Veterans' Day Thoughts
On this Veterans' Day, my thoughts have turned to my father and one of his stories that fits somewhat with last week's post.
My father was always an extremely patriotic man, very interested in history and current events. Even at the end of his life, he would tear up just at the pledge to the flag.
As the world watched the insidious evil of the Nazis spreading through Germany and marching across Europe, Dad was anxious to get out and fight. He was only in high school, yet my grandmother often said he seemed to know just what would eventually happen as he read newspapers and listened to the radio.
In preparation for the war, Dad doubled up on his junior and senior years of high school and enlisted right away. He tried the Air Force first and then the Navy, but neither would have him because he was color blind. He said he considered going to England to enlist because they were looking for color blind pilots under the assumption that they could see better at night. But he wanted to fight for his own country and so joined the Army.
My parents had started dating at the age of 15 and letters flew back and forth once he was in the army. Dad stayed stateside until he was 18 and could be shipped overseas, where his book of the Psalms and New Testament stayed with him at all times.
I remember Dad sharing how much Psalm 23 meant to him, how he would recite it to himself when he laid down to sleep at night and when he was in the midst of battle. War meant he walked through the "valley of the shadow of death," but he took refuge in his relationship with God, in the fact that His rod and staff brought him comfort.
Dad was wounded twice during the course of his service. Once in the shoulder, a wound which healed quickly (the bullet went in one side and had to be removed from the other side). The second wound was severe, this time to his leg.
When Dad was hit that second time, he lay on the field amongst other bodies, most of them dead, the fire of artillery all around him. He was convinced he was going to die because certainly the medics would never be able to rescue him in the midst of flying bullets and shrapnel.
So as he lay there, he prayed. As I recall his story, he first cried out to God the way most of us do when in a situation we don't like, "Why, God?" He told how his thoughts drifted to my mother, how they looked forward to getting married when he returned from war, how he had such a wonderful future to look forward to. Then he thought of how much he loved God, how often he had shared God's love with other soldiers, of how why he was worthy of God's rescue—exemption theology.
I don't know how long much time elapsed as his prayers went through their transition to acceptance, to acknowledging that God is in charge. Then he began thinking about what death would mean, how he would be ushered into the presence of God, how he would see Jesus Christ who had paid the penalty for his sins and prepared the way for all eternity. He focused on His God, His Savior, waiting to die.
Obviously that moment never came. At great risk to their own lives, the medics came; they transferred my father to a stretcher and carried him off the field. He ended up in a hospital in England for some time. Oh, the stories he told of wheelchair races in the hospital hallways and other escapades of young soldiers recovering from wounds and rejoicing in life!
My parents were married in September of 1945, Dad still on crutches. They had a wonderful, rich life together, raising four children and one foster daughter. Dad's love for God never waned. Both Mom and Dad were very active in their church. Dad also served on boards of other Christian organizations. I count it a special blessing to have had such special parents.
My father was always an extremely patriotic man, very interested in history and current events. Even at the end of his life, he would tear up just at the pledge to the flag.
As the world watched the insidious evil of the Nazis spreading through Germany and marching across Europe, Dad was anxious to get out and fight. He was only in high school, yet my grandmother often said he seemed to know just what would eventually happen as he read newspapers and listened to the radio.
In preparation for the war, Dad doubled up on his junior and senior years of high school and enlisted right away. He tried the Air Force first and then the Navy, but neither would have him because he was color blind. He said he considered going to England to enlist because they were looking for color blind pilots under the assumption that they could see better at night. But he wanted to fight for his own country and so joined the Army.
My parents had started dating at the age of 15 and letters flew back and forth once he was in the army. Dad stayed stateside until he was 18 and could be shipped overseas, where his book of the Psalms and New Testament stayed with him at all times.
I remember Dad sharing how much Psalm 23 meant to him, how he would recite it to himself when he laid down to sleep at night and when he was in the midst of battle. War meant he walked through the "valley of the shadow of death," but he took refuge in his relationship with God, in the fact that His rod and staff brought him comfort.
Dad was wounded twice during the course of his service. Once in the shoulder, a wound which healed quickly (the bullet went in one side and had to be removed from the other side). The second wound was severe, this time to his leg.
When Dad was hit that second time, he lay on the field amongst other bodies, most of them dead, the fire of artillery all around him. He was convinced he was going to die because certainly the medics would never be able to rescue him in the midst of flying bullets and shrapnel.
So as he lay there, he prayed. As I recall his story, he first cried out to God the way most of us do when in a situation we don't like, "Why, God?" He told how his thoughts drifted to my mother, how they looked forward to getting married when he returned from war, how he had such a wonderful future to look forward to. Then he thought of how much he loved God, how often he had shared God's love with other soldiers, of how why he was worthy of God's rescue—exemption theology.
I don't know how long much time elapsed as his prayers went through their transition to acceptance, to acknowledging that God is in charge. Then he began thinking about what death would mean, how he would be ushered into the presence of God, how he would see Jesus Christ who had paid the penalty for his sins and prepared the way for all eternity. He focused on His God, His Savior, waiting to die.
Obviously that moment never came. At great risk to their own lives, the medics came; they transferred my father to a stretcher and carried him off the field. He ended up in a hospital in England for some time. Oh, the stories he told of wheelchair races in the hospital hallways and other escapades of young soldiers recovering from wounds and rejoicing in life!
My parents were married in September of 1945, Dad still on crutches. They had a wonderful, rich life together, raising four children and one foster daughter. Dad's love for God never waned. Both Mom and Dad were very active in their church. Dad also served on boards of other Christian organizations. I count it a special blessing to have had such special parents.
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