Alfred "Bud" Iverson, Army TEC5, WWII, The Pacific

Grandpa on a Pacific island in WWII.

Grandpa and Grandma and Owen.

My grandpa, Alfred "Bud" Iverson, died seven years ago.  He was a big part of the "reality" of my growing up--I knew we would see him and Grandma at least a couple times a year when we would make the eight hour trip to Minnesota or they would make their way south to Illinois.  I knew that when we met or said goodbye, I'd get a firm embrace from him that included a brush of his scratchy cheek against mine and a good whiff of whatever shaving lotion he used, as well as a "Hi, Coley!!"  I don't remember him having a job; I guess he had retired from the US Postal Service and the hardware store by the time I was old enough to think about that sort of thing.  Their house was always neat and simply decorated, and I never wanted to sleep in the basement when we stayed with them because there were some life-sized dolls that kind of freaked me out.  But most of all, I was sure that I had grandparents who loved my brothers, cousins, and me, and made us feel important, and showed us that family is important, too.

There was something else I always kind of vaguely knew about Grandpa, and that was that he had fought in World War II in several battles on several different Pacific islands.  Honestly, it wasn't something I cared that much about when I was a child--it was just an interesting fact.  As I got older, I was more entranced by Grandma's tales of their forty-month separation while he was in training and then overseas.  It blew my child's mind, and then my teen-aged-girl's mind that they remained faithfully in love through letters!  I suppose that accounts for Grandma's commitment to paper correspondence right up until she died two years ago.  

Several years ago, my oldest brother received some of Grandpa's artifacts from the war, including a Japanese flag retrieved from a Japanese soldier.  These things sparked some interest in me, but not enough to really ask questions.  Besides that, my dad had made it clear over the years that Grandpa didn't talk much about his wartime experiences except to say that it was "horrible" and "wet."  My dad told me a few years ago that in his own quest to understand his dad, who was prone to temper and periods of not saying much, that he read the book The Thin Red Line by James Jones, a novel of the war in the Pacific.  After reading its descriptions of the campaign on Guadalcanal, my dad asked Grandpa to read it.  When Grandpa was done and dad asked him if it was an accurate portrayal, Grandpa answered, "yep," and said little else on the subject.

I'm not sure when my interest in Grandpa's time in the Army was heightened, but I suspect it may have been at his funeral, which was preceded by his burial at Ft. Snelling National Cemetery.  I was overwhelmed by the respect shown to my grandpa in the small ceremony, not to mention the thousands of small, uniform, white headstones seemingly endlessly laid out across the grounds.  His passing allowed me to attend to another side of grandpa that I hadn't known much of in his life.  I became drawn to stories of World War II, fiction and non-fiction, movies, documentaries, and series like Band of Brothers, and The Pacific on HBO.  I am so grateful to historians like Ken Burns, and film-makers like Tom Hanks, as well as countless others who are committed to preserving history.  Shouldn't we all know what has gone before us to grant us the freedoms we so easily embrace?  

There was a Veteran's Day assembly at the kids' school today.  It was packed with the kids, some parents and families, and veterans.  It was amazing.  As the men and women were introduced before being seated, I couldn't help the tears as I wondered what stories they might have to tell--whether from the midst of battles or from stateside hospitals where they cared for wounded who were returning from battle, or from desks behind which they worked to support our troops, wherever they may be....  I was overwhelmed with the fact that what they have done and are doing is a really big deal.  And I'm grateful, and humbled.

But here's the thing--as I think about some of this, I don't think my grandpa really thought his service was much more than something that happened during his lifetime that he dealt with as he was called to do; he was a humble man who had great pride in our country and great love for his family.   I wonder if any of those veterans at the assembly today could relate?   I couldn't speak for them, but I sure want them to know I am grateful to them.  I will certainly keep trying to pin down information about his time in the army, but I will also be thankful for whatever part he played in the victory in World War II, and for that which I do know beyond a doubt--he was a good man, and he loved his family, and I am blessed to be a part of it.

Anxiety Girl is ME.

We just got back from a whirlwind weekend trip to Disneyland.  We went because, well, we love Disney, but also because some friends of ours had the audacity to move cross-country a year ago and it was a good chance to get together for some fun.  I was anticipating the trip with enthusiasm, but about two weeks before we were set to leave, that enthusiasm was joined by less-welcome anxiety.   See, there's been this norovirus-thing going around that leaves kids doubled over on the bathroom floor for weeks at a time.....  What if one of the kids were to get it before we left?  Would we cancel our trip?  Would some of us go while some were left behind to ride it out?  Or, what if it overcame one of us on the L O N G flight there?  Gross.  Everyone on the plane would hate us!  What if someone got sick while we were there?  We'd be stuck in the hotel room while everyone else got to go have fun, and what if we got our friends sick?  And so on....and so forth....

A friend posted a funny cartoon on facebook the other day:  Anxiety Girl--able to jump to the worst conclusion in a single bound!  That's so me.  Sigh.  My kids are healthy; we are blessed.  But I can't help but explore all the worst scenarios.  I prayed for God to help me clear my heart and head of my nutty mental wanderings, and it did help, but I couldn't stop reminding my kids to "wash your hands, and don't you dare put your hands near your mouth!"

Well, we made it to Disneyland, and had a great few days with our friends.  

And then, Sunday morning, I got the text from my trip-buddy friend, Brooke:  "K threw up, we're staying home this morning, can J go to the park with you?"  My heart sunk.  Here I was, actually in the situation I'd spent all that time worrying over, except it wasn't my child.  But, sink or swim, right?  So, we went to the parks as planned, except for Brooke and her youngest.  The boys went and rode roller coasters, and our slightly smaller party of girls set off to hunt down some princesses.  And, despite feeling REALLY bad for Brooke and K, we had a great time.  I mean, WE MET MERIDA!!  (from Brave), not to mention Cinderella, Snow White, Ariel and Tiana!  The boys rode one roller coaster five times in a row, and Brooke and K were able to join us for lunch and slowly finish out the day with us.  It feels kind of un-cool to learn a lesson from Brooke's messy night/day....  but who am I to choose how or when God works in me?  Right?

Yes, there was a middle-of-the-night puking session, but there was also a crew of Disney "cast-members" who had likely cleaned up just such a mess hundreds of times before to bring up the rug-shampoo-er thing at midnight and spray down everything with disinfectant and return later in the day with some odor-eliminating spray.  One of the kids even slept through most of it!  

The "worst" that I had anticipated happened, and we survived.  (Well, kind of.  In His grace, my Ryne didn't get sick until Tuesday night, after we got home....)  This is a relatively silly, and minor example of a "worst-case-scenario" coming to life, but, as always.....  I got to thinking, and praying.

I was listening to a podcast yesterday in which the speaker referenced the song "Amazing Grace (My Chains are Gone)"--how awesome it is that one day we will be free of these earthly bodies that sometimes don't work so well and cause us pain.  In my heart, though, I heard the other, more immediate part of it--I am set free NOW from so much....if only I choose to be.  When I worry something to death--like the possibility of a sick child, I am in bondage to my worry.  It handcuffs my ability to fully experience life, let alone to accomplish the things which God has set before me.  This realization is embarrassing on many levels, especially because I have referenced Jesus' words in Matthew 6:27 to my mom--and my Bible study--within the past couple weeks:  "And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?"  Sheesh.  Just when I feel like I'm starting to gain a foothold in this life of following Jesus, I see how clearly I tend to follow something else---me.

Lest I get too down on myself, though, I have to remind myself that I am further along than I was a year ago.  I recognized that futility and sin in my worry, and prayed about it.  Once the dust had settled, I recognized that God was helping me to "debrief" and clear up some of my confusion about where the anxiety comes from.  Pure and simple, my own pride and need to be in control, added to my lack of faith (Oh, that hurts to admit) that God really is in control, caused me to fall.  God led me to His Word from Galatians 5:1--"For freedom Christ has set us free...." and 2 Corinthians 3:17--"Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom."  And, if that wasn't enough,  this morning I woke up with the song "I am Set Free" by All Sons and Daughters in my head.  

Point taken; thank You for the reminders, God.  :)

So I guess it's time for me to believe, and know that God is totally aware of my struggles with pride and that His grace is more than enough to forgive my unbelief.  

A friend of ours told me that it was only his wife that saved me from driving away from the Y one day last year with a "MITT!" bumper sticker on my van.  See, he had an extra one and thought it would be a funny joke to play on me.  Having a good idea that Romney wasn't my guy, she wasn't so sure I'd find it humorous.... 

While I very much appreciate her intervention, I am even more appreciative of her husband's mischievious intentions.  Because, you see, it came at a time when my facebook newsfeed and frequent off-hand comments from people around me had me stuffing not just my political inclinations, but a whole lot of me, deep inside, afraid that if I admitted I wasn't voting a certain way, my faith, values, and character would be under question.

So along comes our friend and his sticker, and I was reminded that despite our differing views, the friendship came first.  It's true, isn't it?  Man, I hope so, because it gets really hard to keep believing that.  It just seems like we are all so anxious to define people based on one aspect of their beliefs, or one thing they said, or one mistake they made, or one person with whom they hang.  For me, it just keeps coming back to relationships, as in, we need to have them.  I don't know how many friends I have on facebook, but I can guarantee you that a large percentage of them have no idea who I really am, with the reverse being just as true.  Don't misunderstand, I love me some facebook, but it does concern me how freely we throw some pretty strong words and opinions out there, likely not considering how it might sound to someone who sees things a little differently than we do.  What chance does that give us to form meaningful relationships where we have a chance to talk about things face-to-face, heart-to-heart?  The pollyanna, pacifist me would love to see a happy ending where we all agree about everything, but I am grudgingly a citizen of the real world where I know that will not be the case. 

So, for now, maybe we could focus on building some real connections.....and then bumper-sticker-bombing the people we don't agree with.....  That might be kind of funny, right?