Veteran’s Day

I didn’t have a father growing up. Like the sad story told over and over, mine left before I was born and (except for one quick meeting before I got married) I’ve never seen the man. But that’s not to say I was without a father figure.

            I was born into a big family, the fifth of six. I had two older brothers and two older sisters, all of whom were out of the house by the time I was old enough to remember. To me, they were more like very close aunts and uncles. My younger brother and I would visit them on weekends and see them all on holidays. We’d get birthday phone calls, and they’d take turns renting us movies or video games whenever we’d beg long enough. And each one taught me something different about life. Chris Rock once said, “If you got enough uncles, they’ll prepare you for life,” and that’s about how it was with my older siblings. They all have a special place in my heart and my memories, especially the second eldest. We’ll call him Jim.

            Jim was a military man, even as a kid. He always wanted to be an enlisted man, playing soldier as a child and warning mom that he was off right after school. She tells me she always smiled, but part of herself didn’t believe him or at least hoped otherwise. True to his word, Jim graduated on a Saturday, had an open house on Sunday, and was on the bus Monday morning. I remember mom standing in the quiet pre-dawn dark by herself, watching her boy disappear into the distance.

            I still recall looking at pictures of him while he was away. I didn’t have the words at five years old, but now I recognize strength, pride, diligence, selflessness. Those qualities seemed to characterize Jim for me and when he came home he was still all those things, but there was something else. I didn’t realize it then but Jim had a problem and it ate him from the inside out.

            I knew I needed my big brother and I knew if ever it became dire, all I had to do was call and he would come immediately; he was like that. And every bit as much as I needed him, he needed cocaine.

            I know it now, having my own brush with something ugly. Addiction whispers to you, sweet, sweet, beautiful lies in your own voice. It whispered to Jim, and when I thought I didn’t need him, he would show up and leave, taking pieces of me with him; usually in the form of money and faith. I never yelled at him. I didn’t know how.

            After a time, Jim ended up in jail for a bit, usually because he was driving on a suspended license. (He was always at work: diligent, remember?)  He would get arrested, and I would feel guilty enough to bail him out, skipping semesters of college to make his bail. Eventually, I’d had enough. I refused to succumb to the loyalty I felt, and the guilt mom put on me. Jim never said, but I think he realized he was alone that week he was locked up.

            A few months later, Jim had reenlisted and was heading in for training. He was running every day and beating his body back into form enough to pass his tests. He succeeded, and he left. I drove mom to the bus, where he boarded and disappeared into the horizon. I let her stand in the dark and quiet for a moment. It was good for both of us. It was good to prepare for the ride home.

            Jim was gone for two years. I wrote him letters, and he responded as he was able, but he never missed a birthday phone call. He told me he loved me and missed me and was proud of the man I was becoming. In my late twenties by then, I responded in kind and tried my damnedest not to remember the things that happened just before he left. Then he came home.

            In Afghanistan, on a Wednesday afternoon, Jim’s transport was struck by an improvised explosive device while driving on an unmarked dirt road. He was beaten up but still alive. He was even strong enough to rescue the survivors of the attack. He still gets called “Sarge” a few times a year by the four people who owe him their lives. He was lucky but far from unscathed,. Part of his brain was damaged, as was his back, neck, and most of the joints in his extremities. Today, he survives day to day on pain medicine and visits the VA doctors at least once a month, but he’s here.

            One day after he was home and I was married, and things were calm—after church on a Sunday while we were helping clean the building—Jim pulled me aside and apologized to me. He told me he remembers stealing from me and lying to me and making me feel bad. He told me he was embarrassed by it and it made him feel unworthy. He hugged me, told me he was sorry and said he was still proud of me, even if I wasn’t proud of him.

            I didn’t expect it. I think part of me had already forgiven him, or maybe I had written him off, but it wasn’t important. I told him I loved him, that forgave him, and I was proud of him, no matter what. He smiled and for the first time in my life, my big brother, stoic and proud, let one tear down his cheek before clearing his throat and wiping his face.

            My brother left broken and came back a different kind of broken, but he came home, which is more than many can say. He’ll never be the old Jim I remember, but I don’t know if that’s bad. Maybe this is what Jesus meant when he told the story of the Prodigal son. Perhaps leaving and being beaten up by life makes you stronger. Or perhaps it just makes you broken in a different way. I don’t know, but I’m happy with what I have.

To my brother and all the veterans who’ve served, Loud Christian thanks you for your service.