The air was full. Almost suffocating. The stifling summer heat had come on strong and was bearing down presently upon his back. There was moisture in the air, but it felt more like steam. A hot steamy afternoon. His neck ached. His hands were discolored from the years spent in the earth. The crops were in the middle of harvest, and they were bearing fruit as hoped. But, the weather and the crops were small in comparison to what was presently occupying his mind.
Previously, he had seen the air-birds, as he called them, flying lower than before just yesterday. He knew what that meant. Everything was changing. He couldn’t stop it no matter how hard he tried. He knew the boys were becoming men in just one tour, but he couldn’t bear the thought of his own grandson trapped in the suspension of war…of grime…of agony…of loss. His own experience was his teacher. Four years of battle had brought three separate campaigns, 18 engagements, and memories that were too dark and too painful to share–even with his own beloved. He couldn’t speak of them, and had often tried not to even think on them. But, pain was something he was used to managing. He had spent decades shoving his hurt deep into the recesses of his mind. He lived in pain and he was fine with that, but not for those he loved. Ever since his own son–who had died tragically in a farming accident–had passed he attempted to garner control of everyone’s outcomes. His wife reminded him often that through pain one grows, but he couldn’t bear to see his loved one’s growing into adulthood carry half the pain he had to bear. Not his grandson–the spitting image of his son–not him.
At that moment, his grandson, now 18-years old, came sauntering alongside his grandfather. He had a smile to his presence. His legs weren’t lanky anymore. He shoulders had filled out and his arms carried mass. Swinging the axe and staying on top of chores had done their work on this young body. But his presence, as happy as it was, couldn’t be moved. No matter how hard his grandfather tried, he was not going to be caged.
His 18th birthday came and went without much celebration. He didn’t expect there to be a parade or anything, but he was wanting at least the acknowledgement that he was now a man. Something he could own–words from a father figure. Something that would make his grandfather proud–since his own father was no longer there. But, to his disappointment, there was nothing. No rite of passage. No welcoming into manhood. Nothing. He did know, however, that the present war was moving into its third year, and many of his friends were planning to sign on and fight the evil, as it was called. He knew that would not make his grandfather happy, but he also reminded himself that his own grandfather had fought in three campaigns over foreign territories many years ago. Surely, he would understand. Surely, this would at least make him proud. Surely, he would consider him a man. And so, his research began. The more he studied, the more he realized what was at stake. He hadn’t seen this coming, but something inside his chest was growing, a deep conviction and resolve that he had never known before. He was changing, and he couldn’t slow down what lay before him. The more he read, the more he grew in his sense of purpose. He knew that–friends enlisting or not–he was signing on to defend and to protect his country from invasion, injustice, and evil. His war was just, and he knew he had a part to play. It was time. It was now time to step out of the cage and onto the fields of guts and glory.
The old farmer–the grandfather–looked up into his grandson’s eyes. He knew there was nothing he could do to stay him. And so, he just fixed on him. Eyes locked in thought. In sadness. In pride. This was the spitting image of his oldest son, meant to assume his dad’s lot. Meant to carry on what he had carried on, what five previous generations had carried on. Five generations–of sweat, of toil, of earth, of crops, of animals, of trees and brush, of early mornings, of sleepless nights, of calving seasons, and butchering, and harvesting, and sowing, of waiting, and waiting, and finally seeing fruit, and of stewardship…of life.
In the awkward silence he sat. Looking into his grandson’s eyes. Looking for words, but finding none. His eyes dropped. He saw the same resolve in his grandson that were in his eyes many years ago. There was now only to let him go.
He sat down next to his grandfather, put his arm around his neck, and pulled him in close. “I’m proud to be your grandson. I’m honored to follow your legacy. You are my hero. My father was proud to be your son, and I’m proud to be your grandson. You have taught me to be gentle. To be kind. To be strong. To work hard, even when everyone stops. You have taught me how to treat a lady. How to fix things when they break. You have prepared me for my life. You have given me the gift of consistency, of faithfulness, and of honor. Grandfather, my life has led me to this moment. I am ready to assume my role in our country. I am ready to defend its honor, protect its citizens from evil, and stamp out the injustice that rages in that foreign land. I have weighed my purpose, and my resolve has hardened. I will leave at first light.”
At first light. He thought to himself, “Only one more night to look into his eyes. Only one more night to hear his voice. Only one more night to listen to his laughs. Only one more night to have my grandson in my home. Everything has changed. Nothing will be the same.” The pain–the years of suppressed agony–raged up through his throat. He couldn’t stop the emotions that he had not known since those many decades ago. He tried to stop himself, he knew what it meant, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t keep his rage from coming out and bearing down upon this grandson–this bone of his bones. His hands began to tremble. The earth-stained hands. The wrinkled and calloused hands began to shake. He contained them. He stood up and walked toward the barn. “I’m safer here,” he thought. He leaned on the fence and looked out into the fields. His neck ached. One tear fell. And then another. He wiped them away as quick as they could be wiped, but he merely smeared them with the sweat that had caked into salt on his sideburns. His nose ran, and his head pounded. The ground began to swirl. He gripped the fence. He was doing his best to keep his grandson from seeing him weak. A man doesn’t cry, he thought to himself. A man doesn’t show his emotion. His own father never shed a tear, so he thought. His grandson cannot see him in this state. The lump in his throat was bulging, and he needed a release.
He heard his grandson saying something, but it seemed like a whisper. He regained himself, suppressed his emotions, and heard his grandson’s voice. “Grandfather…Grandfather…I want to know that you are proud of me. I want to leave knowing that you believe in me…that you…that you…love me.”
He couldn’t stop the tears. They just came. He pulled his grandson to his chest. He held him there and smelled his hair. He pressed his open hands across his back feeling his strength. He pulled him tighter and held him in a long embrace. His grandson fell into his arms. His grandfather pulled back, grabbed his grandson’s face and kissed his forehead. “I am proud of you. I am proud of the man that you have become. You are stronger than I could have ever been. I love you. I believe in you. You are right to go. You are a man, and we need men to protect our honor. To protect our citizens. To crush evil at its source. Fight with honor, with dignity, with skill. May the Lord train your hands for battle.”
The morning came quicker than he would like, but it was inevitable just the same. Breakfast was in near silence. The heaviness of thought filled the room. The memories of Christmases and Thanksgivings, of birthdays, and broken arms, of laughter, and tears, of hurt and joy. The room was heavy, but it was bright. One last hug, one last goodbye, and there he went. Horseback and ready to be a soldier in the King’s army. His grandfather thought to himself, “What would come of him? What would drive his journey? What would tomorrow and next year bring? Time will tell. Time will tell. But he’s ready. He’s more ready than I ever was.”
He looked back over his shoulder one last time. To see the farm. The fields. The house. The old cemetery where his mother and father were buried. The perfectly stacked wood seasoning for winter. The axe. His siblings running around. His grandmother. His grandfather. His memories. He found his grandfather’s eyes. The thought came, “He is proud of me.” He knew he was proud of him. He knew he thought him a man. And so, as a man, he rode into his destiny. Into his fate. Into his life God had sovereignly ordained. He was a man ready to face the battle. Ready to face the struggle. Ready for the fields of guts and glory. Ready to die for what he believed in. Ready to live for what’s to come. Ready for…life.
Two worlds. Two definitions. One ambition…life.
— January 17, 2020