I grew up in a military home.
My grandpa served in the waters of the Pacific during World War II, having one ship torpedoed out from under him and earning a Purple Heart when the second was attacked by Japanese kamikazes.
My dad was a 25-year, Vietnam-era veteran of the U.S. Air Force. He flew refueling planes like the KC-135 and trained pilots. The sacrifice associated with service in the military was never far from our minds, and my parents made it a habit to surround us with conscious memories of what was done on our behalf by generations of servicemen and women.
We went to several military honor events, heard "Taps" played on a number of occasions, and also got the opportunity to hear guest speakers recount tales of heroism and sacrifice.
On one occasion, I heard a Vietnamese immigrant recount one of the most amazing stories of survival I'd ever heard. It's been so long that I don't remember the lady's name or even where I heard her share her testimony. But I'll never forget what she said or how she said it.
She was a little girl when the Vietnamese civil war raged in the late '60s. Those like her, living in South Vietnam, understood that even though the conflict was sold by Ho Chi Minh as a war to rid Vietnam of foreign invaders, it was more or less a war for their own survival.
She told of a terrifying ordeal that unfolded in the jungle surrounding her own village when she was just 8 years old. The Vietcong had launched an assault on their huts, continuing their bloody crusade to demoralize American forces while simultaneously bringing the South Vietnamese resistance to its knees.
Whenever gunfire erupted near them, her family would hide as best they could inside or outside of the hut depending on time and intensity of the fighting. On this occasion, the intensity was extraordinary, and in the absence of her father who had been killed months previous in a different Vietcong raid, her mom put the girl and her two younger sisters in a corner and shielded them with her body.
I remember sitting on the edge of my seat as this Vietnamese survivor told how the gunfire and the shouts became louder and louder until the moonlit entrance to their hut suddenly displayed the silhouettes of 3 heavily armed soldiers. Both of her sisters began wailing unconsolably as the men began moving towards them.
I remember the speaker pausing for a moment, perhaps to let us all visualize the terror that must have befallen this desperate family. Then she said that in the midst of the fear and trembling, she heard her mother's relieved and thankful voice reassuring, "It's ok. It's going to be ok."
Confused, she looked up just as a stream of moonlight lit the arm patch of one of the dark figures now making his way through their home. She then knew exactly what her mother was talking about.
The girl said she began shouting the good news to her sisters: "Momma's right, she's right. It's all going to be ok… the Americans are here."
Two of those three American soldiers who came to evacuate her family that night didn't make it home. They died in the course of getting her and her family out of harm's way.
Those are the types of men and women that we should honor today. The countless thousands who have perished that others might live and breathe free. The ones whose crosses and Stars of David line the hillsides at Arlington. Those who personify the counsel of Christ Himself: "Greater love hath no one than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend."
Or in this case, total strangers that they would never meet.
Some look for the greatness of this country and pretend they can't find any. They shouldn't have to look too far on a day like this. And if they need any help, I know a Vietnamese woman whose life was saved and forever altered by just four simple words. Words that should take on extra meaning today:
"The Americans are here."
