Life Scapes I
There are two postings to this. Life Scapes I. And Life Scapes II. I don't know which one will pop up first, so just to let you know: there are 2.
I got to church earlier than usual on Sunday. I sat there in peace and quiet contentment.
Soon I heard a family coming down the aisle beside me. They scooted into the pew in front of me.
I looked up from my solitude.
It was a white-haired woman. Her husband, with matching white hair, had taken his seat beside her. They had two grown-up sons with them. One son had on blue jeans. The other had on dress blues.
Their Marine son was decked out for this Memorial Day church service in his dress blues, white hat, white gloves and all. It was moving just to see him.
He had just gotten home from the war-zone. He looked to be all of (maybe) 25 years old.
I choked up just thinking about what it must be like to be him, or his sibling, or his parent. I couldn't begin to imagine the things he has seen. I didn't want to.
As the service was about to begin, a little boy scurried nervously towards the Marine. The boy, loooking sheepish, hesitated and almost turned back around. The Marine stuck out his hand and welcomed the boy to him. That gesture gave the boy the courage to come over and shake the hand of the Marine. The little boy’s blue eyes shone in admiration. I didn't hear the Marine's words, but I didn't need to. I could see the boy's face in response.
I choked up some more. This was some Sunday service so far.
Soon the singing began. The hymn was well chosen.
“Gloria, Gloria Hallelujah. Gloria, Gloria Hallelujah. Gloria, Gloria Hallelujah, His truth is marching on….”
Oh my goodness. You know I’m more than choked up at that point, right?
I dug through my pocketbook for a tissue. No such luck. I used my shirt sleeve instead.
Life is precious. Life is fragile. Life is a gift.
And war is not.
So many soldiers don’t make it back home to sit next to their parents at church, to shake the hands of little boys who are nervous.
I’ve still got my old patch from the ‘70s. It says, “Make Love, Not War.” Back then, in the ‘70s, when I was a kid, I thought that it was risqué of me to possess a patch with those words on it. Not the "war" words, but the "love" words. I knew nothing of making either.
I had another patch, sewn onto a pair of blue jeans long gone, it said “War is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things.”
Not much has changed since I wore those patches...and yet everything has.
Before I left church, my weepy self thanked the Marine for protecting us and our country and our freedoms. I looked into his mother's eyes and thanked her for her sacrifices too. The sleepless nights. The worry.
So that was Sunday.
Until next time, Friends, savor the flavor of life!
Lots of love, The City Farmgirl, Rebekah