Daily Lesson for Memorial Day, May 26, 2014

A Memorial Day Lesson

Yesterday our church hosted a Memorial Day Service of Healing and Special Commemoration of the 50th Anniversary of the War in Vietnam.  We heard stories of heartache, including one from one of our own church members Dick Baker who shared about coming back from Vietnam in his Marine uniform and being spat upon by war protesters. Yet we also heard stories of healing, like the one from a then-young nurse in the Vietnam War who years later received a phone call from one of the wounded soldiers she cared for during his convalescence.  He remembered very little from the days following his injuries, but he did remember the nurse who held his hand.

One speaker, with whom I have had the privilege of meeting on two occasions now, was Shilo Harris.  Shilo's father served in Vietnam and Shilo himself joined the 10th Mountain Division in Operation Iraqi Freedom.

In 2007, the Humvee Shilo was in was struck by an improvised explosive device.  The bomb killed three of Shilo's men in the truck and left Shilo terribly burned.  He was in a coma for 48 days with burns over 35 percent of his body, and has since undergone over 50 surgeries.  The bomb took his nose, both his ears, and three of his fingers.  But it did not take his heart.  He is now a motivational speaker, a soon-to-be published author and a visible witness not only to the sacrifice some have made on behalf of our country, but also to this nation's indomitable strength and courage.

Following the service in the church foyer, Shilo and I embraced.  We were forehead to forehead and my hand reached across the breadth of the back of his bald head.  His skin was smooth with no stubble, as all his hair except a small crest atop his head was burned away in the fire.  "Thank you," I whispered, "thank you."

When we finally released, Shilo and I both looked down and saw my seven-year-old daughter standing beneath us watching our embrace.  I looked back toward Shilo.  "This is my daughter, Gabby," I said.  "What a beautiful little girl," he said.  Instinctively, I looked back down at Gabby asked what I always ask her when somebody says she's beautiful.  "What do we say in our house," I asked.  Her answer came in shy whisper directed back at Shilo.  "It's the inside that counts."  I looked back toward Shilo, seeing a twinkle of light from his eyes spring forth from out behind his badly-deformed face.  He was smiling.  "That's right," he said, "it's the inside that counts."

It's what is inside men like Dick and Shilo and the hundreds of thousands of men who gave their lives for our country that has made this country what it is.  And it is for what is inside - service, honor, character - that I am exceedingly grateful.