I have a friend, a man of quiet courage, who served as a United States Marine in the Iraqi Province of Al Anbar. He had a front-row seat at the battle of Fallujah.
He used to be a jovial, conversant fellow. Since he returned from the Service, he’s more remote. His laughter seems like an after-thought.
Concentration comes hard – he doesn’t hear much of the small-talk that goes on around him.
He’s become a bit listless. I wouldn’t call him depressed, exactly, but I think he sees the world through a different set of eyes than do I.
I see my family out at dinner; he sees potential targets. I see a sweet, new-born babe; he sees a babe blown up by a suicide-bomber. I see the hand of a friend; he sees the memory of friends that he’s lost.
I can barely kill a fly, but I would never, in a million years, ask someone to kill someone for me.
He did it anyway, without asking, for me and for people he doesn’t even know.
Read full article at Right Voice Media