True American Hero

 “Greater love has no one than to lay down one’s life for a friend.” ~ John 15:13

Beneath a brooding November sky earlier this month, a reverent crowd gathered to bid farewell to Sgt. Michael Verardo, a man whose God-given courage became a beacon in the long shadow of war. One of the most catastrophically wounded post-9/11 veterans, his life bore witness to sacrifice, resilience, and God’s sustaining grace.

The 24-year-old paratrooper was first injured 15 years earlier during an IED attack in Afghanistan’s Arghandab Valley. After recovering from his injuries, he returned to combat and was wounded by yet another IED.

The second blast took off his leg, shredded one arm, and left him with burns, a traumatic brain injury, and severe internal damage. For 27 agonizing minutes, medics battled to stop the bleeding. Flatlining multiple times, he clung to life with a tenacity that stunned those around him.

Verardo spent years in recovery at Walter Reed and Brooke Army Medical Centers, enduring a harrowing 15-year recovery journey. He faced over 120 surgeries and underwent extensive speech, visual, physical, and occupational therapy as he worked to recover from his injuries. Michael met the path forward with humility, quiet strength… and his high school sweetheart, Sarah Conklin.

They married in 2013. Three daughters became the joys of their lives. Together, he and Sarah built a home filled with purpose and devotion.

She wrote “Hero at Home,” a tender guide meant to help children grasp the quiet battles faced by military families.

Michael’s identity was shaped not merely by what war took from him, but by the mission he chose next. “I did not lose a leg. I didn’t lose an arm. I gave them,” he said, a truth that shaped his remaining days on earth.

Through the Verardos’ leadership, more than 2,700 all-terrain Track Chairs were delivered to wounded veterans from Iraq, Afghanistan, and Vietnam, restoring not only mobility, but also independence, dignity, and hope that injury had tried to take from them.

Michael succumbed to complications from his injuries on August 26^th. Yet his legacy remains unshakable. It lives in every veteran who regained mobility, in every family who found hope through his story, and in every American who saw in him a reflection of sacrificial love.

Michael always rose to his feet, leaning on his prosthetic leg and the Lord's grace, to salute the American flag. It represented the ideals he had given so much to defend. His headstone now faces the Washington Monument, a fitting tribute to a man who devoted his life to the ideals it represents. Sarah summed it best: “Wearing our nation’s uniform was the honor of Michael’s lifetime. Caring for him was my honor.”

Even in suffering, Michael lifted others. His life stands as a testament to courage, faith, and selfless service. “Well done, good and faithful” soldier.

Heavenly Father, I’m on my knees asking for Your strength during times of despair. Hold my hand and be my hope. Let your will be done in my life. My faith is in You alone. Amen

Top Gun

 “Clothe yourselves with kindness, humility, and tenderness.” ~ Colossians 3:12

He grew up a Kansas farm boy with dreams of becoming a pilot. After graduating from the Naval Academy and completing his training, Charlie Plumb earned his place in the elite fighter school that the world celebrates as “TOP GUN.

Called signed “Plumber,” Charlie soared confidently in the Navy’s hottest new weapon, the F-4 Phantom Jet. He flew 74 successful combat missions over North Vietnam.

On his 75th and final mission, enemy fire turned steel into shrapnel. Plumber punched out, trusting the thin, silk parachute on his back while floating downward… straight into captivity. Six torturous years behind enemy walls, Charlie would emerge with a true story that keeps rescuing people long after the war ended.

Years later, in the calm of a Kansas City diner, a stranger with a curious stare approached his table. He asked if Charlie served during Vietnam. Charlie responded that he’d flown jets. The man then asked if he’d been shot down on his final mission. Charlie nodded.

“You’re Plumber,” he said. “U.S.S. Kitty Hawk. Fighter pilot. Shot down over somewhere Hanoi.”

Disoriented by the sudden time-travel, Charlie smiled. “How could you possibly know that?”

The man grinned and pumped Charlie’s hand. “I packed your parachute… it must’ve worked!”

Later that night, Plumb kept picturing that sailor, once dressed in a crisp uniform, hands meticulously folding silk over cords deep below deck.

A man he might have passed by countless times without a nod. He pictured the man in his Navy uniform: a white hat, a bib in the back, and bell-bottom trousers.

He, the warrior pilot with wings and a swagger. That other man… “merely a sailor.” He pictured himself in a carefully engineered flight suit. The sailor clad in a “Dixie cup” shaped hat, a bib in the back, and bell-bottom trousers. Yet those nimble hands had folded hope and life into a perfect pack that opened on the worst day of Plumber’s life.

We all have them - quiet heroes without medals or applause, but who stand tall because they kneel to help us. The parent who really listens when life’s burdens are too heavy to carry alone.. The stranger who smiles you back into humanity. The neighbor who checks in, the mentor who guides gently, the nurse who speaks comfort into fear. Some pack our physical parachutes, others our emotional, mental, or spiritual ones.

Our lives fly by like supersonic jets. Sometimes we forget the small courtesies, the thanks, the well-deserved compliments, the tiny kindnesses offered with no agenda at all. Yet those are the stitches that keep our parachutes intact.

As you fly through the days ahead, glance around the hangar of your life. Offer gratitude. Celebrate those unseen hands. Your safe landing might be resting quietly in someone else’s careful attention.

Lord Jesus, You shared kindness the world had never known. Even when faced with hostility, Your response was one of unwavering love and calmness. Shape my heart to follow Your example with humility, grace, and compassion. Amen.

Solemn Duty

 “Give everyone what you owe them... if honor, then honor.” ~ Romans 13:7

Nestled amid the Delaware flats, Dover resembles any other air force base, with ordinary buildings and rows of aircraft lining massive runways. But its mission is vastly different.

Located in a remote corner, grieving families gather on the Campus for Families of the Fallen - a sanctuary of sorrow and solace. Here, they can spend up to two days waiting for the remains of deceased loved ones.

In the mediation pavilion, leather couches, overstuffed pillows, and soft lighting create a comfortable, private place to mourn. There, children scrawl messages of love and farewell on a chalkboard wall, a fragile bridge between earth and eternity.

Receiving and preparing the service members’ remains, falls to the military’s Mortuary Operations Unit. Dover’s elite Honor Guard performs private “dignified transfers,” escorting the deceased to waiting vehicles, ensuring honor and respect for our nation's warriors.

Once summoned, Honor Guard members enter the unit’s main hall, past a brown-gray marble wall with the words “Dignity, Honor, and Respect” embossed in gold.

A striking Memorial reminds them of America’s most shocking events that left bodies for them to handle. Think Benghazi, 9/11, Space Shuttle disasters.

They will spend the next eight hours preparing. It's often well after midnight when a hulking, Air Force C5 cargo plane glides to a stop on the tarmac.

Clad in battle dress uniforms, they wear the same white cotton gloves worn when rendering honors at Arlington Cemetery. These are not ceremonies per se; rather, a solemn ritual by a carry team of select military personnel from the deceased’s service unit.

Alone in the cargo hold, they inspect flags for the slightest deficiencies. They will strain with heavy cases of fallen comrades still in full combat gear, packed in ice. Lighter ones will contain fragments of lives shattered by war.

Outside, families wait. The team steps forward in perfect unity, carrying each flag-draped case to a waiting vehicle. No words are spoken, only a chaplain’s prayer breaks the silence.

Then, after a slow, respectful salute, the remains are transported to Dover‘s Port Mortuary facility for identification and final preparation. Specialists meticulously prepare dress uniforms for the deceased, ensuring every detail is perfect before returning them to families for their funerals.

Poignant moments like these depict an unfaltering dedication to fallen soldiers at places like Dover and Arlington. They tell not only a story about our war dead and the soldiers who honor them, but also a reminder for a nation on whose behalf they serve. Because they mattered. Because they believed in America.

Someday, wars will cease and global peace will finally reign. Until that day, may we never stop honoring those who stood in harm’s way, nor the families who bear the weight of their absence.

Father God, our hearts overflow with gratitude and remembrance. Thank You for the men and women who’ve served this nation, who gave not only the life they lived, but the life they would have lived, that we might remain free. Amen

Boys 'n Boots

 “God, our refuge and strength, is ever-present help in trouble.” ~ Psalm 46:1

In 1969, a young American did what most only talked about. He volunteered for Vietnam. He could have stayed behind, safe from the headlines and the heartbreak. Instead, he chose the hard road, one of service, sacrifice, and honor.

He knew the risks. He went anyway. Fate sent him straight to a razor-thin scar, dividing adversaries from the North and South. The DMZ (Demilitarized Zone or 17^th parallel) wasn’t just a boundary line, but a place where the earth trembled with danger. Mines hid beneath the mud, snipers aimed from the tree line, and where one heartbeat too loud could be your last.

There, he faced the North Viet Cong. Relentless. Invisible. Ruthless. Each dawn brought a new test of courage; each night, another prayer to see the sun rise again. Tomorrow was never guaranteed.

Yet the 19-year-old soldier never backed down. Through firefights and ambushes, through rain that turned foxholes into graves, he carried more than his rifle. He also bore the weight of honor, loyalty, and a promise to his girlfriend made beneath an old oak tree back home.

Before he left, he told her he’d return to marry her under that same tree where he first said, “I love you.”

But only his boots ever came home.

When the telegram came, she didn’t cry. She just set those boots by the door. “Just in case,” she whispered, “you find your way home.”

They were just a pair of muddy combat boots – scarred by war. But to her, they were his footsteps frozen in time. Every week for 57 years, she polished them. Not because they would ever be worn again, but because she still felt his presence with them.

Now she’s 80 years old. Every Veterans Day, she places those boots on her porch facing east, so the dawn’s early light will find them, just as it once found him. Because love like that doesn’t fade. It simply waits in silence.

On March 29, 1973, American combat troops left South Vietnam. Fifty-eight thousand never did, their names carved into black granite, their stories carried in the hearts of those who remember.

Those who made it home weren’t met with parades or cheers, but with silence, or worse. They hadn’t sought glory, fame, or politics. When their country called, they answered.

We so easily forget those who never set foot on American soil again… except beneath a folded flag. We forget the families who left an empty chair at the table, praying it would be filled again someday. We forget the soldiers whose final chapter was written on foreign soil, whose courage still echoes across generations.

Three cheers to them all: The ones who went, the ones who waited, and those who still remember. Blessed are the forgotten heroes, whose courage still reminds us what sacrifice truly means.

Lord God, thank You for our veterans. Help us, as a nation, to honor their service with gratitude, respect, and a commitment to being a nation worthy of their dedication. Amen

Quiet Mettle

 “Those who are humble and willing to serve others will please God.” ~ Matthew 23:12

Kids often place their dads on marble pedestals. Craig certainly did. But his father wasn't admired because he bought him a go-kart (he didn't), or because he helped him with his algebra homework (he did). Now in his sixties, Craig knew only that his Dad (Jack) had served in the U.S. Army in WWII, but not much more.

A modest man, Jack was firm but gentle, far from the caricature of the tough war veteran. He was not particularly muscular, seldom cursed, rarely drank, and never bragged about his combat duties. His medals, if they existed, remained silent as stones.

Other boys flashed B&W photos of their dads in uniform. They swapped colorful battle tales. Craig sometimes wondered why their own albums were blank. Maybe his Dad held secrets.

Adolescence blurred. Craig grew, married, and returned home to help care for his dying mother. As Craig sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee, his Dad shuffled in. Jack’s eyes revealed pain, but not just from the sadness of his wife’s looming death. Since placing her in hospice care, he’d been having troubling nightmares about the war.

Jack hesitated; memories flooded first. Then his eyes moistened as memories long ago rose to the surface, unhidden and unrestrained.

“Explosions cracked the sky; the sand was soaked with human sacrifice,” he sobbed. “All my friends died in that battle.”

He was one of the few survivors of the assault on Italy’s Anzio Beach in 1944. When the cannons quieted, Jack worked amid the ruins, gathering young men who would never stand again.

“We loaded bodies and body parts onto donkeys so that every fallen soldier would find a journey home.” A single confession that shattered decades of remorse for having been spared the indignity.

Craig wept at the horror his Dad lived through, and the lonely burden he’d carried. Several years later, Jack joined his beloved wife beyond this world’s conflicts and winters.

With the help of the local VFW, Craig researched his father’s service record.

He learned that his Dad had served in the Army’s brand-new Rangers, the spearhead of a daring plan to outmaneuver Nazi forces near Rome. For his valor, Jack earned a Bronze Star, a medal that testifies a soldier stood taller than fear. Paradoxically, Jack’s secrets were uncovered and amplified.

Some legends never appear in history books. They sit at breakfast tables, smiling softly, trying to forget the thunder of battles rumbling in their memories.

Greatness seldom arrives boasting its own achievements. It often slips quietly through life with calloused hands and gentle manners, leaving no need for applause. Such heroes see their acts as gifts to God. True humility is hard to find because, ironically, the moment we think of ourselves as humble… we are no longer so.

Lord Jesus, when you walked the earth, Your modesty confused the arrogant. Help me never to believe myself better than anyone else. Banish any thoughts of self-importance and let my heart always imitate Your humility. Amen

Letters of Grace

 “Help lift others’ troubles and burdens.” ~ Galatians 6:2

She was barely 21 when she left her Oregon home to join the U.S. Army Nurse Corps in 1970. Claire wasn’t rugged, brash, or courageous. She sobbed when they chopped off her long auburn hair, each lock falling like a piece of the girl she once was.

But when her brother returned from Vietnam in a flag-draped coffin, grief rewired her heart. “I want to help other boys get back home,” she whispered through tears after telling her parents of her enlistment in 1969.

Vietnam welcomed her with the harsh realities of war. She reported for duty at the 71st Evac Hospital in Pleiku, which also served as the main terminal for U.S. military supplies. Hospitals were often located near supply depots and, thus, targets for enemy fire. Explosions punctured the nights, generators faltered, and surgeons worked with whatever tools they had left.

Combat nurses like Claire were scheduled for 6, 12-hour days, though their shifts might last a full day or longer. Despite the chaotic and arduous pace, Claire’s morale remained high due to the camaraderie and appreciation of the patients.

Too often, though, healing arrived too late. Some died within minutes. Others hung on just long enough to whisper their final words. Names. Confessions. One last “Tell her I love her” as hopes crumpled.

After each brutal shift, she’d sit on a cot, refusing to let their dying wishes perish. Pen trembling, Claire wrote letters to the deceased’s family. Not official reports. Not empty condolences. A bridge, however fragile, between a soldier’s last heartbeat and the people who would mourn it. Expecting no response, she signed them: “From someone who was there when they needed it most.”

During wartime, some become legends for charging into fire or leading battalions. Claire brought a small gesture of kindness. Throughout her 18-month deployment, she wrote 127 such letters. Each one a tender lifeline just warm enough to heal, not harm.

Decades later, Claire Bennett visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in the nation’s capital. Her fingertips drifted across the polished black marble when a silver-haired woman approached slowly, clutching a weathered envelope.

“My God! You must be Claire, right? I remember your picture from researching military records.”

Claire’s brain stuttered for a moment while her thoughts strained to catch up. She nodded.

From a badly worn envelope, the woman removed one of Claire’s letters. “My son died in 1970,” she said, voice trembling. “You didn’t know me, but you saved me. Your lovely letter brought me comfort and kept me breathing.” Claire felt the world soften.

There’s something about giving of ourselves that makes our hearts blaze brighter. We’ve all faced life, not on calm seas, but in storms that would have shattered us. But the kindness of others stitched us back together and reminds us that hope can be borrowed when our own empties out.

Loving God, teach me to love with Your courage and compassion every day. Let my life speak the truth louder than my speech. May kindness become my signature, written boldly across each day. Amen