The Peak of Inspiration

For all fathers…

Picture an old general.  Dress uniform, standing beside his Commander-in-Chief.  Many hours of experience behind him.  Battles won and lost.  More comrades beneath the ground than not.  A few scars and lots of stories.  Years spent in the field, preparing for and occasionally facing the enemy.  See him standing there, head held high, respectful and quiet.  He is dressed in his best.  Polished shoes, dress pants and matching suit coat.  And on his chest, covering nearly every square inch of available fabric, are the medals.  Every kind and for every degree of heroism.  Silver stars and bronze stars.  Purple hearts and flying crosses.  Maybe even, if the fight was particularly hard, the Medal of Honor. 

Now see an old, retired man.  Wrinkled and bent.  Hands full of callouses and scars.  Knees worn out and shoulders sagging.  Shuffling steps and unsteady voice.  Energy and youthfulness sacrificed for the cause of those he loved.  His hearing is diminished and his eyesight something less than good.  The tale of a life spent providing for his family.  In a word, a father. 

Now put these two beside each other.  Close your eyes and mix them up a few times.  Open your eyes and try to guess which one is which.  Whenever I do this, I have a hard time telling the difference.  They look the same to me.

Life takes a toll on our bodies.  It wears at us.  We rub against it and it starts to show.  The things we carry start to pull us down.  They weigh on our shoulders.  We go through this life using a body that is affected by the curse.  It’s not made to hold up.  We have a promise that it won’t.  But the brave among us still throw themselves into the fight.  Sacrifice things they know they can’t get back.  Spend themselves on the front lines, protecting the next wave of warriors, allowing the ones that come after to advance at their expense. 

Sometimes the young will laugh at the old.  Criticize their inabilities and force themselves to be patient as the elderly shuffle and stumble around.  I am not innocent.  Any judgement against the young would condemn me.  But I have come to respect these soldiers, for that is what they are.  The qualities that the young cannot find in the old are missing for a reason.  They were willingly sacrificed.  They were the price paid to keep the young alive. 

And so, when I see a father with a weathered face, when I see him struggle to stand, when I see him rub his sore knees or squint to read, when I see his body worn down by cancer from too much exposure to unknown evils, when I see his energy fade out before the day does, I look past all that.  I see a man, faithful, steady.  Standing beside his Commander.  Respectful and quiet.  Behind his eyes I see battle scenes.  Many of them won, some of them lost.  I see myself walking on ground purchased by their sacrifice. 

I see their wrinkles and callouses.  I see their scars.  And they look like medals.  Badges of honor.  Convincing proof that they gave themselves for others.  Badges that cannot be acquired any other way.  I see a chest full of medals.  Not worn proudly, but quietly witnessing to the effects of the fight.

And if you are very lucky, like I was, you may witness the time when an old soldier lays his armor down, steps to the podium and receives the greatest Medal of All.  The Crown of Life. 

It’s a sacred moment.  Rest in peace, old soldier…