Letters from War (22 page)
Authors: Mark Schultz
July 19, 2009
Dear Mom:
The world is mean, Mom. It's mean and it's empty. Sometimes it's the paths I find myself walking on. Sometimes it's the stories I hear the men sharing. Sometimes it's the things I find myself having to do. War isn't just in this country. It's in our hearts, too.
I remember once asking Dad why God allowed him to get cancer. And if God was going to allow him to die. And he said that this world was broken, all of it and all of us. And that God wasn't going to fix it right away. That was why people got sick. Or why people waged war. Sin and suffering went hand in hand, and it was because the whole thing got broken right after it was created.
For years I've carried that around, wondering what he meant.
I've seen so many happy things, so many good things.
Amazing and awesome sights to behold. But I've also learned that Dad was right. This place is broken.
So am I.
It's amazing what we can do to each other. What we as humans have done and will do. I know these aren't the words you're probably wanting to hear today, Mom. I'm sorry. I know I should be talking about the troops and how we're fixing things. But I can't. I just find it hard to believe that God doesn't just get sick of us all and wipe us out.
“He's going to fix us one day,” Dad said. “And the broken pieces are going to be put back together.”
There won't be any more of this. This fighting. This danger. This destruction.
I dream of that day.
I know we're the ones who messed this thing up. It's not God's fault. It's by His grace that we're able to live at all.
I thought I'd be stronger, to tell the truth. The biggest thing broken is me. I pray daily for God to mend me as much as possible so I can help others who are hurting and in need.
Sometimes I can't wait to get home, but home scares me. I know it's going to let me down in some ways because even it is broken. I've met guys who have gone back only to wantâto needâto come back out here. The thought of thatâespecially after coming home to our little baby girl
or boyâis crazy. But I also know that I have to temper my expectations. It's going to take time to adjust back to that life.
There's this line from the movie The Thin Red Line that I have written in my journal: “The tough part is not knowing if you're doing any good. That's the hard part.”
I think about that all the time, wonder if I'm doing any good whatsoever. I don't know.
Meaning is something I'm still searching for, to be honest. But it'll come. I gotta believe it will come.
I love you.
James
Gerald Stewart Murphy was a soldier.
He was born just another boy on January 21, 1927, but he died on September 24, 2011, a decorated marine.
When they wrote his bio, they didn't share what he thought of the Korean War. They didn't describe his struggles over going there in the first place or the tragedies that befell him when he came back.
They simply said that he served his country.
There was no color commentary, no battle story, no explanation of the war itself or its place in history.
Gerald Stewart Murphy, Beth's friend from the Mountain Home VAMC, is remembered as a veteran and a hero and a man with an unyielding spirit and an unpredictable tongue. Yet those fellow soldiers who served alongside him said he provided one of the most blessed things he could while serving in a foreign country.
Humor.
So many years later, Murphy hadn't changed much except for growing older and more cynical.
Beth sits in church with Emily at her side. They listen to the stories of two men who served with Murphy, along with a young woman who talks about her grandfather.
But the thing that moves Beth the most is when Murphy's daughter reads a letter he wrote from Korea.
Of course when she simply hears the word “letter,” she perks up and listens extra close.
It's as if God is speaking in His own unique way.
“My father wrote this letter in April 1952 shortly before getting wounded and coming home,” the middle-aged woman says. “It was sent to my mom and it was something she passed along to me. Dad never knew I had it. My mom didn't want to bring up the war. But I share this to give a little insight into the man my father wasâhow loving, and how damaged by war.”
Dear Ruth:
Something in me tells me that I'm not going to be here much longer. I don't mean to be so pessimistic at the start of this letter, but I know you. I know you'd sniff it out even if I didn't state it right away. You know me, even 6,500 miles away while I'm writing in a place that rhymes with Bang Dang Dong.
I miss you something fierce. I miss your nagging. Because at least I get to sleep with that nagging voice and get a chance to hear you stop nagging. Sometimes silence is my worst enemy, because silence means I'm alone.
This is a place of nightmares. It's the wandering around that just goes on and on. It's the insensitivity. You lose a little of caring bit by bit as you navigate through hell. I think that's what hell is like if it existsâa place where all sensitivity has been jettisoned and you're left with savages.
I carry that picture you sent. You and Gloria are so beautiful. I carry it close and don't show a soul because I want to keep you all for myself.
I imagine all those who get to see your sweet face on a daily basis. It makes me jealous. I think of Gloria and how she's growing and what I'm missing.
I try not to question why I'm here. That gets you nowhere. I just try to remind myself that I'm still human and that I still have a soul and that maybe I'm helping out. I'm doing the right thing. I was asked to come and I'm over here.
Fighting? Not really. Sometimes. More like wandering and searching and being shot at in distant cities but not really fighting.
I don't think these people have any idea about the kind of freedom that picture of yours brings to mind. You and Gloria on the swing on the back porch. I can smell something wonderful in the kitchen and hear the birds. Those sorts of things don't exist over here. These people are ghosts, their joys depleted. It's all wrong. This fight, the deaths, the long nights. The crazy sense of nothing over here.
I think of you two and I remain thankful for living in a good country. We're helping out, right? That's what I'm told. That's what soldiers do.
I want to make it home and feel you in my arms and feel my daughter in my arms. I want to sit on the swing with the two of you. I want to hear the sounds of dogs barking in the background without explosions following. I want to see the sunset and then listen to my records and then fall asleep with you.
You don't know how good you can have it until you see the underbelly.
The sun rises and sets on you two.
If there's a way, I'll be coming home back to both of you.
I love you.
Murphy
This could be any husband talking to any wife.
Any soldier talking to his family.
Any daughter reading any letter written by her father.
The words are familiar and haunting and break Beth's heart.
She also realizes that these words were written by a man almost sixty years ago.
The only difference is that Murphy never held on to the hope Beth holds.
Murphy said if there was a way, he was coming back home to both of them. And Murphy, God rest his soul, did come home.
Let it be the same for James, Lord. Please let it be the same.
At first, she is unsure.
It's not that Beth hasn't ridden a horse in her life. Of course she has. But it's been so long. And her body, forty-four on the outside, isn't quite keeping up with the twenty something spirit that she feels on the insideâtoday.
The Palomino walking horse strides with confidence and utter calm. Beth loves the feel of this big creature underneath her, the steady stride of its legs, the light
cream mane and tail. Beth loves the way Misty moves without a care in the world.
The day is cooler, the sky dabbed with white, the glow of autumn all around. Beth follows Josie at a leisurely pace, forgetting what time of day it is, forgetting what day it is. Forgetting most everything.
Yet she doesn't forget how thankful she is.
This is what heaven must feel like.
Not like some magical fairy tale where she rides a white unicorn. The grip of the leather saddle and the crunch of the horse's hooves on gravel are as real as they should be. But there is no fear. With every step that Misty takes, Beth is slowly letting go.
Heaven is a place without any wars or rumors of wars. There will be no hate and no arguments and no fighting and no end to the eternal peace.
“You doing okay?”
And for the first time in some time, Beth believes she is.
She's already forgotten the trail they've crossed over. She just wants to see what's ahead. With the grace and the assurance of this blessed creature. So calm. So soothing.
I'm not leaving you, James. I will never leave you and you know that. But I have to see what's up ahead. I must see what's around the corner.
“We're going downhill but she's a pro, so don't worry!”
She waves at Josie and then strokes Misty's silky mane.
She's not worried.
Not anymore.
August 10, 2009
Dear Mom:
He will never again sit on a couch and cheer on his favorite football team in glorious high definition.
He won't be able to taste a cold beer after cutting the grass at the end of a hot summer day.
He won't ever hear the sounds of his own children playing in that backyard, swinging on a swing set and sliding down a slide.
He will never sit in church on a cool fall morning, his family and friends surrounding him.
Fred Lewis died in the dust of another land. He fell in a street without a name. He died so that we are able to sit on that couch and drink that beer and hear those children and go to that church.
The luxuries weâIâtake for granted.
It's not just that we take our homes and jobs and friends
for granted, Mom. It's our lives. It's the moon watching over us at night. It's the assurance of the rising sun.
Every day we live here knowing it might be our last. We wait and are watchful and are careful. We all worry, in small or big ways. We all try to cope, too. Maybe these letters are one of the ways I cope. Better that than a bottle or something worse. But we cope because faith can only take you so far.
The shadows follow us every day. Every remote alley and silenced car and wandering stranger is a threat. We don't take them lightly. We don't take anything for granted.
This is what I've been called to do. It's all I know, Mom. I sweat and bleed with these guys and that's all I can see doing. But in moments like this, in the stillness, I long for rest. Not physical sleep but emotional rest. I long to know what it's like to enjoy the peace we provide for others. I not only dream of experiencing the freedoms that Americans have. I dream of swimming in them and eating and drinking them up.
Fred Lewis dreamed of that too. He dreamed of that better place, that better life, that better day.
I think he's found it now.
But I don't want to know. Not like that.
I don't want to close my eyes and see Fred Lewis greet me.
I don't want to see Dad.
Not yet.
I want to serve and to believe that one day, I can let this go.
That I can participate in that dream.
I pray God will let me.
I pray for that one day.
James