A Veteran's Lament

“Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest, says the Lord.”

The morning mail brought a prayer card for those carrying their cross today. Mass would be said for all whose names I requested. I quickly filled the spaces with names too numerous for the sheet of paper provided. From memory of my youth came the following, quickly written, as if someone else was guiding the pen.

The distant hours, the faraway times, the eras of war, of misery, of death, all come rushing to the surface when seeing one “of those” for whom time and space have never left the distant hours, the faraway times. He comes without legs, only a remnant of the boy he once was, his mind cloudy as the fog over the mountainside where he was wounded.

“Wounded not dead,” he cries; “I may be missing parts but I am more than the sum of what is left of me.”

I look, my eyes squinted against the glare of the mirage of the one I once knew, once loved; I saw him slipping between my loose fingers toward a land I could not travel. How difficult to witness- layers of potential, possibilities, personality, disintegrate one by one. There are certain people who exude vulnerability, whose pain and discomfort are particularly difficult to witness, and for whom one would endure almost any inconvenience if it promised to ease their suffering. He was one of them.

He moves on, in the midst of a crowd, alone not only in body, but spirit too. For he cannot be part of a crowd because of the things he has seen, has done, has become. The past and present intertwine, woven against a background of noise, color, sameness- a kaleidoscope of dreams won and lost, of chaos and emptiness, of energy and industry.

“Survive,” he reminds himself, gathering his thoughts carefully like a person collecting spring dandelions. “Survive is how my life will be. I will just put one foot in front of the other- oh right, I have no legs. Let’s see, maybe I will crawl on my belly, maybe someone will give me a hand.”

“Where are you Lord?” he solemnly asks; that cry of deep longing.

One seems alone, but along the bank of the shore he must row, seen and felt in the darkness of night is Another. Deep in the interior of each heart, by the soul, silent as light, He lies. Powerful, pumping forth grace into the heart and soul, steady and true, searching for man’s essence, not his limbs; there He is. Another it is, who has also been wounded, blood rushing from his side, fallen to earth, red and dark, seeping into the soil of man, waiting for release into the world of all men and women.

He too cried out in sorrow- seemingly abandoned by all who followed, who loved Him.

He is that One who knows all the past and present, yet loves without condition; One who forgives, who says, “Forgive yourself, for I am with you. I give you too courage and hope- hope in something- something greater than the grandeur of this present world. Hold on to Me and together we will go forth into the future, enduring in affliction, where the past becomes only distant, where the rainbow in the sky becomes the focus of your eyes and heart; where together we can reach the destination and live in peace and love.” This then is every man’s hope in the hour of sorrow.