Here's to the soldiers of the bitter war, here's to the wall that bears their names...
Growing up, my Dad had an ongoing battle with the bottle. There were periods of "peace" it seemed within his soul when he didn't indulge the demons he carried. And then there were periods of painful unrest. It was years before I understood some of the why's behind his struggle. The most disturbing thing I noticed during his bouts of drinking was the utter transformation that took place when he was "in his cups" from the gentle, soft-spoken, and kind man I knew to an angry, loud, and sometimes violent man. Even scarier, sometimes he would speak in another language and weep.
My Dad was a very private man and he dealt with his pain in that same vein. As a child, I knew nothing of his life before me as it was never spoken about. Towards the end of his journey here with us, he finally sought help at my mother's tireless encouragement and I think even found a semblance of peace and rest in his soul.
Years later, as an adult, I discovered the PTSD diagnosis he was given. I learned of the time he spent in the Korean War and the two tours he did in Vietnam. The other language I had heard him speak made sense now. I also heard the stories, one's he would have never shared with me, of the body bags of friend's that he'd loaded into aircraft to take home. The same boys he had arrived with, played cards with, and laughed with. I heard tell of a time he was reprimanded and "suspended" for a period during his service for knocking the daylights out of another officer for sitting down on a body bag during a break from loading. The irreverence of that act was far too much for him to handle. Good for him, huh?
So, every Veteran's Day (and many of them in between) I reflect a bit on who my father was. I mourn a little for his grief but not as much as I once did. I think about the damage that was done to his soul in war time. I grieve for the sadness he carried with him the rest of his life and the burden he carried that was silent unless he'd indulged in a bit of liquor or woke up at 2am as my mother told me about later, in cold sweats, screaming and crying.
Foremost though, I think of the kindness, compassion, and quiet courage he always carried with him and demonstrated also rarely in words but always in his daily actions. My father was a lover of peace and purveyor of kindness. He was also a deeply spiritual man and a defender of justice and truth. He had the courage to defend the principals he held sacred and suffer the tragic consequences of standing by them.
Today, I say "thank you" to Sgt Thomas R. Lynch for sacrificing far more than a few years in another land to defend and protect this one. I thank him and every other man and woman who has donned a uniform and stood by their convictions despite the fear of what was to come. I am sad for the pain they may have witnessed but moreover, I am proud and inspired by their actions. I have always been one to appreciate the steadfast commitment to a cause even when the cause itself I couldn't support. Irrelevant of politics, foreign policy, or dogma, recognition to those that have served and continue to serve us in an effort to preserve our freedom deserves homage and thanks.
Thank you Daddy for serving, and thank you to the countless others that do the same!
Peace, Blessings, and Love to All,
Shana
Active duty, USAF-1960's
Retired, USAF-at a peace rally during Desert Storm-1990's
Updates via 
