Stealing Home: One Step At A Time

"Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction ..." - James 1:27

"Run To Home Plate: One Step At A Time"

My goal for 2011 is singular, with the following mission in mind: I signed up recently to help some amazing men and women who fight for a distant group of persons - yet for a ideal held close to their hearts. Freedom by any other word ...

All of us know the score, the aftermath, of a decade-plus of warfare after the inhuman attacks against our nation on 9-11-01. We know the rationale for keeping our troops there, for fighting two wars simultaneously. Nevertheless, with no 'end game' in sight, no means to extract ourselves from a raging conflict that spans numerous mountain ranges, lowland deserts and inland seas, at home we openly question where does all this lead us now?

I truly don't have the answers to that.

But I have compelling evidence that many soldiers, who have immediate concerns ranging far above those of political scenarios of world significance, need our help.

"Run To Home Plate," a fundraiser to bring much needed help to families of injured soldiers is just that: a mission with a clarion call for assistance for those who are in desperate need, whose world has meet great hardship with no end in sight.

These are soldiers who suffered severe TBIs - short for Traumatic Brain Injuries. Remember those videos on news programs whereby elements of terror use IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices) to trigger tremendous explosions that due great harm and bodily injury to our fighting men and women? Some are killed outright, with little suffering. Then there are the others....

"The others" can range along a large spectrum of wounded: maimed or scarred from bomb shrapnel, they limp (or worse) home to family and friends who hold them with open arms, glad that someone they cherished at least have their very lives to live among those that love them dearly.

The less fortunate are those who suffer trauma to their brain: the sheer blast force from bombs planted in roads or within vehicles can jar the brain severely, unleashing a huge amount of kinetic energy to the delicate brain tissue that lies within the calvarium itself...

It is cold today, as it has been for the last 10 days. I get ready for my 'hike' as I call it with my boots on, my layers of clothing meant to keep warmth in and the cold.... out. The sixth snowstorm to strike the Northeast has brought with it numerous feet of the white stuff, making my brisk walking altogether somewhat dangerous as the cars that drive by sometimes do not slow down for me, due to no sidewalks, right?

"It's nothing compared to the danger those troops face every day", I tell myself.

The temperatures are low enough to bring a sting to the face, the ice pellets when sleet takes over for the snow strikes the cornea of the eyes with that telltale burn that stops for nothing, for no one. "It's nothing", I remind myself again, how do you feel this as anything of consequence when who you are trying to help have had part of their faces blown away by bomb detonations feet away from where they stood?

I press on.

My low back pain, near incessant at times due to multiple disc bulging - is a constant hurt. I have nearly non-stop sciatica involvement ... and to top things off evenly, the plantar fascitis in the heel requires shots of steroid, frequently.

I walk as fast as humanly as possible, realizing that in the days ahead, I will have to run, walk, hobble, limp and perhaps crawl this entire 9km race with others equally intent on raising the required funds to help those who have fought for us so diligently, so courageously... and now, at home, they are nearly defenseless, with little else but Government checks to get them by...

My back is killing me, my heart pounds, my will is sapped. I know all I need is ONE picture in my mind to make it all go away - at least for awhile.

Picture it: the woman whose husband is now home, barely able to communicate, in a wheelchair, and has a child on the way ... and two at her side? She weeps near uncontrollably, for she has bills mounting - and not enough money to pay them all. Her kids do not know yet what is wrong with their father, who used to come home and pick them up and play with them.

I... press...on. I choose to feel this hurt. So many refuse to do so.

And my hurts are so small - all of them, compared to what every single badly injured Marine, Airman, Soldier or Sailor ever endured.

That, I tell myself, is God's loving truth.

I limp as far as I can, counting the last mile as I go uphill, the windchill index telling me that the cold others have felt from once-friendly neighbors simply cannot be described. Instead of helping wheel her husband inside the house, they pretend to look elsewhere, pretend to weed something out of the sidewalk or walk with due vigilance to the mailbox, ignoring what is open to them in the plain light of day.

Being abandoned by others, your own countrymen and women, do you think that's happened before?

I get inside, realize that what I do, with these incredible people in mind, people who in some cases died for me - for you - for an idea and an ideal, should be honored with our entire heart, mind and soul.

We are entering a period where we wonder - is this war winnable? I say absolutely yes. Just go across the street to that neighbor and see what you can do. Already, you are fighting back, telling someone that in their hour of need, they are not alone. Our generals are right in that they know that winning the minds of the people first is how you win wars. Why must it be only where the war is fought for this be true? It is every bit as important to fight for the minds of our own countrymen here and now more than ever before.

I know that my personal battle, mine own war for bettering myself is what happens when I seek to help others. Moreover, there is no finer way to help than those who are widowed, alone and in despair.