Every time the evening news these days tells of another gal or guy dying in the military, the knock at our door in February of 1968 emerges.
Even though I was away at Saint Mary's College, Orchard Lake, MI., the details loom large from my sisters and brother about that date, and death of Lucas, my oldest brother.
War wounds and the misery and mystery disturb me when I hear of another loss in battle. For what? Why? When will war stop? When will we pull out?
Specialist Four Lukas J Ventline Us55897836 received the posthumous purple heart award January 17, 1969, a year after that heightened TET offensive in Vietnam, the year a man landed on the moon, the women's rights movement began, Rev. Dr. King, Jr., and Robert Kennedy were assassinated, and 58,000 Americans, let alone Vietnamese, and innocent bystanders were murdered continents away.
After the knock, one's heart is purple and blue. Grief lingers. Loss lives. That's the way it should be. The hole in the soul, the void gets smaller but the tiny ball of emptiness remains today.
That's how other families must feel when the knock on the door comes from two military personnel, and, a chaplain.
Sad, mad, scared, full of fear and fright of conflict raging about these wars, any war, the Vietnam War, wars in homes, cities, and in our hearts where all battles begin. Post traumatic stress disorder for the military these days, for their families, and the lingering fray decades later.
After the knock on our door, the purple heart from the President is presented to families, to us.
Imagining other ways, less primitive than war, to resolve conflict, calls the finest minds and wills today to gather, to create a department of peace with a greater budget than the Department of War.
Imagine that. A battle to end battles with a department of peace.
Who can bear another knock? Who will stop the knock on the door?
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