Standing Out

Standing Out

By J. T. Seate

All of us have days or moments that stand out in our lives. It might have been when we found the right person, or were married, or when we held our newborn infant in our arms, and so on. One day can often change everything, and for me, that day came within the walls of a small church in an equally small and relatively quiet town. John was home again and his presence completed made possible the event which brought with it such significance.

On that day, in the presence of sixty or so gatherers, my son was married. What may have appeared to be a run-of-the-mill celebration was anything but. John, you see, had returned from Afghanistan the previous year, but had returned without his legs.

Up until his wedding, one of the most significant days in my life was when I left a combat zone knowing I had survived the ugly war of my generation. The only time I saw tears in my father’s eyes was when I departed for Vietnam. He was no dove. He’d been at Pearl Harbor and lost two brothers in the big war, and he hated watching another generation go to untimely deaths. Seeing me off to that damned useless war, as he called it, couldn’t have been easy. He realized, more than I, what a waste it would be if I, like so many young men, hadn’t come home.

But I did return with my body intact, but unfortunately, my experiences in Vietnam were like so many others in wartime. The ravages of PTSD created some very dark days. Flashbacks often haunted my dreams. Drinking eased the power of lingering nightmares, but an invisible force pressed down on me like a lead weight. I became a great pretender as my smile never reached my eyes. There were days when I was swallowed by a black hole and it took all my strength to claw my way out into a world of shadowed gray.

There were many who tried to help, but from the desperate place I occupied, they often seemed no more than circus acrobats performing an absurd ritual. Even though I was able to hold down a job, alcohol became my god, leading to ill-advised choices. There were times when the struggle did not seem worth the effort. It would have been easier to fall into a dreamless sleep with no more regrets about the past, closing the great doors of consciousness. At this point, it wouldn’t have taken much to become forever lost.

The past is not something you can tuck into a file cabinet and mark the folder Confidential, nor can it be packed in a box and thrown in the closet never to be opened. Yet, in the end, I reasoned that giving up was a coward’s way out. Before too many unrecoverable, precious years passed, fate seemed to intervene as a new light entered my life. Her name was Mary. With her understanding and patience, she helped me toward sobriety and a renewed taste for the good things life still had to offer, even to the point of my wanting a family.

***

As my offspring grew to adulthood, I prayed no more young men and women would ever again have to make the horrible sacrifice I felt my generation and my father’s had done. As for my dad, he sadly wouldn’t live to see my complete recovery, or his grandchildren grow to be adults. And many years later, in the throes of another conflict when my son was headed to the other side of the world, my sentiments were much the same as his had been on the day I shipped out. “Don’t make him suffer as I have,” I quietly breathed.

Although my prayer for John’s safekeeping was not to be, he did return, and at least we still had him, leading to his day of triumph inside the little church. What he had endured and the determination he’d shown to become whole again was inspiring beyond anything I could have imagined. In my war, I had been spared the bodily pain and agony he had the misfortune of enduring, and felt sure most of his dreams had ended the day his limbs were blown away.

But I was selling him short. I thought back to the times I watched him at baseball practice from a distance down the left field line. I guess I believed I’d make him too nervous if I was obvious, that he’d be embarrassed if I were to see him fail. But I was as wrong then as I was more recently in his life. He always struggled to do as well as he was physically and mentally capable of. And through the anguish of his convalescence and rehabilitation, he’d been able to beat back the psychological demons and become spiritually stronger than ever before. My son achieved something most of us never have to physically confront, and he’d done so magnificently. I now knew then that he could handle any situation his body or mind might encounter. 

But there was another ingredient that made his recovery possible. As in my life, there was an understanding and devoted woman. It was the most important element of his recovery—the tenderness and loyalty which can sooth the hurt when all else fails. Encouragement always came from his mother and myself, but would his dedication to persevere and recover have been as strong without the young woman who patiently waited? I’m not sure even John knows the answer. But she stood by him, literally, every step of his long and winding path to recovery.

Their wedding day represented so many things that mirrored my own time of finding a helping hand. His life had been put on hold due to our nation’s constant wars and a lengthy period of recuperation. But when he returned to all of us, it was Sherry who was able to reach out and lasso his fear. She reassured him. She helped dispel the loneliness which surrounded his heart like a thick fog with words of patience and love.   

And eventually, he proposed to the woman who had endured the difficult period along with his parents. John waited at the altar as Sherry walked down the aisle toward him. And after all this time, he was ready and able to take the hand of his beautiful bride by determinedly standing next to her under his own power on new legs. 

I sat in the church on that important day and watched as the woman of his dreams approached. My heart strained toward him, beating like the day I’d first seen him come home from overseas in a wheelchair. I took his mother’s hand and squeezed it a little too hard. She patted my arm and I knew she was feeling the same emotions.

The bride touched her grandmother’s golden locket pinned to her shimmering white dress. Her beaming father delivered her to the spot next to my son. His smile told me we had done a good job at getting our children to this special moment.

The day John was born was important beyond measure, but this day, a day of triumph over tragedy, was more important still. My son took his bride’s hand. All the hopes which any young couple might have as they start a life together were etched on their faces. John and Sherry’s eyes shimmered as they exchanged vows and rings then sealed it with a kiss and a caress.

The union was blessed. They were now one as they turned and came down the aisle, their faces wreathed in smiles. John gave his mother and me that big, gleaming smile and a thumbs-up. 

Sherry smiled at us as well and said, “Thanks for raising such a wonderful man.”

Everyone gathered outside to send the couple off in a hail of rice. Then they were gone and the day was suddenly over. It was then that I could reflect on what it had meant to me and why I held it in such esteem. Time often passes slowly for grief and quickly for joy. But this day gave me a second renewal of faith which had too long been lacking. It was the feeling that anything might be overcome, old or young. I was uplifted by the will shown by my son to heal and to rejuvenate the spirit.

There was never a thought about his disability during the event, and I realized not for the first time that I had a son who was a stronger, better man than I. To sleep, perhaps to dream, my mind recalled. And I would sleep well that night for I knew John’s future would be filled with dreams yet to be realized. No challenges were insurmountable. With that knowledge, I was content with a day which would keep giving, a day which provided food for the soul—one which still drips memories as sweet as honey from a comb. That, my friends, is as good as a day can get.