An Unexpected Tribute

Writing books involves research. . . like, a ton of it.  Without research, nobody would bother reading what the author produces.  Every detail about what is written on the pages we turn (at some point) has been soaked in by the sponge of a mind the author carries around with them, then later on released on the keyboard they type on.  Think about it.  When we read, the details of the story paint a picture inside us.  Our mind’s eye can see what is being described.  Facts, figures, little snippets of information, they all aid in creating a scene believable enough to the mind of the reader that they can engross themselves in it and be carried along with the book he or she is holding.

This week was one of those sponge moments for me.

Honestly, I love the research part of writing.  In many ways, it is the part I enjoy the most.  Being able to meet new people, share their experiences, embrace their joys and struggles, and see new things. . . it excites the childlike soul inside me.  I love to connect with people.  I love to listen, ask questions, and understand.

Right now, I’m heavy in the research phase for another novel.  

To gain some more insight on what I’m trying to write, my wife and I headed off to Fort Hood, Texas this week.  Located in the heart of Texas, this army base is a very special place to me.  In an attempt to sponge as much information as possible, I met up with some incredible people and spent time with them over two days.  I’ll leave out their names for privacy reasons, but they know who they are, and I cannot thank you enough.  Meeting you has given me something I could not have learned any other way.  I’m full of gratitude for what you have blessed me with.

Of all the sights and sounds of Fort Hood, one special experience gripped me the deepest.  Without hesitation, the most moving moment of my experience at Fort Hood was the moment I stood at the soldier’s memorial for those who served and died in Operation Iraqi Freedom.  I never expected it to hit me like it did.

To be honest, it was more than unexpected.  It caught me totally off guard.  It took so much effort to try to get there and find it that I wasn’t even sure I had the right place.  We had been searching for quite some time, and after parking the car, we walked up carefully with eager hope.  I wanted to see this memorial badly.  It was a must see for me.  Cautiously approaching it, when I finally saw the engraved name of Operation Iraqi Freedom, a candle flickered inside.  Our efforts were not spent in vain.

I looked things over.  There was a statue in the center.  Surrounding it were perfectly cut and set stones.  Black, smooth, created with expert craftmanship, the memorial itself was a thing of beauty.  Somehow a master artist had engraved color into the black stone.  It was very, very impressive.  My eyes searched over the skill and beauty looking past it.  I was frantically looking to find out if I had really made it to where I needed to be.

And then I saw a name I recognized.  And I saw the date.  

Unexpectedly, time stopped, and my hand reached out.  Fingers extended.  Yes, the stone was smooth, polished to perfection, and almost cool to the touch.  But when I reached out and touched that first name with my own skin, something transferred through my fingertips.  The permanence of it all, names etched in rock forever, there was something that moved from the solemn reverence of the moment into my own beating heart.  I felt his name.  It wasn’t just a name anymore.  To some degree, I could feel it.  My own heart met those that I have read about and researched.  A massive and reverent chill seemed to dump on me from the sky.  I could not believe that I was now standing in this shrine of honored respect.

There was more to do.  I had to find more names.  Beyond their names, I wanted to find and connect with the heart of these real people.  I needed to meet them.  I needed to feel them.  I needed to connect with them in this special and intimate way.

It took a while.  There are many names.  When the memorial was first dedicated there were 168 names engraved.  As the operation of the war carried out, more have been added.  There are now over 600.  600 incredible people.  Real people.  People who have lived and died for a cause.  People who have served for you and me.

Some of these soldiers are well known.  Some are held in a special place only to those they served with and family members who have survived them.  Brave.  Strong.  Courageous.  None are forgotten.  They gave the ultimate sacrifice.  How could I truly take everything in?  How could I process a moment like this?

I had heard about what others do in this situation.  I’ve seen pictures of the Vietnam Memorial in Washington D.C.  Some make rubbings with a crayon to take home.  Some take photos.  Some bring flowers.  I suppose every experience is different.  There, then, in the segment of time I was blessed with, the reverence of the moment washed me over like an ocean wave, and when it receded, the trickle of bubbles, seafoam, and an intimate appreciation for what these soldiers did was all that remained.  All I could do was stand there.  A tear crept out of my eye.  I stood in awe.

Although the emotion I felt is nothing compared to those immediate family and friends of these soldiers, an unexpected bond formed inside me.  I wasn’t researching facts and figures anymore.  I wasn’t on a wild goose chase to track down only information.  In that moment, none of that really mattered.  It was like the epicenter of an emotional connection had exploded, and now, my eyes were open to see what I was researching in a new and truer light.  Over 600 real people were represented.  Over 600 shattered families.  Over 600 broken homes.  Over 600 lives cut shorter than expected.  600 soldiers never came home to tell their story.

And I had touched those names.

And by doing so, it breathed life into me.  Something I needed.  Something that, without experiencing this, would be a disservice to those who fought and died for freedom.

Words cannot express how appreciative I am.

Now I am home.  I went out on my back porch to read my Bible this morning.  I still sat in the awe of the Fort Hood moment I had experienced and brought home with me.  I tried to process it all.  Kind of mushy.  Kind of awestruck.  I really didn’t feel like reading.  But I did it anyway.  

My bible sat with me.  Unique, one of a kind, it is wrapped in a hand-made Bible cover out of desert camo army clothing from when I took one priceless to me off to base.  

Fitting, this desert camouflaged Bible sat before me.  When the pages divided and my bookmark opened where I had left off, I still can’t believe how fitting it is to the mood and feel I rest in.

I read this morning in my devotion about King David’s mighty men in 2 Samuel 23.  In this short chapter, it recaps those who fought brave and courageous for the king, for the country, and for their God.  I couldn’t believe how absolutely fitting this portion of scripture was, nor that God had orchestrated my page turning so as to read it now.  He sure is good, huh?

2 Samuel 23 is a treasured collection of war stories.  Names like Adino the Eznite, Shammah the son of Agee the Hararite, Abishai the brother of Joab. . . these men (I’ve read this before but didn’t quite see things this way) were exactly the same as the soldier’s names I had just touched at Fort Hood.  They fought just like the men I had seen on this wall.  They answered the call and did their duty.  They fought for the sake of others back home.  As I read this chapter, I soaked in real war stories, noble moments of exceptional valor, such as this particular portion:

"Eleazar the son of Dodo the Ahohite, one of the three mighty men with David, when they defied the Philistines that were there gathered together to battle, and the men of Israel were gone away: He arose, and smote the Philistines until his hand was weary, and his hand clave unto the sword: and the Lord wrought a great victory that day; and the people returned after him only to spoil."

Courageous, one fighting until he couldn’t let go of the sword anymore, his name forever noted in scripture.

Just like these soldiers at the Operation Iraqi Freedom Memorial.

I know it’s not Memorial Day, Veteran’s Day, or any of the days that we set aside to recognize what our soldiers have done for us.  But my heart is swelling today as I muse over my own experience, one never to be forgotten.  Thank you, those who have served.  Thank you, those who have fought for freedom.  This Fort Hood memorial is one small portion, one of many, and the names of many more are written all across this country full of freedom.  My heart reaches out to those names engraved on stone, on walls, on memorials everywhere, those who sacrificed so that I could remain free enough to type this.  You, inspire me, and just like Eleazar the son of Dodo the Ahohite, I hope to fight the good fight of faith until my hand can’t let go of the sword any longer.  Though I’m not a veteran, you have inspired me to take up the calling in a spiritual way.

Thank you.

God bless.