Forty-Eight Part Two

Are you still with me? I shared the first half of this post yesterday. Because I recently celebrated another birthday, here are more things that I'm thankful for at this moment (one for every year of my life):

25. The miracle of forgiveness. Forgetting isn't part of the equation. Releasing bitterness is.

26. A steaming bowl of soup for dinner on still-chilly evenings.

27. The process of baking bread, which synchronizes all of my senses.

28. Poetry. A short time ago, I nabbed a thick volume by Leslie Norris (another thrift store find). His work is a "concentration and distillation" of everyday experience. Thanks to the internet I'm discovering some more current poets as well.

29. Segullah literary journal. I love the honest-yet-faithful writings by L.D.S. women. One of my poems will appear in an issue which is coming out soon.

29. Facebook. Laugh in my face or strike me with lightning but I'm thankful for this connection with friends, relatives, and adult children who live far from home.

30. A new journal. It was a thoughtful birthday gift from a new friend; I see it as a reminder that I still have something to say.

31. Old notebooks. I used to carry them with me everywhere because I couldn't wait to write, Now they're a concrete reminder that I can feel that way again.

32. Blogs. I'm fairly new to this world but it's opened up some possibilities to share and read others' thoughts.

33. A comfortable home. That's the thing about middle age. I'm learning to be more content.

34. Sibling harmony. It's what I most enjoy when my brothers and sisters get together and what I hope for with my children. My in-laws treat me like family too.

35. Secure employment. We've been less-affected by economic woes; living modestly is nothing new.

36. Caring teachers. I'm overwhelmed by the impact of dedicated coaches, church leaders, and educators in my children's lives. I still remember teachers who mentored and encouraged me.

37. Books. This differs from #15 because I'm talking about the volumes I've collected over the years. They're faithful friends.

38. Music. Technology allows us to enjoy music with the click of a button although my waistline would be slimmer if I had to walk long distances to a live concert (a la Bach).

39. Memories of a few trips we've taken. I loved the Oregon coast, live oaks in Louisiana, and sampling Texas barbecue.

40. A caring community. We have different views but there is always an outpouring of love when someone experiences tragedy or an urgent need.

41. Unfinished projects. Admittedly, boxes of fabric and decor fill my closet and clutter our room. It's been months since I sent anything to publishers as well. But the potential to improve my life, our home, and my wardrobe is there. I have plenty reasons to get up each day.

42. Scriptures. Reading daily is hard right now but I remember times when I've been filled with peace and insight. I'll keep trying and trust that I'll regain that feeling again.

43. The chartreuse green of new leaves. Right now the willows add a blaze of color to our stark desert landscape.

44. Joseph Smith. He was human and never claimed to be perfect. But he was also a courageous witness of Christ. I'm grateful that he restored the church that is my spiritual anchor here on earth.

45. Visual art. We recently enjoyed a free exhibit at a nearby college. There's nothing like seeing skillfully-rendered paintings or sculptures up close. It's food for the soul.

47. Prayer. Like scripture study, this habit has sometimes been hard for me to maintain. Remembering times when I've felt close to God helps me feel like He's still there.

48. My Savior, Jesus Christ. I love the Easter season and can't deny the power of His atonement. He lived and died for us individually. I hope my life this coming year will more clearly reflect this truth.

Thanks for enduring to the end of this post!

The Man Within the Veteran

As a young girl, I didn't view my father as a veteran. He never joined The American Legion or marched in front of an audience on the Fourth of July. I never saw his army uniform or his World War II photos. The few stories that he shared held the gloss of legends.

During one late-night family discussion, I heard about the unusually calm day in far-off Europe when an unidentified voice prompted my father to leave the protection of his foxhole. Against the grain of battlefield logic, he obeyed. Moments later, morter shells were fired from the German lines. One exploded inside the trench.

Lost in a sleepy haze, I vaguely rejoiced that my father had lived to tell the tale. Yet I missed the tragic fact that his buddy died in the blast.

When my father reminisced about the winter he spent in a German prison camp, I shivered with imagined cold. Yes, I felt troubled as I learned how he and other POWs were forced to sleep naked after guards collected their ragged clothes each night. Yet his voice seemed almost jovial as he described nocturnal air raids when everyone was rousted from the barracks and compelled to wait outside in snowy trenches until the planes departed. He joked about eating nothing but black bread and watery stock beet soup. I cleaned my plate at mealtimes, never considering the possibility that he might have endured even more.

Veteran's Day came and went each year without parades or school assemblies. Sometimes one of my older siblings bought small red tissue poppies from former servicemen in our small town.

I grew up feeling proud of my father and deeply patriotic. But I didn't give much thought to the fact that he was someone besides my dad and a friendly postmaster who could find the right mailbox for letters addressed to "Grandma Hunt" in a first-grade scrawl.

Thanks to my husband, this myopic perspective began to change. An avid student of World War II, he sometimes drew my father into conversations about his experiences as a soldier on the front lines in Europe. I then realized that my dad was assigned to the Fourth Armored Spearhead Division of General George S. Patton's famous Third Army which turned the tide of Germany's last major offensive in the Battle of the Bulge.

Since then, my mother has recorded his detailed accounts that breathe life into history and portray a resolute yet vulnerable young man who maintained hope and faith in the midst of circumstances that were usually beyond his control.

Saying good-bye to his youth in southern Utah, he watched the Statue of Liberty recede into the horizon as the Equitania carried him and 4,000 troops to war-torn Europe in 1944. He walked through the wreckage of Omaha Beach where a life-long friend had been killed during the D-Day invasion only a few weeks before. He assisted in capturing a machine-gun "nest", only to discover that it was manned by twelve-year-old German boys who cried for their mothers as they surrendered. A short time later, he too was compelled to raise both hands in the air as enemy captors declared, "The war is over for you."

A few years ago, my mother asked my dad about the three weeks of interrogation he endured while being held in a German castle during the Christmas season in 1944. Like the rest of us, she had always assumed that he was spared the harsh treatment that other POWs endured.

My heart breaks even as I respect his answer: "No one will ever know what happened there."

We'll never know all the horrors he witnessed or the full extent of deprivation that he suffered in Stalag 4-B. Yet we do know that, when he walked through open prison gates in May of 1945, he had gained not only physical freedom but also forgiveness and compassion towards ordinary people who had been subjected to the power of an evil minority.

My father is quick to acknowledge the dignity and refinement of the German people even as he recalls how their children laughed and sang as they dragged Christmas trees home on their sleds. He'll never forget the prison guards who showed photos of family members and sweethearts to the POWs when their superiors weren't watching. One of them occasionally gave him a few extra rations. And he's still grateful for a Czech family who chose to feed him and his newly-liberated companions their first decent meal as they traveled south to the American lines.

Sixty-five years later, my parents visited places in Germany that evoked memories and deep emotion. They also walked through the Saar Valley in France where my father had been captured at age nineteen.

People in the nearby village remember who made their liberation possible so long ago. They lay flowers on the graves of the dead. They also thanked my father--one of the dwindling number of World War II soldiers who still lives.

Last summer he wore his uniform and joined other hometown veterans who were honored by cheering crowds in the Fourth of July parade. For the first time, our younger sons saw him as someone besides their grandpa who prefers western shirts.

Every Veteran's Day, I picture him leaning on his cane as he and my mother make their way to the local schools for patriotic assemblies. He's grown thin and tired and late-autumn sun highlights the silver in his hair. Still, he's there to listen as his grandchildren and other students sing about how freedom isn't free.

Later, he'll call his buddy from Patton's Fourth Armored Division.

They paid the price.


Copyright Nov. 15, 2011 by Nani Lii S. Furse