Fourth of July: Home of the Brave
By Laurie Beth Jones
Yesterday I was thinking about all the places I have been on the Fourth of July. Perhaps my most memorable was when I was seventeen, recently graduated, taking a trip on the ferry boat past the Statue of Liberty, watching fireworks explode behind her solemn and welcoming gaze. I have sat in the park at Saratoga Springs on a blanket with friends, watching cascading embers fall in the sky after hearing the local symphony play the Star Spangled Banner. I have sat on the tailgate of my PT Cruiser overlooking Rim Road in El Paso, Texas, watching the sky light up over three states and two nations.
Crowds oooh and ahhh and even clap in delight with each seemingly more magnificent display. And then we pack up our blankets and chairs and go home, the next day to begin our normal routines.
Last week however I was reminded that freedom comes with a price. I exited the movie theatre to see a group of guys and gals standing around talking. In their midst was a young man in a wheelchair. He looked to be about 30, and both his legs were missing below the knees. I could only surmise that he was a veteran from Iraq or more likely Afghanistan.
Living in San Diego I see a lot of young men in wheel chairs, or hobbling along on crutches, or even running in the park on titanium feet. San Diego has a strong and proud military presence, as well as a huge hospital for veterans in Balboa Park.
This Memorial Day the pastor decided to stand and simply read the names of soldiers killed that month in Afghanistan. The first name had barely left his lips when I wanted to stand up and scream “STOP! STOP IT! NOT ONE MORE NAME! PLEASE!”
But he didn’t stop. He kept reading. Listing their ages, usually in their 20’s, and their home towns, mostly places I didn’t recognize.
When my uncle died we discovered a small box in his closet full of war medals and commendations he received from serving in World War II. He was in the V corps which liberated France. Among the items discovered were also pictures of what looked like stacked firewood, but upon closer inspection revealed they were human bodies—dead prisoners from the camp in Germany his corps had also gone on to set free. We discovered field notes in his handwriting detailing lists of people who now needed to be returned to their respective countries. Evidently he was in charge of helping repatriate former prisoners.
He never talked about the war. I remember him as always smiling. He left all his remaining assets to us 3 kids, which amounted to more than we ever dreamed he had. He also left instructions for the paramedics on what to do, and who to call when they found him. He put a bullet through his brain, right after calling 911 and giving them his address.
We will never know what sent him over the edge. Was it the memories of everything he had seen during the war finally erupting in despair? Was it the alcohol that had become a problem during those long days and nights in the trenches? Was it the diagnosis of a disease he had gotten in a recent doctor’s report? Was it all just simply too much for him, a veteran, and a beautiful man, who paid the cost of war.
I think about these things when I ride my bicycle down Coronado Ave, counting the hundreds of flags proudly placed among the scenic neighborhoods.
When I see the explosions in the sky this Fourth of July I will think of the young man in the wheel chair, still smiling among his friends, who helped pay the price of freedom. His sacrifice gives immeasurable meaning to the “Home of the Free, and the Brave.”
Amen.
I could tell you about things that are happening, and have happened recently. It could read like bullet points in a quarterly report: business is up 30% from last year…we have added another six countries to our trainer representation list…we got 767 responses from my recent appearance on Trinity Broadcasting Network.