Steel Will
Staff Sgt (RET) Shilo Harris with Robin Overby Cox
Shilo Harris is one of the many veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars who have come home with scars from wounds that anyone who comes across them can easily see. In fact, his scars are hard to avoid. Harris was riding in a Humvee that was blown up by an IED while he and his men were clearing a road referred to as Metallica. The blast caused his ears, part of his nose, and some of his fingers to be blown off, and the heat and flames from the ensuing fire burned much of his body. Due to the nature of these wars, wounds like this are nothing new. Harris and Cox detail many of them--all horrifying to imagine, but some gut wrenching to endure through Cox's almost too-vivid descriptions--in Steel Will.
What makes Staff Sgt. (RET) Shilo Harris different from many veterans is that he has chosen to talk about his journey. Steel Will is subtitled "My Journey Through Hell to Become the Man I was Meant to Be." This is an accurate description for the road he walked--he describes the flames and the heat so intense it caused ammunition in the Humvee to discharge and his uniform to melt into his body--and a figurative one as well. Harris doesn't shy away from sharing his own growing pains and mistakes as he grew up in the home of a Vietnam vet suffering from undiagnosed and self-medicated PTSD. He also doesn't shy away from his own selfishness as a young adult and the pain those choices caused for the people around him. So it's no surprise that he doesn't sugar coat the realities of living through his medically-induced coma as his body struggled to heal, the impact of his new life on his family, his guilt over surviving, the cost of his activism, and his children's desire to protect him from stares while they are together in public.
And, through it all, the missteps, the pain, the hell on earth, the hell in his mind, the suicidal thoughts, Harris credits God with helping him endure. I expected faith to play a bigger, more active role in the story Harris and Cox lay out in Steel Will. Instead, it is sort of an underlying theme. And, true to his willing transparency, the faith often belongs to Harris's wife. When he doesn't have his own, he draws on hers. When he can't draw on hers, he humbly draws on his young daughter's. In the end, the steel will to endure might not belong to Shilo Harris. It might belong instead to Kathreyn and Elizabeth Harris.
As the daughter of a former National Guard chaplain who survived my father's deployment to Iraq--a deployment that brought home a different father than he brought over--I can recognize that there are no unwounded soldiers. And there are no unwounded soldiers' families. Being one of those, this was a hard book to read. I read portions of it to my husband, and he asked me to stop. The descriptions turned his stomach. But you know what? Those are the costs of freedom. When we don't have family members or friends or neighbors who serve, it gets easy to debate the merits or horrors of war as theory. When we read a book like Steel Will we are forced to confront them. I think that even though it's hard, this is a book well worth reading. It's worth it to understand just a bit about where our soldiers and their families are and what they endure. It's also worth it to see that in our own ways, God brings each of us through a hell in order to make us into the people we were meant to be. And when it gets too hard to endure, He gives us the steel will of the faith of those around us to help us make it.
Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers program. The opinions I have expressed are my own, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
Showing posts with label military. Show all posts
Showing posts with label military. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
A Dying Man, Giving Up the Fight
My blog takes its title from a song by Sarah Hart (Amy Grant also covered it). I find the song beautiful, and it truly captures my heart--sometimes, perhaps always, honesty is the best hallelujah we can offer. It's the strength and beauty of a crocus popping through the spring snow. It's the mother crying her baby back to sleep in the middle of the night. It's the husband laying his wife of 50 years to rest. It's broken. But it's honest, and it's beautiful. And that broken honesty is better than a hallelujah.
In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.
We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make. And our tears were better than a hallelujah.
We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that. But we still walked. One foot in front of the other. A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh. And then a whispered prayer. And then a sob.
And then the phone rang.
My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years. One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack. Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me. He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had. Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq. You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do. So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad. Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life. This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great. We'll take it. And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.
Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq. We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch. For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay. He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well. But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.
We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son. A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost. As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death. Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did. And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers. There was a rifle salute and taps. The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body. He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.
And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can." We did. We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.
But the memories . . . we can carry those further. There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack. Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared. None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva. And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself. I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him. Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.
Because that was Zack. He was beautiful, and he was broken. And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight." He was tired, so he went Home. And he was greeted with arms open to catch him. To hold him while he rests. And it is better than a hallelujah.
In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.
We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make. And our tears were better than a hallelujah.
We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that. But we still walked. One foot in front of the other. A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh. And then a whispered prayer. And then a sob.
And then the phone rang.
My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years. One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack. Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me. He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had. Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq. You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do. So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad. Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life. This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great. We'll take it. And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.
Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq. We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch. For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay. He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well. But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.
We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son. A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost. As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death. Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did. And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers. There was a rifle salute and taps. The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body. He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.
And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can." We did. We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.
But the memories . . . we can carry those further. There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack. Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared. None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva. And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself. I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him. Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.
Because that was Zack. He was beautiful, and he was broken. And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight." He was tired, so he went Home. And he was greeted with arms open to catch him. To hold him while he rests. And it is better than a hallelujah.
Monday, May 28, 2012
I'm Calling It A Success
I know what Memorial Day is about. I know that it is recognizing the sacrifice that so many men and women--mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, children, brothers, sisters--have made for the freedom that we enjoy. Freedom doesn't come free, just as nothing worth having (besides grace and eternal life) does. Today I'm celebrating Memorial Day with my favorite veteren and wearing the shirt I wore when my family and I went to pick him up in Taylor, MI, four years ago after his year in Iraq. It says, "Some heroes wear capes. Mine wears combat boots." And he does.
But I also know what the first weekend of summer is about. Though we all go back home, and the kids (or at least the oldest one) has two more weeks of school, summer is official with Memorial Day weekend.
* I spent three nights staying up too late with my mom and dad on the porch at Sandy Pines.
* We all woke up too early every morning when little voices started talking as the sun came up.
* Ellie learned to swim--even underwater!--without any flotation device. And she has a red bracelet that says she can ride the water slide all by herself to prove it.
* I have four new mosquito bites.
* Addie decided to pee in the potty and has spent four days dry, except for one accident at the picnic table (much to Megan's disgust, since she was next to her on the bench).
* We have eaten grilled food for three days and will again today.
* We enjoyed ice cream instead of dinner one time and will again today.
* The deck is covered with towels, swimsuits, beach toys, and people relaxing in chairs.
* I received ramekins, both seasons of Downton Abbey, a beautiful new sweater, and lavendar sachets from my birthday celebration.
* I read the second half of a book in three days instead of the five weeks it took me to read the first half.
* We watched the Tigers win three games (in a row!) and the Angels do the same.
I'm calling this one a success.
But I also know what the first weekend of summer is about. Though we all go back home, and the kids (or at least the oldest one) has two more weeks of school, summer is official with Memorial Day weekend.
* I spent three nights staying up too late with my mom and dad on the porch at Sandy Pines.
* We all woke up too early every morning when little voices started talking as the sun came up.
* Ellie learned to swim--even underwater!--without any flotation device. And she has a red bracelet that says she can ride the water slide all by herself to prove it.
* I have four new mosquito bites.
* Addie decided to pee in the potty and has spent four days dry, except for one accident at the picnic table (much to Megan's disgust, since she was next to her on the bench).
* We have eaten grilled food for three days and will again today.
* We enjoyed ice cream instead of dinner one time and will again today.
* The deck is covered with towels, swimsuits, beach toys, and people relaxing in chairs.
* I received ramekins, both seasons of Downton Abbey, a beautiful new sweater, and lavendar sachets from my birthday celebration.
* I read the second half of a book in three days instead of the five weeks it took me to read the first half.
* We watched the Tigers win three games (in a row!) and the Angels do the same.
I'm calling this one a success.
Wednesday, May 02, 2012
The Year Without My Father
It's hard to believe, but four years ago (today, if my memory serves), we were in Taylor, MI, to greet my dad's unit as they returned from serving a year in Baghdad. Megan Leigh met Robert Lee for the first time (at three months old), and we got to regain some sense of normalcy in our lives. In honor of that great day--and that hard, hard year--here is something I wrote for Women's Lifestyle Lakeshore.
The Year Without My Father
“Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes.” Gloria Naylor
I have been here before—in this hotel, in a room not far from this one. That time with my father, and this time waiting for my father. “We made it,” I sigh to myself as my head drops to the pillow. And when I wake, he will be here.
My father is a chaplain with the 177th MP Brigade of the National Guard, and in May 2007, his Brigade was deployed to Baghdad to take part in Operation Enduring Freedom. We were told he would be gone 400 days . . . standing on that end of it, the beginning, it is truly hard to imagine 400 days. At the time he left, my daughter was barely more than 400 days old and she had changed so much in that time. How would we change while my dad was gone? A little girl’s daddy is her entire world while she is young and half of her world when she is old. How would we ever make it through a year without my father—without my world?
I remember when my dad joined the National Guard. I was 13 and in 8th grade when he left for a one-month training. While he was gone, my sister turned 16, and our country entered the first Gulf War. War was so foreign to me at the time that I never thought he would actually be deployed anywhere, so our only concern while he was gone was what day we should take the trash out and where it should go. That war ended quickly, and since then we have been a military family who kept our soldier right by our side. In May 2007, the war came to our family, and our father left it.
Mom, my sister, and I stood at the armory in Taylor, MI, saying goodbye to him and watching him fight back tears as he climbed onto the bus, our own tears falling down our cheeks, anxiety flooding our hearts. Would Dad come home? Would we be the same if he did? Would he be the same if he did?
During his time away, we leaned on my husband and my brother-in-law when we needed a man (not for the trash, but for the grilling), and we leaned on each other when we could. We added yellow ribbons around our trees and National Guard deployment flags in our windows. And we lived each day tender, with empty hearts and tears ready to fall.
Four hundred days means far more than the thirty days he was gone before. This time my parents celebrated an anniversary apart. I turned 30 without my daddy. I announced my pregnancy over the telephone and wished there was a good way to send ultra sound pictures to Iraq. Dad had a birthday surrounded by soldiers and boxes packed with whatever gifts and goodies can travel into another country. My oldest daughter turned two. We celebrated one birthday for each person in our family, without Dad there to sing. On Thanksgiving, we huddled around a web camera, talking to Dad—joking about how badly the Lions would lose, remembering the time that the turkey was almost raw, laughing about the battle for the most turkey skin—all of the same things we share every year, but this time without the joy. My dad never says much, but every meal we shared together was quiet without him.
Our most desperate time may have been Christmas. Tradition for our family dictates that we spend Christmas Eve at my parents’ house, opening our stockings, filled to the brim with more gifts than we could ever need; eating a huge dinner; and opening still more presents. This year, we all moved with mixed emotions toward a holiday that is considered a family favorite in normal years. Dad arranged for his leave time to fall just after Christmas, so we decided to hold off on most of the family celebration until he was back. Still we knew that the day itself, the day that was marked for family, could not be spent apart. So we gathered in a house that felt empty without its spark. I had spent the weeks before Christmas frantically buying gifts that my father could give to my mother, and I tried my hardest to make light of the fact that I filled a role that should have been his. Together on Christmas Eve, we talked with Dad over the computer, but any time that your call travels ocean and most of the way to the other side of the world, the conversation lags in timing and lacks in heart. How do you celebrate such an important day with someone who is present but nowhere around? And how do you share joy while the man who was your world for so long is now a world away and all alone? How does your heart not break?
Dad came home in January, on leave, and we relished each moment, celebrating Christmas again and hanging on every word he spoke. He left again far too soon.
When my daughter was born, it was night in Iraq. That did not stop my dad from rushing to a telephone where he could call us to welcome his fourth granddaughter and learn that this one, named Megan Leigh, shares his middle name. She is the only one in the family to have that honor, in part because he was gone when she was born and in part because, in the end, he really is still my world. That night, as a February blizzard blanketed the city outside our window, I whispered to my baby girl my hopes for her life. They were hopes for peace, joy, love, wisdom, a sense of humor . . . and the gift of being held by my father.
We learned so much during our year apart. We learned about ourselves, about the geography of the middle east, and about each other. We learned about the emptiness of having someone so central to our lives so far away. And we learned that we are stronger than we thought we were.
My dad is home now, for the holidays and the meals and the celebrations. He has held my daughter and participated in her baptism. Life is normal again. But while he was gone, I missed him so.
The Year Without My Father
“Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes.” Gloria Naylor
I have been here before—in this hotel, in a room not far from this one. That time with my father, and this time waiting for my father. “We made it,” I sigh to myself as my head drops to the pillow. And when I wake, he will be here.
My father is a chaplain with the 177th MP Brigade of the National Guard, and in May 2007, his Brigade was deployed to Baghdad to take part in Operation Enduring Freedom. We were told he would be gone 400 days . . . standing on that end of it, the beginning, it is truly hard to imagine 400 days. At the time he left, my daughter was barely more than 400 days old and she had changed so much in that time. How would we change while my dad was gone? A little girl’s daddy is her entire world while she is young and half of her world when she is old. How would we ever make it through a year without my father—without my world?
I remember when my dad joined the National Guard. I was 13 and in 8th grade when he left for a one-month training. While he was gone, my sister turned 16, and our country entered the first Gulf War. War was so foreign to me at the time that I never thought he would actually be deployed anywhere, so our only concern while he was gone was what day we should take the trash out and where it should go. That war ended quickly, and since then we have been a military family who kept our soldier right by our side. In May 2007, the war came to our family, and our father left it.
Mom, my sister, and I stood at the armory in Taylor, MI, saying goodbye to him and watching him fight back tears as he climbed onto the bus, our own tears falling down our cheeks, anxiety flooding our hearts. Would Dad come home? Would we be the same if he did? Would he be the same if he did?
During his time away, we leaned on my husband and my brother-in-law when we needed a man (not for the trash, but for the grilling), and we leaned on each other when we could. We added yellow ribbons around our trees and National Guard deployment flags in our windows. And we lived each day tender, with empty hearts and tears ready to fall.
Four hundred days means far more than the thirty days he was gone before. This time my parents celebrated an anniversary apart. I turned 30 without my daddy. I announced my pregnancy over the telephone and wished there was a good way to send ultra sound pictures to Iraq. Dad had a birthday surrounded by soldiers and boxes packed with whatever gifts and goodies can travel into another country. My oldest daughter turned two. We celebrated one birthday for each person in our family, without Dad there to sing. On Thanksgiving, we huddled around a web camera, talking to Dad—joking about how badly the Lions would lose, remembering the time that the turkey was almost raw, laughing about the battle for the most turkey skin—all of the same things we share every year, but this time without the joy. My dad never says much, but every meal we shared together was quiet without him.
Our most desperate time may have been Christmas. Tradition for our family dictates that we spend Christmas Eve at my parents’ house, opening our stockings, filled to the brim with more gifts than we could ever need; eating a huge dinner; and opening still more presents. This year, we all moved with mixed emotions toward a holiday that is considered a family favorite in normal years. Dad arranged for his leave time to fall just after Christmas, so we decided to hold off on most of the family celebration until he was back. Still we knew that the day itself, the day that was marked for family, could not be spent apart. So we gathered in a house that felt empty without its spark. I had spent the weeks before Christmas frantically buying gifts that my father could give to my mother, and I tried my hardest to make light of the fact that I filled a role that should have been his. Together on Christmas Eve, we talked with Dad over the computer, but any time that your call travels ocean and most of the way to the other side of the world, the conversation lags in timing and lacks in heart. How do you celebrate such an important day with someone who is present but nowhere around? And how do you share joy while the man who was your world for so long is now a world away and all alone? How does your heart not break?
Dad came home in January, on leave, and we relished each moment, celebrating Christmas again and hanging on every word he spoke. He left again far too soon.
When my daughter was born, it was night in Iraq. That did not stop my dad from rushing to a telephone where he could call us to welcome his fourth granddaughter and learn that this one, named Megan Leigh, shares his middle name. She is the only one in the family to have that honor, in part because he was gone when she was born and in part because, in the end, he really is still my world. That night, as a February blizzard blanketed the city outside our window, I whispered to my baby girl my hopes for her life. They were hopes for peace, joy, love, wisdom, a sense of humor . . . and the gift of being held by my father.
We learned so much during our year apart. We learned about ourselves, about the geography of the middle east, and about each other. We learned about the emptiness of having someone so central to our lives so far away. And we learned that we are stronger than we thought we were.
My dad is home now, for the holidays and the meals and the celebrations. He has held my daughter and participated in her baptism. Life is normal again. But while he was gone, I missed him so.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
400 Days
It's not really that long. It's not the end of the world. It's not forever.
But it is a really long time.
In 400 Days, my daughter went from inside me to walking around and talking. She learned to smile, laugh, sit up, roll over, fall asleep on her own, feed herself, play, talk, walk, run, make up songs, tell jokes . . .
In the next 400 Days, she'll likely be joined by a baby brother or sister (a sister, if you ask her!), maybe she'll learn to potty in the toilet (Mommy's wishful thinking!), she'll turn two, and she'll learn a million more words, jokes, and motions for nursery rhymes and songs.
It's not the end of the world. It's not forever. But it's a long time to miss your grandpa . . . and my daddy.
Be proud of your grandpa, young one. He is going to a place where he'll be in danger . . . where he'll be learning new things and "playing" new games. There will be new people . . . many with guns, many with bombs and IEDs. But they'll be people, sweet thing, and that's why your grandpa is going. Grandpa will live a life no one should have to, and he really will be one of the safest people there. My darling daughter, I don't know if he'll come home. There are no promises. But I do know that the soldiers there--mommies, daddies, grandmas, grandpas, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, sons, daughters--will be lucky to have the man that we are lucky to have. For the next 400 Days you will know your grandpa only through technology. Through email and through webcams. For the next 400 Days Mommy will not curse technology again. Except when it doesn't work. Except when Mommy can't bring Grandpa into your living room for you to love and tell jokes to and sing songs together. Except if that tape erases, and we lose his stories.
My love, I wish that I could make this different. I'm sorry that you have to say goodbye for longer than you imagined. I'm sorry that your sweet "Bompa" will miss the next 400 Days and that you will wonder where he is and why Mommy is sad sometimes. I'm sorry that I can't promise he'll come back to us just because we tie a yellow ribbon on our porch and pray as hard as we can. Just know that Chaplain Bierenga loves you more than he can say. And that he'll do all he can to come back to you and hug you and swing you onto his shoulder and whisper in your ear.
Until then, 400 Days isn't so long. Really. Really?
But it is a really long time.
In 400 Days, my daughter went from inside me to walking around and talking. She learned to smile, laugh, sit up, roll over, fall asleep on her own, feed herself, play, talk, walk, run, make up songs, tell jokes . . .
In the next 400 Days, she'll likely be joined by a baby brother or sister (a sister, if you ask her!), maybe she'll learn to potty in the toilet (Mommy's wishful thinking!), she'll turn two, and she'll learn a million more words, jokes, and motions for nursery rhymes and songs.
It's not the end of the world. It's not forever. But it's a long time to miss your grandpa . . . and my daddy.
Be proud of your grandpa, young one. He is going to a place where he'll be in danger . . . where he'll be learning new things and "playing" new games. There will be new people . . . many with guns, many with bombs and IEDs. But they'll be people, sweet thing, and that's why your grandpa is going. Grandpa will live a life no one should have to, and he really will be one of the safest people there. My darling daughter, I don't know if he'll come home. There are no promises. But I do know that the soldiers there--mommies, daddies, grandmas, grandpas, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, sons, daughters--will be lucky to have the man that we are lucky to have. For the next 400 Days you will know your grandpa only through technology. Through email and through webcams. For the next 400 Days Mommy will not curse technology again. Except when it doesn't work. Except when Mommy can't bring Grandpa into your living room for you to love and tell jokes to and sing songs together. Except if that tape erases, and we lose his stories.
My love, I wish that I could make this different. I'm sorry that you have to say goodbye for longer than you imagined. I'm sorry that your sweet "Bompa" will miss the next 400 Days and that you will wonder where he is and why Mommy is sad sometimes. I'm sorry that I can't promise he'll come back to us just because we tie a yellow ribbon on our porch and pray as hard as we can. Just know that Chaplain Bierenga loves you more than he can say. And that he'll do all he can to come back to you and hug you and swing you onto his shoulder and whisper in your ear.
Until then, 400 Days isn't so long. Really. Really?
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