Dave's dad, George, was a decorated veteran of the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. When he returned from the war, he was changed forever. He spent the rest of his life refusing to call on God, though we pray the gospel grabbed his heart in the final hours when he was unable to communicate and alone with the Lord. He did amazing things during the war, and paid a significant price for them.
My poet son, Ben, caught much of the essence of the man when he wrote the following poem. Both the bitter and the sweet show through in a breath-taking way.
When the Purple Heart Stopped Beating
My grandfather never told
me, but I heard how
in’45 he was ordered to hold
an insignificant farm house
against an unlooked-for thousand,
and he did show me
the scars
once. But I always (wars
and all) admired the medals.
He left us, angry
because there wasn't a damn
thing left and he couldn't breathe;
asbestos got him in his bed
waiting for something that he could see.
Is it worth trying
where failure is certain?
Is there a single striving
moment of nobility,
somehow,
in the aiming, in the dying
fall of a dream pursued?
Is there something
in death-denied driving,
a poignant purpose
for the lost fought-for cause?
It took a machine-gun,
an entire division
to get Grandpa out of that house,
but when he lost hope
he laid down and stared
and wheezed.
A hope that is seen
is not a hope at all.
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