After checking into my appointment this morning, I looked around the room for a seat. There were only two other people in the waiting room. Both were sitting on the same wall, with a clear visual of the entire room, but needed a slight turn of the head to see whoever came through the outside door. For the room design, these were the prime seats I wanted to sit in. I was not going to sit in the middle of the room with my back to the door. No. I never do that, and neither do these two other Veterans in the VA clinic. I chose a seat between the two, one right next to the oldest.
“Did you go to West Point?” His gruff voice came from beside me as I checked the time on my phone.
“No, but I served with quite a few West Pointers, and I will always support the team that represents me on that field.”
His audible grunt indicated he understood the meaning.
“I wasn’t smart enough for West Point. But my son gets it and wants to go do bigger, better things than I ever did in the Army.”
His chuckle roared as the joke landed, “Me either. I volunteered for the Marines in Vietnam.”
More laughter from both of us, and a smirk from the younger bald guy next to me.
We sat there for 10 minutes chatting about our service. Mostly him telling me about his. How his dad thought he was an idiot for volunteering for the Marines instead of another branch, or just waiting for his draft card to be called. He told me about a friend who was an officer in the Army, who led from the front and stepped on a landmine, and we joked about some of the stupid stuff we did in combat that make us question how we ever made it back.
If it’s one thing we all have in common, regardless of branch of service, the war we fought in, or the place we came from, we can tell stories. Stories of the glory days in combat, the people we met, the drinks we drank, and how we ended up sharing a room in a VA clinic halfway around the world from where we became men. The memories fade over time, and they become dusty. Yet we still share them with one another; it reminds us we are still human and that we are building connections.
After returning home from the appointment, I was struck with a sudden thought. I connected with this man through our shared military experience, but I wonder whether he knew God. I wonder if he thanks God for getting him through the rice patties of Vietnam. We made a connection, but God calls us to something deeper. He calls us to fellowship. St. John the Apostle reflects on fellowship and shared experiences in 1 John 1:3.
What we have seen and heard we proclaim now to you, so that you too may have fellowship with us; for our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son, Jesus Christ.
He is declaring the reasons he is sharing his experiences with us, so that we can know Christ ourselves. In the same way, we speak of our experiences in war with other combat veterans. We are different people on different battlefields and at different times, but we share one common goal. To come home in one piece.
That should be our goal spiritually, too. The Saints have long discussed the unity we have with their lives. The consecration of the host in Mass connects us all even more. We are celebrating the Mass in a way that defies our human knowledge and understanding of space and time. Service members serve in wars and share experiences defying the laws of physics.
I can’t help but think in my head and my heart… I should’ve told him about Jesus.
It hurts.
In a beautiful small way…you showed him Jesus.
This was a beautiful reflection. I’ll be thinking about this for quite a while.