SK

The snap of the tent seemed to echo louder in the lit-skin dark behind my eyes. It was met and matched with the opening, aching strains of Taps. 

It rose- the notes becoming the world all around - until there was only the wind, the bugle and grief.

Sorrow for a man who grew up on a farm with many siblings, became a man, served in the Korean War, came back and fell in love with a woman. Who married her, raised five strong sons and two beautiful daughters. Children who grew up straight and tall, a little rough, but a good sort. A man who did the right things, the hard things, because they were his to do. Who worked, and then worked some more. He applied his brilliance to his projects, his passions and his people. A man who unswervingly loved his wife with excellence and allowed her to shine. He provided the backbone and the muscle for those he loved to confidently explore and embrace who they were. 

And I wonder that I barely knew him. I knew him mostly as the quiet constant, the solid unchanging. He was the one who was always there, coffee cup in hand, making sure everyone and everything was ok. He waited for hours on back country roads somewhere in Kansas, with the windows rolled down in a truck who's birth predated air conditioning, and read the paper while he waited for his wife and nearly a dozen small ones to come trailing by like so many ducklings after their mother. He'd water and feed and air tires and bandage scrapes. Or more often than not, just be ready to in case he was needed. He was the one who'd smile a little and ask about school, having chosen to study fatherhood over a degree, and nod and encourage you to continue. He'd wink and pull out the penny jar so we could play our first clumsy attempts at poker, our hands just big enough to hold the cards.

Who even in his twilight years recognized that he and his resources were needed and opened his home to his aging aunt. Who shared his home, his strength and his fixed income with her for seven years, spreading his and Grandma's reserve for themselves thin.

He was the one who after a lifetime of working and supporting still had enough left to give to a whole collection of grandchildren; barely a year apart each. Who still had enough left to give to me.

He has my admiration for the man I knew by his actions, if not his words, and the man I always suspected him to be. And I grieved and grieve his passing.

The honor guard pushed the last fold into the crease and- ritual completed- turned on his heel and marched smartly to the front. He knelt by the woman who sat straight as her back would let her, pride and grief in equal measure on her face. 

"This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."

"Thank you."

And I wonder that I barely knew him.

73 W0EKZ SK. 

Oh how we will miss you, Poppa.

Creeds and perspective

There is no escaping the indelible time stamp of 80s pop music.

It can be remixed, redone and rerecorded, but underneath all of that there's still that inherent earworm quality. During that seemingly inescapable decade, a particular genre of music sang about being warriors. With lines like, "Satan, bite the dust," and "The warrior is a child," there was a collective and culture theme of struggle and self-identification with ongoing battle. It was real, it was raw- albeit coated with newly discovered sound effects, post production and synthesizers - and we loved it.

Flashforward almost 20 years.

There was only half an hour left. The story had built - tension and intrigue layering - until this moment, and only 30 minutes were left for everything to right itself. Sitting there, safely sheltered from the persistent rain, a niggling whisper started to make itself known.

There's no way this can be made right.

No way for him to be reunited with his wife. His baby. His men.

This is not going to end happily.

And, as it has so many, many times, honor and valor won their tragic victory over self-preservation, and he did what needed to be done. There was no other choice, explained the narrarator. Nothing else for it. It was the mission first, his men (and wife) second, and himself last.

And so she honored his memory, his sacrifice, and buried him. What remained of his men were in attendence; his lieutenant weeping, wishing it had been him. And the mission continued, continues.

As does ours.

"So God led the people around by the desert road toward the Red Sea. The Israelites went up out of Egypt armed for battle." 

Desert roads, flawed people, and a world coagulating in sin mix to an unpleasant jambalaya, but our objective remains the same. We march - or crawl - onward in weak obedience, regardless. Like Marines who define themselves by their willingness to embrace the tasks that would make others flinch, it's ours to "Embrace the Suck."

The difficulties we face are far from a pop culture ideology; our roles are not synthesizer-toned pleasantness. Rather, we face difficulty because it is our job description.

"In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."

The grave is empty, and the battle decided.

The only easy day was yesterday. So further up, and further in.