Love of Country
When I was six years old I spent a week in July with my Godmother in New York City. On the 4th of July, after a fun-filled cookout in the park, we all went up on the rooftop of her Battery Park apartment to watch the fireworks.
That’s when I first saw the Statue of Liberty. She was breathtaking. Leaning forward. Her hand held high to light the way. Embraced in that moment by the warmth of the nation, she seemed to conduct the spectacular fireworks display that echoed in cadence to America the Beautiful and the Star Spangled Banner. That was all it took. From that day forward: America was mine, and I was hers. A patriot had been born.
All four of my grandparents served in World War II, yet none of their children served. As the first grandchild, groomed under the blanket of my grandfathers protection, I was molded with a military bearing. I remember my Grandfather’s stories of his time in the Navy, the pride in his eyes as he recounted the heroics of his fellow servicemen, and at times, the tears that would begin to form in that moment’s memory of his fallen brothers.
I didn’t have any brothers growing up, but I found some in the Army who’s bond will forever hold stronger than blood.
Combat is an especially emotional engagement. They were some of the best and worst times of my life. I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Service, sacrifice, and love of country abound. A heart-felt, soul-born purpose that honors the ideals of liberty, freedom, and righteousness that may not always be touched, but can always be felt. When compared to the sacrifice required in WWII or today’s modern engagements, my own military service was neither exemplary nor particularly heroic. But to this day, having served my country in combat remains the single greatest honor of my life.
Throughout my time overseas, I kept what I called my “war journals.” Sometimes they were nothing more than unsent letters to my family, close friends, or longed for loves. Other times they were just for me. Hand-scribed notes written down and and tucked away for future reflection. Other times there were nothing more than the ramblings of youth — a maturity perceived, but not yet achieved.
There is a permanence to the written word. Even when those words are nothing more than a soul-bearing, emotional diatribe, inked down alongside the photographs of whoever is being craved, missed, or forsaken. They offer a solace in their memory that — at least in those moments — can not be found elsewhere.
Today they all sit in a battered-brown-box buried deep in a trunk I once used on deployments. Every now and then, I’ll pull down it down from it’s quasi-hiding place at the back of a top closet shelf. Just opening the box releases a flood of emotion and memories. Old sand, dried tears, and faint perfume, mix constant reminders with memory of times almost-forgotten. Notebooks safeguarding too many funeral cards and too few kiss-sealed envelopes. Reminders of a time most honored in my heart yet most tormented in my soul.
Looking back, I realize those days were a long time ago for me. Where I once stood, another now stands in that same sand, having those same thoughts, fighting that same fight. Another vigilant guardian with a ready sword.
Today I am home, and I’m looking forward to once again seeing my old love on her perch of peace as she welcomes some and comforts others with her vigilance, certainty, and genuine sincerity. This year, on America’s birthday, I’ll renew the same oath I pledge to her every year: to try and serve her as best I can in helping to ensure a certainty of safety for all, and my thanks for being afforded such a privilege.
We are not beholden to our past, nor locked into a preset future. We must embrace those moments when the purse strings of good fortune are opened. We must seek out the glory awaiting to be shared with others.
So this year, after the sun has kissed our skin, the burgers have been devoured, and we make our way to open fields with loved ones in tow, let us all take a moment to reflect upon what it took to get here, and the price we have all paid along the way. Fourth of July’s always have the best endings: fireworks, music, and the promise of a better tomorrow. Freedom will never be free, but it will always be worth the sacrifice it requires.
To all of the veterans: THANK YOU! You have done more than your part. You have given more than any could ever ask to give. Know in your heart you have the thanks and love of generations yet to come. If you’re anything like me, your chest will will swell with pride during the chorus of America’s anthem. And in that moment when memories turn into salty tears burning the corner of your eyes — having cried not for the moment, but for the memory the moment reminds — remember this: The fallen ask only to be remembered, and they ask nothing more in return.
With Love of Country,
Spencer Coursen
