Giving Thanks

The warmth of the sun is a nice offset in temperature to the cool breeze brushing against my face. I open the door for the wife as she walks into the chiropractor’s office, we both took the morning to spend some intentional one-on-one time together. A day before Thanksgiving, and it is not every day we get this chance alone during the day. As we are both working hard to raise our children and live life. These weekly dates have become mandatory per her request, all I do is make sure I show up and be fully invested and present for her.

I enter behind her and follow in stride to the check-in desk as the door behind me closes. As we approach the check-in desk, we both recognize the front desk lady, as she is here every time, we come to get our bodies and joints adjusted. The front desk lady raises her head from scrolling her phone, throws her hands onto the keyboard, and with her happy tone, “Hey guys, how are you?” My wife replies as her blonde hair shines even brighter from the light bouncing off it, “We are good, I missed you last week,” she adds, while she steps to the side for this older gentleman who swipes his card on the scanner and beats Savanna and me in for check-in. He must have floated into the office; I didn’t hear the door open or the bell chime. I remember checking my rear and doing a quick three-hundred-and-sixty-degree scan of the area as we approached the door. So how he made his way into the office was strange to me as I reflect on it.

He says, with a gentle voice, “Excuse me,” smiles, turns, and walks away in a faded United States Marine’s Hat. The velcro strap on the back appears to spell out Wayne. In faded grey stitching that almost blends into the faded brown camouflage design of the hat. His pepper beard with gray hair flaring out from beneath the hat and sun-beat face made him look tired. A bit heavier up top than his lower half, with a button Hawaii-style shirt and a pair of blue jean cargo shorts that went to his knees, a pair of white long socks, and black slip-on Sketcher sneakers. I tune out the conversation that my wife and the front desk lady are having and sit down. I look over at the gentlemen and smile, saying, “Happy Thanksgiving Devil Dog!!!” Loud and proud with confidence. He looked at me smiled and said, “Same to you Devil Dog,” crossing his right foot over his left knee. The wife finally comes over and sits next to me, I lose track of what the man says next as my attention is broken by the beauty of my wife as she passes by. I reply stuck in my wife’s spell, not looking at the man, and burst out with, “I served for 8 years.”

He ignored my reply placing his arm on the armrest, and asked, “How old are you?” Without hesitation, I reply, “I am 35 years old.” He then goes,” I wasn’t a Marine, I served in the Army.” I sit more upright in the chair lock eyes with him, and reply, “Right on,” before I can finish my sentence, sadness comes from his mouth, “My son was,” and he looks down at his foot dangling in front of him. Shifting his eyes back into mine, then at the wife, he says, “He would be thirty-nine this year.” He looks away from us again, feeling the energy in the office morph into a grey day outside. Still caught off guard by the conversation, he turns back at us, his eyes heavy with tears in them, he builds the courage to speak again, “He died twenty years ago in Iraq,” still fighting the tears back from flushing out. I am not sure how to feel, but twenty years ago the war had just kicked off and the Marines were in full fighting force in Iraq. At first, not sure what to say or ask, but of course, I put on that coat of protection to stay strong, and I asked, “Where was he in Iraq?” The grey-breaded man gave me a surprised look, thrown off that I kept the conversation going.

A bit of life came back into him I saw, he started to think, his elbows raised up, and he said, “He worked in the Baghdad area and surrounding villages.” He uncrosses his legs, and keeps speaking, “He served with 1/7, he was infantry.” The conversation becomes discord as the doctor walks into the open lobby and hears us chatting. The doctor didn’t call him by his name, he just said with a cheerful grin and swinging arms, “You ready?” The old man pops up, walks over, shakes his hand, and says, “Good to see you, Doc.” The doctor dressed in all black, tall and lean, with fair skin and a brown combover meets his hand with his, and replies, “Same to you, my friend.” They both started to move towards the treatment room, where he continued to share the story, he was telling me.

I for sure was curious about this man’s story, yet I wasn’t meant to hear it from him. When I start to reflect on it, this time thirteen years ago, I was on a night patrol with my teammates, knocking on other human's doors and taking over their homes to fight from. Then locking them in a room or in the house with us. When they were not able to leave, we held them hostage to fight the Taliban and keep us safe. Again, thirteen years ago, I was in the same harm's way as his son was twenty years ago.

The only difference is I made it home and he did not. Did I get lucky? I will never know the answer. Very similar to the older gentleman who still questions why his son, twenty years ago was taken from him. It feels as if a rock falls into your stomach. Plus, I know firsthand how we played with the devil himself or evil while at war. What is it that makes me different than the older gentleman’s son? Who also put the same uniform on, went through the same phases of boot camp, earned the title Marine, and morphed into a war machine for his country.

Now, here I am thirteen years later, walking into the Joint Chiropractor's office, with four kids, a beautiful wife, and a positive role in society. Doing better than I was six years ago, and I certainly come very far from my time fighting the Taliban. Then of course the contrast of life slaps me in the face of this man who is old enough to be my dad, who lost his son twenty years ago. Yet, me returning from war and in front of him, makes the pain even more unbearable and it shows, that devastation weighs him down. The man finishes up with the doctor in happy spirits and his head up high, he comes by me, and I put my hand out and say, “Thank you, Sir.” He looks me in the eyes for a quick second, says, “Thank You”, and walks away.

The older man and I are no different, he misses his son every day, and I miss my father who died weeks before I headed off to fight the Taliban, thirteen years ago. The wife and I head to the back and the doctor fills us in with what happened. The man’s son fell off a twenty-plus foot tower while being shot at, his pants got stuck on some bob wire and he tussled to get loose but lost control, slipped, and fell to his death. That rock in my stomach I mentioned earlier, got even heavier, and my heart sank as well. What a way to go out and for his parents to still be wondering why today. And here he sees me at the age of thirty-five, four years younger than his son with my beautiful wife, striving, proud to be a Marine, who fought for his country. To stand strong as he would have wanted his son to do today, just as my dad would have.

I am four years younger than his son who made it back alive and living a life fuller than I would have ever imagined. These little moments offer so much fuel to keep living and gratitude towards my purpose of being here today. It gives me thanks for the lessons and pain I’ve experienced up to this point. It also gives me the lens to know that even when I might feel like I am losing. I am truly winning, and that is what matters. It is relearning how to view life and knowing it comes with a strategy and awareness to accept its gifts like I received today. I never believed in hope till today, learning that hope is a strategy that keeps me chasing my purpose in life.

Thank you, universe, for giving me something to share, a time to reflect and feel. For me, this moment will always be engrained into my heart and soul. I am thankful for these gifts, moments, lessons, and experiences. I am proud to be the man I am today, a true warrior, learning that warriors are not only here to fight external wars. They are here to teach us how to fight internal wars and never stop fighting by re-claiming our humanity and love for ourselves. I’ll keep living for this man whom I met inside the chiropractor’s office, I will keep living for my father whom I lost thirteen years ago, who I wish was here today. I will keep fighting the good fight for the brothers and sisters who are no longer to my left and right. I will never stop putting one foot in front of the other. Thirteen years later, full of emotions that I feel so much, no longer desensitized to the universe, no longer tough enough to hold back the tears as they roll down my cheeks while my fingers tap dancing across the keyboard finishing up my final words. So here is to those we miss and love and will never know why they were taken from us, but we must be proud to share their stories and keep their spirits alive.