by
Dave Myers
copywrited 6~2000
I shall never forget that rainy day in September of 1971 when I flew home to my parents. Having recieved a less than desirable "welcome home" at Travis AFB, in California, only three days prior, my only thoughts were of returning to the loving arms of my father and mother. Tears welled in my eyes as the plane landed. My journey was almost over; eyes scanning the crowd excitedly; I saw my father for the first time in over a year. I waved to him and was shattered to see him simply turn and walk away, leaving my mother to welcome home her firstborn child. Not all casualties took place on the battlefield.
Though I was geographically home, I was not home. In my father's eyes, the eyes of a WWII veteran, we had returned "losers", and I lost him, as well. There was no place for me in my father's house or heart, so saddened and confused, I returned to California to carve out a life alone. Just how alone would take me years to understand.
Though it is said that "time heals all wounds", time had become my enemy. Eighteen years of pain and seperation passed and I was no closer to my father than I had been on that rainy day in September. Having come from a close Christian family, I began to wonder if I would ever hold my father agian; if we would ever again be a family. Then one night, sitting alone in the darkness of my room, tears began to fall as I felt an even greater sense of loss. Not only had I lost my earthly father to Vietnam, I had lost my Heavenly Father, as well. Kneeling there in my darkness, both real and spiritual, I heard a gentle Voice deep with in my soul whisper, "It's time for you to come home, son." It was then that I realized that, just as I felt that my father had abandoned me, I had deserted my God, leaving Him in the jungle amidst the tangled bodies of the dead. I asked my Heavenly Father to please take me back; I was not alone anymore. The prodigal son had, indeed, come home; but the journey was not over.
God began to move my father and I closer together; a series of family tragedies; grandchildren he had not seen; and, on my father's part, a willingness to learn about the "Vietnam experience". Then came a phone call from him asking us to come home to West Virginia for a family reunion in June. During the course of the converstation, my father mentioned that he would like to take me to Washington D.C. to visit the Vietnam Memorial. Though I had always wanted to visit the Wall to pay my respects to friends whose names are inscribed there, I was puzzled as to why my father wanted to go. Old wounds, reopened, brought forth old anxieties. I recall standing in prayer before that Black Wall, hands touching the cool surface of the granite, feeling not anger from the souls there, but a peace. as the tears, promted by memory and loss, fell, I felt a hand tug at my shoulder. I turned to look into the face of my father and saw the tears in his eyes, too. Holding me tightly, in his embrace he said, "Son, I'm sorry. I love you." As we stood, together, after so many years apart, I felt stronger Arms around us both and knew in my heart that I was, in truth, finally home!
