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Honoring our veterans...
“I have tonight’s
watch”
By Bob Robinson
All were home.
My friends at the Eagles. My friends in Kiwanis. My friends at the
Veterans of Foreign Wars. My friend, Rich. My friends, Al and George,
and others too numerous to mention. My nephew, Duane. All were home.
In my dream, some had come home, but lived only in my memories. My
friend Jim, whom we lost in Vietnam, is buried in his hometown in
Texas. My biological father, whom we lost in service to our country, is
buried in the family plot in St. Louis. My adopted father, whom we lost
from natural causes after a lifetime of service to his country... World
War II, Korea… is buried in Arlington National Cemetery.
But there was still one... a lone soldier, on a hilltop. It was barren
and scarred from centuries of fighting. He stood tired, but tall and
proud, amidst rubble and smoke. For a fleeting instant, in the distance
behind him, I saw three crosses. They were quickly enveloped by plumes
of black smoke.
As I came closer, he looked at me.
“All is secure, sir,” he said.
Then he handed me a key and pointed to the door he was guarding. I
opened it.
There was a glow of light from the entry. It splashed upon the face of
the guard. I could see his pain and exhaustion, but also his pride in
the knowledge of a job well done. He smiled as he motioned me on.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
Below was an immense valley. It was green with foliage, penetrated by
streams and waterfalls. The sun showered it with light, but was not
harsh. Its rays were warm, comforting. There was a path leading off to
the right. I followed it.
It was a difficult path. I could see it had not been used very often. I
almost lost my way many times... once, a deer ran out in front of me
and through some undergrowth. Another time it was a raccoon. A
squirrel. Each time I was in danger of taking the wrong turn. Each time
a creature of the forest kept me on the path.
Eventually the path became clearer. More traveled.
As I rounded a turn, I saw a man on one knee in front of a headstone.
He was placing flowers in front of it. Concerned for his privacy, I
stopped at a distance and waited. Soon, he stood up, smiled at me, then
walked off in another direction.
I knew him. His craggy face was etched with nearly two centuries of
sorrow. His beard was white, but I remembered him from my history
books. I went to the headstone and looked down upon it. Behind the
arrangement of flowers, the epitaph said...
“Slavery died Jan. 1, 1863. May it rest in peace.”
I remember thinking “if only it were true.”
I continued down the path and almost bumped into another man. I had
never met him but I remembered that he’d had a dream. He smiled and
nodded, then disappeared into the foliage.
The headstone he was leaving was more recent. It said...
“Prejudice died Aug. 28, 1963. May it rest in peace.”
I remember thinking “if only it were true.”
I started to continue my journey, only to discover the path was gone. I
was in a cemetery. There were headstones such as I’d never seen
before...
“Terrorism died July 13...”
“Persecution died Feb. 22...”
“War died April 18...”
“Man’s inhumanity against man died...”
Hundreds of headstones. All with similar messages.
I remember thinking “if only it were true.”
“It could be true, sir,” the voice said. “It is what we fight for.”
Standing behind me was the soldier who had given me the key.
“We were given that key more than 2,000 years ago,” he said. “It is
what we sacrifice for. Pres. Lincoln. Rev. King. My buddies. Me.
“This valley and all its beauty can still be ours, sir. But it takes
all of us. We can’t do it alone. That was His message to us... don’t
let His sacrifice, or mine, be in vain.”
Suddenly we were back on the hill. I could hear explosions in the
distance. See the pain on the soldier’s face.
“Sleep well tonight, sir,” he said, finally. “Be at peace with your
loved ones. I have tonight’s watch.”
First published on Dec.
24, 2003, this column was adapted for my book, “God Don’t Make Junk,”
published in August 2008. For those who are interested, limited copies
of the book are available for purchase at Bears Mill, Garst Museum and
the Brethren Retirement Community Gift Shop. Profits support these
organizations and the Senior Scribes Scholarship Fund. It was further
adapted for this publication. To all those who have served, and
especially to my nephew Duane, who recently returned from Afghanistan,
thank you for your service. Bob Robinson, Editor.
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