The Homecoming

The soft glow of the lamp radiated barely sufficient light to allow the tabletop to be illuminated. On one corner sat a picture frame, shards of glass surrounded the now bent frame and that once housed a photograph. And on the floor next to the table, tiny specs of crimson red dotted the almost white carpet.

The front door to the cabin was ajar and the light tuffs of snow blew in with each gust of the northern wind. As the snow drifted through the opened door, it swirled and landed lightly on the tile floor, resting momentarily before dissolving into a droplet of cool water. Each molecule drawing to the next and mixing with the iridescent glow of the crimson droplets that had found their way to the foyer, painting the tile slowly in shades of pink and gray.

The embers next to the hearth had been reduced to a warm glow, no longer producing fingers of flame to tantalize the remainders of the large split log carcass lying in state on its grating. Yet the cabin was warm in spite of the attempts of the frigid air to reduce the temperate climate to an equal level with the outdoors.

In the kitchen, the stove continued to cradle a teapot of water in a blue flame of gas, rapidly whistling to the former occupants that the liquid was now ready to use in creating a concoction to warm the inner man. On other burners, pots were wistfully steaming vegetables, and in the oven, a succulent roast was nearing its completion.

From a corner nearby, a radio played music and alternately cried out with news of the current events. And in the lavatory, the young lady of the house worked intently at removing the shards of glass from her hands, aided by the basin full of water and hindered by the streaming tears in her eyes. She had wanted everything to be perfect. He had been gone so long and would be arriving home just in time to help her prepare for their newest arrival. And now it all seemed so pointless, dreams shattered and duty called her on, though she had no desire to continue. Today was the homecoming, but not the one she wanted.

Seven and one half months ago she had stood on the tarmac, waving the little flag and waving goodbye as he had climbed the steps of the plane that would whisk him off to a foreign land to battle forces of evil that threatened the life and liberty of all freedom loving people. She had been so proud, and so scared.

Each day since, the television news and its broadcasts of troops from overseas, newspapers, and radio news had consumed her every waking hour. Hoping for a glimpse, or even some scrap of news that would let her know that her best friend, her lover, her husband, the father of their first-born was safe.

Letters came, though not often enough. Each one was read and analyzed with a wife's mind, noting the phrases, which unwillingly revealed his fear and wish to be home with his wife. Home again to work at his task of farming and building their future. And as she wrote to him each day, the tears would well up and travel down her cheeks, often to be mixed with the ink in the paper. He would assure her that all was well, the war would be over soon and he would be home, and she would tell him of her love and need for his strength at home.

Friends would come by to visit, bringing all manor of gifts, and each time a car pulled to the gate at their fenced front yard, her heart sank for a moment until she was assured that it was not a messenger of woe. Chastising herself, each time for even imagining something as dreadful as that could happen.

Each time she saw the protestors on the evening news, her heart would scream out in disgust, as they waived their angry fists and accused the soldiers of being cruel, immoral and vicious. How could they be so hateful? Didn't they know that he was over there for them, that the reason he risked his life was so that they as well as others around the world could have the same right to voice their opinions.

Months had gone by and then the letters stopped. A newscast reported the capture of our soldiers and their being held as prisoners. Soon videotape was shown, and then she was able to see her young husband, huddled in a corner, his beaten body bleeding, and limbs broken and twisted. How the tears flowed then, and when he looked up into the camera and mouthed the words, “I love you”, she burst into tears of joy, for she knew that he would be home.

Hours later the men showed up at the door. But somehow she was ready for them. They came to bring news of her husband. He had been captured, but he was alive and they had high expectations that he would soon be home. He was hurt, but he would be fine.

A few more weeks and she received a phone call from Germany. He had been rescued, and was calling home from the hospital. Soon he would be home. Arms broken and reduced to mobility by using a wheelchair, she still could hear the love in his voice and new that soon he would be home. No physical injury could tear them apart and he was just as vital as ever before.

Yes, tonight was the night. She had prepared the perfect meal. The base was just 4 miles away and she was to pick him up at 7:00 that evening. He hadn't wanted her to meet him at the plane. He wanted to prove he was still strong and capable, so they agreed to meet at the gate.

At 6:15, the men arrived. They drove a sedan with black wall tires and government license plates. Three men in uniform, each with a look of sadness as they walked toward the door. She had been standing there with the picture in her hand. And as they approached her world began to dissolve. The picture was thrown, not because of the photograph, but because it was in her hands.

The men entered the house and a young sergeant held her as she sobbed and screamed. They had a story to tell, but it would be at least an hour before she could listen. As they told her about the accident, she listened intently, As if this was someone else, she composed herself and her anger began to grow.

But her anger was not at the enemy in a foreign land, nor our government or military. Instead her anger was aimed at the war protestors. Because of a demonstration at the entrance to the base, a group of protestors tried to block a delivery truck from entry. The truck driver had swerved to miss the group of people and lost control, hitting the guard shack, all its occupants were incinerated as the truck burst into flames. And there in the guard post, awaiting a friend to take him home early to surprise his wife, was her husband.

As the men told her the story, the television news showed a videotape of the scene and interviewed one of the protestors. The protestor was vicious in his attack and told all that would listen that these men deserved to die. He spoke of their evil and how they killed innocent people.

And the men left. She went to pick up her photograph and cut her finger with the shards of glass. And as she bled, the crimson drops reminded her that the life that was sacrificed was not in vain. And a new resolve grew within her that she would teach her child of the bravery of the father that survived war fighting for the liberty of the very people who ended his life.

The boy has grown up now, and his momma is proud. He has gone to fight tyranny in another land so that we may be safe and free. And each day she watches the news and seeks a glimpse of her son. And each day she sees the protestors spewing forth their bile in hatred of those who protect them. And when she was recently asked about how she felt about her son being in the service, her reply was that she is proud and looking forward to the day he comes home to his wife and newborn daughter.

You see, those who know what it is like to pay the cost for freedom, truth, and safety are not the ones that rant and rave. It is after all; those who have never lost anything that are incapable of seeing the value of the deeds of our soldiers. For they have never had to pay a cost, or look in the eyes of another who has lost everything dear to them for our freedom.

Pray for our soldiers, their families, and most of all for those that are so short sighted in their views that they cannot fathom the importance of the tasks are military perform for us. And remember the fallen, remember their families, and remember the reason we have liberties that no other country has.


	The Homecoming The soft glow of the lamp radiated barely sufficient light to allow the tabletop to be illuminated. On one corner sat a picture frame, shards of glass surrounded the now bent frame and that once housed a photograph. And on the floor next to the table, tiny specs of crimson red dotted the almost white carpet. The front door to the cabin was ajar and the light tuffs of snow blew in with each gust of the northern wind. As the snow drifted through the opened door, it swirled and landed lightly on the tile floor, resting momentarily before dissolving into a droplet of cool water. Each molecule drawing to the next and mixing with the iridescent glow of the crimson droplets that had found their way to the foyer, painting the tile slowly in shades of pink and gray. The embers next to the hearth had been reduced to a warm glow, no longer producing fingers of flame to tantalize the remainders of the large split log carcass lying in state on its grating. Yet the cabin was warm in spite of the attempts of the frigid air to reduce the temperate climate to an equal level with the outdoors. In the kitchen, the stove continued to cradle a teapot of water in a blue flame of gas, rapidly whistling to the former occupants that the liquid was now ready to use in creating a concoction to warm the inner man. On other burners, pots were wistfully steaming vegetables, and in the oven, a succulent roast was nearing its completion. From a corner nearby, a radio played music and alternately cried out with news of the current events. And in the lavatory, the young lady of the house worked intently at removing the shards of glass from her hands, aided by the basin full of water and hindered by the streaming tears in her eyes. She had wanted everything to be perfect. He had been gone so long and would be arriving home just in time to help her prepare for their newest arrival. And now it all seemed so pointless, dreams shattered and duty called her on, though she had no desire to continue. Today was the homecoming, but not the one she wanted. Seven and one half months ago she had stood on the tarmac, waving the little flag and waving goodbye as he had climbed the steps of the plane that would whisk him off to a foreign land to battle forces of evil that threatened the life and liberty of all freedom loving people. She had been so proud, and so scared. Each day since, the television news and its broadcasts of troops from overseas, newspapers, and radio news had consumed her every waking hour. Hoping for a glimpse, or even some scrap of news that would let her know that her best friend, her lover, her husband, the father of their first-born was safe. Letters came, though not often enough. Each one was read and analyzed with a wife's mind, noting the phrases, which unwillingly revealed his fear and wish to be home with his wife. Home again to work at his task of farming and building their future. And as she wrote to him each day, the tears would well up and travel down her cheeks, often to be mixed with the ink in the paper. He would assure her that all was well, the war would be over soon and he would be home, and she would tell him of her love and need for his strength at home. Friends would come by to visit, bringing all manor of gifts, and each time a car pulled to the gate at their fenced front yard, her heart sank for a moment until she was assured that it was not a messenger of woe. Chastising herself, each time for even imagining something as dreadful as that could happen. Each time she saw the protestors on the evening news, her heart would scream out in disgust, as they waived their angry fists and accused the soldiers of being cruel, immoral and vicious. How could they be so hateful? Didn't they know that he was over there for them, that the reason he risked his life was so that they as well as others around the world could have the same right to voice their opinions. Months had gone by and then the letters stopped. A newscast reported the capture of our soldiers and their being held as prisoners. Soon videotape was shown, and then she was able to see her young husband, huddled in a corner, his beaten body bleeding, and limbs broken and twisted. How the tears flowed then, and when he looked up into the camera and mouthed the words, “I love you”, she burst into tears of joy, for she knew that he would be home. Hours later the men showed up at the door. But somehow she was ready for them. They came to bring news of her husband. He had been captured, but he was alive and they had high expectations that he would soon be home. He was hurt, but he would be fine. A few more weeks and she received a phone call from Germany. He had been rescued, and was calling home from the hospital. Soon he would be home. Arms broken and reduced to mobility by using a wheelchair, she still could hear the love in his voice and new that soon he would be home. No physical injury could tear them apart and he was just as vital as ever before. Yes, tonight was the night. She had prepared the perfect meal. The base was just 4 miles away and she was to pick him up at 7:00 that evening. He hadn't wanted her to meet him at the plane. He wanted to prove he was still strong and capable, so they agreed to meet at the gate. At 6:15, the men arrived. They drove a sedan with black wall tires and government license plates. Three men in uniform, each with a look of sadness as they walked toward the door. She had been standing there with the picture in her hand. And as they approached her world began to dissolve. The picture was thrown, not because of the photograph, but because it was in her hands. The men entered the house and a young sergeant held her as she sobbed and screamed. They had a story to tell, but it would be at least an hour before she could listen. As they told her about the accident, she listened intently, As if this was someone else, she composed herself and her anger began to grow. But her anger was not at the enemy in a foreign land, nor our government or military. Instead her anger was aimed at the war protestors. Because of a demonstration at the entrance to the base, a group of protestors tried to block a delivery truck from entry. The truck driver had swerved to miss the group of people and lost control, hitting the guard shack, all its occupants were incinerated as the truck burst into flames. And there in the guard post, awaiting a friend to take him home early to surprise his wife, was her husband. As the men told her the story, the television news showed a videotape of the scene and interviewed one of the protestors. The protestor was vicious in his attack and told all that would listen that these men deserved to die. He spoke of their evil and how they killed innocent people. And the men left. She went to pick up her photograph and cut her finger with the shards of glass. And as she bled, the crimson drops reminded her that the life that was sacrificed was not in vain. And a new resolve grew within her that she would teach her child of the bravery of the father that survived war fighting for the liberty of the very people who ended his life. The boy has grown up now, and his momma is proud. He has gone to fight tyranny in another land so that we may be safe and free. And each day she watches the news and seeks a glimpse of her son. And each day she sees the protestors spewing forth their bile in hatred of those who protect them. And when she was recently asked about how she felt about her son being in the service, her reply was that she is proud and looking forward to the day he comes home to his wife and newborn daughter. You see, those who know what it is like to pay the cost for freedom, truth, and safety are not the ones that rant and rave. It is after all; those who have never lost anything that are incapable of seeing the value of the deeds of our soldiers. For they have never had to pay a cost, or look in the eyes of another who has lost everything dear to them for our freedom. Pray for our soldiers, their families, and most of all for those that are so short sighted in their views that they cannot fathom the importance of the tasks are military perform for us. And remember the fallen, remember their families, and remember the reason we have liberties that no other country has. Abram H. Hall ©Copyright 2004 HOME