A Grateful Nation Gives Her Thanks
Posted by: tony on 10/12/2008 12:07 AM
Updated by: tony on 10/12/2008 12:37 AM
Expires: 11/12/2008 12:00 AM
I buried my dad today.
It was a bittersweet event for me. Bitter, because I don't think I had enough time to get to know this remarkable man sufficiently. Sweet, because he had been under hospice care for the last 18 months of his life, and he fought valiantly. He showed the patience of Job, taking every new condition to develop as his 86 year old body shut down, with grace, prayer and gratitude for another day of life in this vale of tears with his wife.
My dad was a veteran of World War II. He was team leader of a heavy artillery team stationed in the European theater. His discharge papers I read for the first time Tuesday as my mom and we children were making funeral arrangements. He was the recipient of multiple medals and citations.
As I was growing up, my dad was a hard man to get to know. He never discussed the crucible of war that hardened and refined him like gold tested in fire. He was very quiet about himself and would not, under any circumstances discuss the war. Part of it, I'm sure, was to shield us from the horror, but he also shielded us from the duty, honor and sacrifice of war.
The Mass was beautiful. Not a cloud in the sky. The music was lovely. Not an "Eagle's Wing" to be seen. The pastor from my church brought tears to my eyes by having shown up without telling us in advance to con celebrate (my immediate family goes to a different church than my parents, which is where I was baptized).
My dad, with his wife, my mom, showed us by example what a sacramental marriage was. Oh, it wasn't perfect all the time, there were some rough spots usually caused by my dad's Irish temper which he admirably kept in check 99 44/100% of the time. But they were together at home, with an army of wonderful hospice volunteers at their beck and call. My mom took care of all my dad's needs. She cooked his favorite foods, lovingly cleaned him up when he was messy, made sure that he could reach his remote to watch Gomer Pyle, USMC. He enjoyed watching the old, clean comedies. No "Sex in the City", or "Lipstick Jungle" for him. He loved M*A*S*H, partly I'm sure, because it brought to mind his relationship with his buddies during the war who he loved like brothers.
Only recently, within the last 5 years, did he begin to open up regarding his time in the "Big One". He showed us a small scrapbook, filled with black and white pictures of him and his buddies. He pointed them out to us and told a little anecdote regarding each one. His memory never failed, and he never slipped into dementia as so many older people sadly do. He was sharp and lucid to the very end as he drew his last breath and rocketed off to his final judgment. I hope he got a lenient judge, filled with divine mercy toward this soul he lovingly created.
I learned many things watching my dad. I learned how to do plumbing, how to hammer a nail in straight, and other skills around the house which have saved me tens maybe hundreds of thousands of dollars over the years. But the most important silent lesson I learned from his example was:
Deal with it.
Don't complain, bitch or cry. Take what life deals you, roll up your sleeves and deal with it. If your hot water heater breaks, fix or replace it. If your plumbing leaks, clean it up and fix it. If your body starts to fail, accept it with the grace that only Jesus bestows on those who ask for it.
My dad was a man of strong, simple faith. He didn't intellectualize like me, he simply knew. He knew our Lord Jesus and his Mom like the friends with which he and my mom surrounded themselves. Even in his sick bed he was a frequent penitent and communicant. His priest visited often, and the sister associated with the church was there a few times a week. She brought her keyboard, and they would sing Irish songs, his favorite being "Lady of Knock". I think the singing helped keep his lungs clear which were riddled with emphysema (which ultimately caused his demise).
At the grave site was a surprise honor guard of veterans. Young and old, from every branch of the service, probably spanning wars from World War II to the present day. He received a 21 gun salute, as the piper played Amazing Grace on his Great Highland bagpipes.
Two young soldiers folded the flag that draped his casket. They carefully folded it, one of the young soldiers got on one knee before my mom, and presented her with the flag while saying: "Condolences for your loss, a grateful nation gives her thanks for his service..."
A grateful nation gives her thanks.
This is why they were called the greatest generation. They bequeathed their legacy to a country rife with spoiled brats who take every blessing this nation has to offer as some sort of entitled birthright. They do not understand that the liberties that they take for granted were secured with the blood of men and women like my dad. Men and women who went to war, fought, were sometimes injured and sometimes died.
They dealt with it.
They identified evil when they saw it, and they dealt with it.
To those who have made it this far in this somewhat rambling missive, I offer my thanks. I ask only one thing of you.
When you enter the voting booth in November, think of my dad.
The fate of the country that he loved rests in your hands.
