Father's Day

Tomorrow will be my first Father's Day as a father. It is both thrilling and bittersweet, as I will be leaving for Afghanistan very shortly and will not be able to see my son. I have missed many firsts and will miss quite a few more before I return home next year. His first time holding his bottle on his own, his first time crawling, his first time talking, his first time walking. These are memories that I will never be able to hold and cherish, but I hope that in ten or fifteen years when my son asks me why I left, he can understand the values that I hope to instill in him: love of God, family and country. This post, however, is not about me, it is about my father, and another gentleman I have recently come to know. My father is not my biological father, he adopted me at the age of seven. I cannot call him a gentle man, as I never saw him cry until he lost his leg in 2003. He has never been prone to show weakness, only in his times of vulnerability have I ever seen that. He was an angry man, prone to spankings and a backhand before he would consider sending me to the corner. He showed me what it meant to work, clocking in 40 plus hours during the week and helping out friends on their farms and roofs on the weekends. I joined the military in part because I wanted to be like him. He is now a frail man of 65, but he has never lost the twinkle in his eye, that sly look that he always carried about him. He still loves a good joke and is still too proud to ask for a hand. I hope that one day I can epitomize that which he is, a hard working, blue collar family man.

Now to the other part... My biological father found me via Facebook. In a story straight out of a Lifetime movie... When my son was born I posted some pics of him on FB. Someone sent him a link of the pics of my son and told him that these were pictures of his grandchild. He sent me a message, we met, had a DNA test, and the results confirmed that he was my biological father. It's odd for a 22 year old man to meet his father for the first time. I had written this man off a long time ago as a dead beat man who didn't care enough to even try to find me. Now, I realize that he didn't try to find me not because he didn't want to, but out of love. The realization that him trying to become a part of my life at the time would have been catastrophic. My adoptive parents love and support me to achieve all of my dreams, and for that, I am truly grateful. However, I also want to know what else is out there. This man was diagnosed with cancer and has had repeated operations on it. My fear is that I will never truly get to know this man, that the tragedies of life may take him away before I can pick his brain, to find out who my biological father is. As it is said in the Middle East, Inshallah, or God Willing, I will get to discover who this man is. If fate has it differently, however, I can answer that question that has been nagging me all of my life. I know who my fathers are.

Joplin

May 23, 2011 started out as a normal day in Ft. Polk, LA. Waking up at 6 am, I prepared to go to work. Chow, shower, shave, all everyday occurances for myself as I prepare for my second deployment to Afghanistan. Greeting fellow soldiers as I walk into work, my supervisor calls me over to his desk. "Have you talked to your family? Are they all ok?" I wonder why he would be asking such a question, and I told him that I had talked to my wife and family a few days prior, as cell phone reception is extremely spotty. He then told me that a tornado had hit Joplin. I told him I knew that a small tornado had hit St. Johns the night before, but there wasn't any major damage. About that time, I turn around and on Fox News is footage of a picture that will be forever seared into my mind, one of destruction and devestation. As what had happened sunk into my mind, a million thoughts raced into my mind. My wife, my son, my parents, her parents, her grandparents, friends, aquaintances, thousands of thoughts. My boss told me to take a few hours and get ahold of my family to ensure that they were safe. I checked my email, eight emails from my wife telling me everyone was safe, my mom and dad were ok, my son was safe. Then there was a BUT. Isn't there always a but? Grandma's house was gone. The destruction and devestation at 24th and Grand was so bad my Grandmother got lost trying to find what little remained of her house. The power and strength that she showed in her statements still awe me, even now: my house is gone, but I want to help others. The dedication, hardwork, and love that this woman gave to Joplin in her darkest hour is awe inspiring. Her selflessness and caring still fill me with pride. But this is not about her, not singularly, it is about Joplin as a collective. Neighbors pouring out of ruins minutes after the storm had passed, looking for friends, neighbors, strangers, pets. Trying to comprehend that which had just happened and already moving on. The stories of those who gave their lives so that others may live. The gentleman at Home Depot sheperding customers to safety, only to fall while giving others life. The manager at Pizza Hut, holding down the door to the freezer. A week after this tragedy occured, I was talking with a dear friend Debbie, and told her that there is only one other place that I have seen such courage occur: that is the battlefield. I have not seen the destruction first hand, only pictures on the internet. I cannot comprehend getting lost in two blocks because there are no street signs in Joplin. I cannot comprehend looking down from 32nd Street and seeing 20th. I cannot comprehend a third of Joplin being flattened. I cannot comprehend Joplin. I sat down outside and I cried for half an hour. Even with the knowledge that my family was safe, I cried. I cried for Joplin. I cried for those who lost their lives. I cried most of all, however, because I know Joplin will never be the same. The stories of courage and assistance are even greater than those of death, the story of the gentleman who drove a Dodge Ram from California and simply handed his keys to a lady who lost everything. The sheer number of volunteers that showed up to help. From Carthage, Neosho, Webb City, Oklahoma, Kansas, Arkansas, New York, and points north, south, east, west, from all over the United States. For a brief moment in time, the world was Joplin. Donations poured into Joplin, the POTUS made a brief stop to show that we are united as one. When tragedy strikes, the world stops. Some want to simply gawk, but most want to help. I wish I could have come home, to have helped, to have shown love to my town, my people, my home. Joplin has faded from the national light, the news trucks are gone, the volunteers slowly leaving town, the donations fading. But one thing remains: Joplin. It is still there. The people, the buildings, the town, the love. Joplin will be here in five years, in ten, in fifty. It will never be the same, but it will be. The love you get is equal to the love you give. Joplin still has not stopped giving.

I am Joplin.