IN COMMEMORATION: 106 soldiers (101 US, 3 UK, 2 other) and over 1536 Iraqi Security Forces and Civilian deaths this month so far.
How many deaths will it take before we stop a war that should never have been started? Supporting our troops doesn't mean leaving them there ill-equipped amidst a civil war for a cause that is founded on lies, greed, profiteering and poor leadership judgment.
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Tomorrow is Memorial Day here in the US. My dad was a "war hero". Funny, it wasn't something he ever bragged about---in fact, my knowledge of his two Bronze Stars didn't come from him. They came from reading clippings in a box he left behind and a glimpse here and there from members of the family.
Now that I am older and have had a time to think and question WAR, I know why he didn't mention it. He didn't believe in it either. I doubt that he could reconcile its value and rightness with what he witnessed and experienced---bombings, death and destruction. You see, he was a Chaplain. What he brought to this entrusted role was that he made a conscious decision to stay with the men on the frontlines and in the process, he was called upon to do some heroic acts in the line of duty that saved lives. However, I am quite certain, he too must have questioned how war and rumors of war were aligned with loving one's neighbor.
I don't like to remember him as WAR HERO...I like to remember him as my dad and somehow I am certain that out there in the distance are many daughters and sons, who feel the same today. So instead of talking about WAR, I wanted to share a story of one of my favorite early memories of dad in commemoration for his love, his bravery, his courage to serve and for being my HERO:
MY DAD and ME
Interestingly, most of my early memories start just as I was turning five. It was a year of great change. Just before this time, I have one memory I cherish. I was three, maybe close to four.
My father was a prominent minister in the East in a small church.
He was called to a larger church in California.
The family moved across country.
I remember walking out of the new house with him,
all dressed up in a fancy dress with my best shoes.
The house was right next door to the new church.
The walkway was lined with yellow rose trees.
He held my hand and warmly coaxed me to come along with him.
He had a warm presence that drew people to him.
I was one. I adored him.
He called me Honeybear.
He led me to the church steps.
Long and steep from my perspective,
reaching up and up and up to the big doors.
His encouragement made all things possible.
I climbed step-by-step alone---about halfway
I sat down, fixing my skirt,
then posing with with a smile meant for him.
He took my picture.
Epilogue...
After he died some years back,
I found this picture among his cherished things.
It confirmed my sacred memory of that day,
When he captured the picture of the two great loves in his life into permanence.
When I was five he went away.
It would be years before I understood why.
...and years more until I knew it wasn't about me.
IN COMMEMORATION of all the brave dads. May we find our way to PEACE for all the people. May we find the courage and care inside to SPEAK-UP! STAND-UP! and SHOUT-OUT! to until we, the people, turn the tide on this ill-conceived war of greed and profiteering and bring our toops safely home.
Debbe Kennedy
Founder, Global Dialogue Center
www.globaldialoguecenter.com
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