Sunday Morning Serenity

We have a tendency to talk about war in the big picture—battles won or lost, territory taken or surrendered, objectives achieved, zones stabilized.

But what could be more personal than sending our mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, friends and neighbors away from home and into a place where they will be asked to risk their lives?

My sister-friend Nancy recently took me to Veterans Memorial Park in Mountain Brook, where we saw a monument inscribed with names of all the Alabama veterans who lost their lives in wartime. Among the names of the fallen in Viet Nam, I found my cousin, Melvin W. Gunter, a career soldier. The family called him by his middle name, Wister. I was just a child when he was killed, but I have hazy memories of going with my mother to visit his family and offer condolences.

Back then, we all watched the war in Viet Nam on our black-and-white TV’s every night. All the networks had reporters imbedded with the troops, and we saw casualties being carried off the battlefield as correspondents explained what was happening.

Wister’s mother was watching one of those reports when she saw a fallen soldier on a stretcher and recognized her son. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that he was gone.

Several years ago, another dear friend, Holly, told me an amazing story about her dad and wondered if I’d like to write a book about it. I did, and as a way of helping me understand and develop my characters, Holly sent me a batch of letters that her dad wrote to his bride while he was serving as a fighter pilot in Korea. They’re filled with his longing for home and for the kind of simple things we all take for granted, like listening to records with his wife on a rainy afternoon.

Fortunately, Holly’s dad made it back, after flying 101 missions. But he knew others who didn’t. All those who come home from war know those who didn’t. And there’s nothing “big picture” about their sacrifice. It’s entirely personal.

Prayers, this Sunday morning, for all of our military families.