Soul Searching

First all, I have an announcement for all of you, some may have already heard, others, this may be news to you... I have volunteered for another tour over here, so I will most likely not be coming home until next May or June. My wife and I discussed this, and came to the conclusion that financially, it is the responsible thing to do. Granted, I had to make a few concessions, as we both did. Now, on to my actual blog post for today. I was recently chatting with a friend on Facebook, and he asked me some question that I really, deep down inside, do not want to answer, but I shall make an attempt to do such. He asked me if I truly knew myself, knew what I truly wanted in life. The answer, realistically, is no, I do not know myself or what I want in life. I am a painter, painting my life stroke by stroke, each stroke adding to the beauty of what we call our future. Some strokes end up as blemishes in the painting, and they should be admired for their inherent beauty, as each decision we make in life, whether good or bad, is a choice that we cannot change. I cannot take the mistakes I have made in life back, I can only try to learn from them and change the future, shape it in ways as to try to avoid those mistakes again. I do not regret the choices I have made, for that only festers the wounds that they leave, and at some point you will have to realize that there is nothing you can do about it. I feel as if in the past year and a half that I have learned more about myself than I ever thought I would know. I have come to realize that I can endure the sweltering heat of a Baghdad summer, and I can take the grueling demands of war, and I can walk away unscathed. I am not trying to make it sound as if I have done more than I have, for I have never shot my rifle in anger. There is an inherent nobility to what I do, but I am not noble. I am just like every other soldier here. We joined the army to become something more, to be more than just another kid in a town where everyone knows each other, where no one make a good living, where you grow up, grow old, and die. We wanted to be the guy or gal who made it out, and we have succeeded beyond our wildest expectations. No one in the military at this point in the war joined without the knowledge that they may someday go to war. On the contrary, we joined or re-enlisted with the hope that someday we would get our chance. I have had mine, and from what I have seen, war is a terrible thing. Not neccisarily speaking of the obvious loss of life from enemy engagements, but the unseen strains that war puts upon people. My greatest sacrifice has not been putting my life on the line, but rather leaving my wife home alone and coming over here to try to provide a life for her, to try to give her the things that I would not be able to provide to her if I were home. Alas, I digress from my original thought, but this is all leading back to that. War has changed me, my wife has told me. She is not yet quite sure if it is in a good way or a bad way, but she says it has. Some of the things I have noticed are that I have matured years since I have been here, have stopped acting so much like a teenager, and more like a man. A dear friend once told me that she has watched me transform from an "awkward teenager" into a man. I hope that as I continue on this journey, that I learn more about myself, that one day I can truly know who I am and what I want in life. I have a rough draft in the back of my mind right now, and hopefully, one day, it will be as beautiful a painting as the Mona Lisa. Only time will tell...

Comments

The following writing is not mine, it was a comment left on my previous post. It was an anonymous post, but I believe I know the culprit, but the investigation is still ongoing... It moved me, as I hope it also moves you...

"The ultimate sacrifice," in our vernacular, reflects a noble, voluntary gift of one's life to death for others--a gift which only the Narcissus's among us, without success, attempt to diminish. Others make sacrifices, similarly noble, which do not involve giving up the ghost. Perhaps, if we perceive our dead heros as having achieved rest in the afterlife, we may also see, through the looking glass, some of our living heros and their families walking an even more difficult, equally noble, but oft forgotten path: living for untold decades, incessantly persecuted by the abdominal hauntings of their experiences; missing limbs, and faces; damaged brains, or sanity; life as a quadraplegic from a 7.62 x 39 to the neck? Even Jesus told his followers that they would achieve greater things than he did--perhaps he intended, at least in part, their years of struggle in this life contrasted with the restful peace of his death, and their own. As for you, my friend, you're just as much of a hero to me, for you put on a uniform and offered yourself just as they did, and would have died had it been your lot. Heroic nobility roots itself in the gift as much as in the death, or life, of the giver. You portray sincere humility, so, you do not count yourself a hero, which is as it should be, making you even more heroic. It is my job to call you "hero," which, also, is as it should be. In any event, let us honor the sacrificial dead, without forgetting the sacrificial living.