss, saw Cats (the musical), and visited lots of interesting places. One that stands out in my mind to this day was Arlington National Cemetery.
When I say it stands out in my mind, I don't want to give you the wrong impression. My actual memories of the cemetery itself are hazy and incomplete. I can remember rows of white stones, the eternal flame, and all those things, but they're not crystal-clear. What I do recall was the effect that all this had on me, when combined with viewing the Changing of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers.
Perhaps I was too young for all this; at fourteen I was immature, even for fourteen. Suddenly it all just swept home for me; all the dead around us, the ceremony about to take place, the huge vast emptiness left behind by all those lying here dead. I started to cry. Fairly quietly, I think, but steadily, with those shudders that accompany such strong emotion.
One of the trip's "camp counselors" took me aside. All I could stammer out was "They're all dead for us, and I'm not worthy of it at all!" (This was long before the Wayne's World movies, so my repititions of "I'm not worthy" cannot be blamed on Wayne and Garth.) That was the underlying feeling -- What had I done to deserve the deaths of all these people, so that I could enjoy the gift of freedom.
The counselor person was good at what she did. I don't remember her exact words, but I still remember the underlying meaning. None of us are worthy of such a sacrifice, but by appreciating and hanging on to our freedoms, we thereby provide the sacrifice with meaning.
(You're now past the crying part. Although I got a little teary in the upcoming parts of the story, I never actually break into weeping.)
Fast forward to 2 July, 2005. There I was, sitting in a C-130, about to leave Iraq and head back to Kuwait as the second leg of a long journey home. Little did I know I was about to share my ride home with a hero.
The loadmasters are about to bring onboard our luggage pallet, and fasten it into place. First, though, they bring a long metal box, about 7 feet long and 3.5 feet wide. They fasten it down.
Man sitting next to me: "Do you think there's a body in there?"
Me: "Don't be silly. You don't transport deceased people without an escort. It's probably just some equipment or something."
I went to sleep after the plane took off, So I barely had time to think about the box anymore, until the plane landed. After the back hatch was opened, I saw a group of people milling around outside, and wondered idly if something was wrong with the plane. After our luggage pallet was removed, six of these people climbed on board and arranged themselves along the long sides of the metal box. After being called to attention by the leader of this solemn ceremony, they worked together to lift the box, and then began slowly marching off of the C-130 to a waiting truck. As the box was carried off, I saw the word "Head" written on the nearer short side.
Man sitting next to me: "I KNEW it was a body!"
Me: "..."
All unknowing, this part of my trip home was also a part of this fallen hero's final trip home. I don't know who he (or she) was, nor the circumstances surrounding their death. I know they went to Iraq to defend freedom (regardless of your feelings about the value of the war in Iraq, I think it can be acknowledged that this is the underlying root reason the soldiers are supposed to be here), and lost their life while over there to do that.
And again, I know that I'm not worthy of that sacrifice, and maybe none of us are. But maybe just by acknowledging that lack of worth, we take the first step toward being worthy of it.
Ya'll take care; I'm getting teary-eyed again. But for the record, I still don't like war very much.
Posted: Sun - July 3, 2005 at 12:32 PM