“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 17th 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.
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.
