My last post, My Champion of Freedom, was a proclamation of the heroism my grandfather, James McAfee, displayed and my gratitude for his sacrifice. Although his story ended on a battlefield 75 years ago, his legacy was only beginning, and that is today’s story.
James was a McAfee, an ancient family born centuries ago on a small island of Scotland, but firmly rooted in southern Indiana in his generation. He was the firstborn of seven children, all raised during the Great Depression. Hard times disciplined his mind and body as he led his brothers and sisters.
A whirlwind of events saw him married at twenty years old to a lovely jewel of a young woman named Ruby who was three years younger than him. He was drafted into the Air Force within weeks of their wedding and swept off to pilot’s training in Arizona. While he was there, his first son was born back in Indiana. Separated by a seemingly infinite chasm, his heart cried out to hold his legacy, the son that would share his name. Weeks passed before he would get that chance.
While the military conditioned him to place duty, honor, and courage above his own life, he enjoyed an all too short season with his small family. Before his 2nd child was born, he was shipped off to a distant shore to defend our liberty. In a world that needed heroes, it didn’t take long for him to rise up (read the comments in the last post by Jonathan McAfee for that story). He was praised by generals who would become the free world’s leaders before giving his life to save his crew and his country.
Back home, a shattered teenage mother became a widow. Her overwhelming grief mixed with feelings of abandonment and betrayal that hardened into anger that she buried deep inside. Two sons needed her and left no time to unravel complex emotions. The war quickly ended and with it came a new husband and a third son. Old feelings were left unreconciled while the daily demands of life occupied her mind.
Her new husband embraced the two McAfee boys but left them their surname as a birthright. He then reenlisted in the military, and they began the transient life of a military family. The young boy who had been destined to become the clan leader of seven families left his ancestral home and moved across states and countries. They made frequent visits to visit family in southern Indiana, but the ties that had bound them there were gradually diminished as life moved on.
The young James was nicknamed Jim. He learned early that his mother did not want to talk about his birth father. The maelstrom of emotions never settled in her heart, and the boy felt her pain when he asked questions that unleashed all the hurt she had tried to leave behind. Raised in a Shryock family but still bearing the McAfee name, the child had so many questions, but the love and respect he held for his mother prevented him from pursuing answers.
Jim learned bits and pieces of his father’s story on the reunion trips, but most of the time was spent playing with the ever-expanding group of cousins. As the oldest, he was proud to be the biggest, fastest, and strongest. He longed to move back and be close to his cousins but learned not to talk about it out of loyalty to his mother.
The boy displayed the same courage in protecting his mother that his father had displayed in defending his country. Although he had questions about his father and his place among his people, he held them inside where they wouldn’t hurt the mother he loved. His uncertainty was a burden, but he was determined to carry it as long as his mom needed him to. As years passed and he grew to into a strong, young man, he honored her. He learned how to show his love without words.
The son of a hero who was born to lead his clan became a broken branch of the McAfee’s family tree. No matter how many returns he made to his ancestral home, he could not be fully embraced. His destiny now lay elsewhere.
His life on various military bases offered him education beyond anything he could have received in the small, rural town he was born into. He met a beautiful redhead while the family was stationed in southern Louisiana, and together they raised three children. Across the decades, he displayed flawless dedication to his family. He is a man taught to quietly act out love.
God has used each of Dad’s difficulties to condition him. He has been a successful businessman, a deacon in his church, a loving husband, and a great father. He has focused on the inheritance he will leave to his children, but I suspect he has never fully grasped the greatness bequeathed to him by his father. Duty, honor, and courage are a legacy he has worn without ever knowing their source.
He honored his firstborn son with the name James McAfee, although everybody just calls him Jimmy. He taught him the same courage and strength that had been required of the generations that carried the name before him. He trained him to focus on doing the right thing, acting boldly in the midst of uncertainty, even when his heart cries out for answers.
For years, I never understood why we didn’t talk about his father, who is my grandfather, and our connection to the McAfee dynasty. I could not appreciate the long silence that was broken when his mother passed away last year. After seventy-six years, Dad is now free to celebrate the father he never knew and to contemplate his place in the extended family he was unable to lead.
To all his grandchildren – Erin, James, Gabrielle, Kaitlyn, Michal, Alyssa, Cameron, and even tiny Emery, I hope you know how much this patriarch loves you. In time, may you recognize in each old photo everything he has done to give you the best life possible. I pray that you can connect to the little boy who will always be inside of him, knowing he was born into greatness but uncertain how he fits in. As you understand his story, you will love him even more.
I love you, Dad. Thank you for being the hero your generation needed you to be. Thank you for teaching me that there are many ways to show love, and they all start with putting others first.
Kim and I drove to Tennessee over Memorial Day weekend to walk through Mom and Dad’s house. As I mentioned in my last post, Dad is planning to move into a smaller place and needs to let go of some of the memories that my Mom spent a lifetime acquiring and organizing in all the ways that distinguish a home from a house.
My brother, Preston, and I moved through the different rooms remembering the stories behind each of the various items that had been pulled out and were laying in piles everywhere. There were beautiful pieces of furniture that are woven through my recollections of a family enjoying life together. There were other small trinkets like the polished, white stone with “Kainos” written on one side and Revelations 2:17 on the other. The tiny teacups my mom played with as a small girl. Tools my dad used to forge work ethic into two, young boys that had now become men and raised their own families.
As we picked up other items, they summoned memories of people and stories that are echoes of generations that are now gone. The small glass my mom’s mother used to drink sherry each night before bed. The various quilts that my grandmother and great grandmother carefully crafted decades ago. Ancient photographs of my grandparents that I only knew as old people contained vibrant, young faces with a lifetime ahead of them.
There were so many things that I had either forgotten or never known about that had rested in closets or chests for ages. I love the reminders of people who lived long, fruitful lives before being called home to their Maker. But my favorite treasure of the day was from a life that was cut short, someone who never got the chance to build rooms full of his own memories.
Carefully folded in a piece of fabric was an American flag that had honored my grandfather. Along with it lay his dog tag and a Bible that had belonged to him. It was my prize of the day. You see, my grandfather was a hero.
His name was James McAfee and he was born into a generation that was thrust into greatness. The Nazi scourge was a virus that threatened our freedom and way of life. It had to be destroyed but was a powerful enemy. My grandfather was one of countless youths who had barely become men but had to stand in defiance of evil. Whether they volunteered or were conscripted is irrelevant.
Each one became a hero as he recited his oath of enlistment. With those words, they laid down their lives for something bigger than themselves.
“I [state your full name], Do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”
To become a soldier is to forfeit your family, your health, and everything you have for the sake of other people. Before you can step onto the field of battle, you must set aside your hopes, dreams, and even your future.
When the war is over, the lucky ones are given back the lives they offered for a greater good. They return to their small towns and the loved ones who prayed for them every night they were gone. They build careers, families, and communities that reflect the courage they demonstrated.
Others aren’t so lucky. Everything they laid down is demanded as a sacrifice for our freedom. At twenty-two years old, my grandfather’s plane was shot down over Germany on April 10, 1945. His bright light was snuffed out so that a country could shine even brighter.
James McAfee never got to see his youngest child and barely held the toddler that would become my father. Our freedom never allowed him to carry my dad on his shoulders to see over a crowd or teach him why manners are important. He would never sit in his favorite chair next to his wife of fifty years and reflect over everything they shared together.
Our country and our freedom were bigger than that single life.
There is no gift I can offer to each person who has repeated the same oath, promising to place a greater good above their own lives. All I can say is “Thank you. You are a hero.”
To every person whose life was lost, thank you doesn’t seem enough. You have my gratitude, my respect, and all the honor that I can offer.
To my grandfather, who sacrificed everything, I pray that my life will be worthy of the one that you gave for me. You are the champion of my freedom.
A flag, a dog tag, and a Bible are my cherished reminders of how precious life is, and how much others have sacrificed for our enduring freedom.
Every morning at 5:50am, Mr Coffee beeps three times to alert me that it has finished its scheduled task. Although the coffee maker is downstairs and across the house, it is loud enough to wake me up. I don’t usually get out of bed though. I like to lay drowsily for another ten minutes until my bedroom lamp automatically comes on. Then it is time to get up and start my day.
I walk downstairs, let Tarzan out of his room, and pour myself a cup of coffee before settling into my recliner. I pick up my Bible from the side table and flip it open to whatever reading plan currently serves as my bookmark. I’ve had countless different Bibles over the years, but this is one is my favorite.
I think of it as my mother’s Bible, although I don’t know that she ever read from it. It was a gift she set on her guest room’s bedside table. I found it there and got permission to take it home with me. I have now reached for it a thousand different times. It is a comforting reminder of the conversations we had about our individual walks with God, and the faith she had in my ultimate success when I could only see obstacles.
It has been years since Mom began slipping away from us, and seven months since her passing. It still makes me sad to think about her last days and to face the harsh fact that I can’t share the simple pleasures of life with her anymore. The routines of my daily life now preoccupy most of my thoughts, but certain items release strong waves of memories that sweep me back to the times we shared.
I don’t know why a Bible she never read speaks to me like that. Other unexpected items elicit the same effect. An old-fashioned potato masher and cast-iron skillet take me back to raucous family dinners around a crowded table. A tiny rocking chair ushers flashbacks of childhood innocence. A framed sketch of the small house where she grew up reminds me of simple, relaxed days.
In the coming months, Dad is planning to move and won’t have a place for everything in his new home. He has asked us to let him know what we would like to keep from the “leftovers”. Some of the things have practical value, like the huge, curved 4K television in his living room. Many only have sentimental value. After Dad finishes combing through what he wants to keep, there are still two generations of three separate families who need to pick out the pieces they would like to carry forward.
I am planning a trip to Tennessee to sort through any keepsakes I hope to keep and to ensure that we inventory everything for the benefit of folks who can’t travel. I am simultaneously thankful for the chance and reluctant to begin the exercise.
It is hard to carry an empty box into the last house my parents shared and determine which remnants have an ongoing place in my life. Letting go of things that are associated with my dad is easier than similar items of my mom’s. After all, I still talk to him several times a week and travel to see him when I choose. We are still making memories together.
The walkthrough is difficult because I never know which object will have an emotional memory resting on it, waiting to burst alive with a touch and yank me across time and space to relive emotions from my past. My connections to these pieces are the experiences they represent.
It is painful to move past the items that I don’t want, dismissing as unimportant the decorations, furniture, and utility items that my mom spent a lifetime collecting and organizing. Although I know that she is done with them now, she is still very much alive in my heart. It feels like a betrayal of sorts.
Some items contain memories that do not respond to my touch. They belong to someone else, maybe one of her other children, son/daughters-in-law, or grandchildren. Only the rightful owner can awaken them, making whatever they rest on a treasure for that particular person to cherish.
Mom and Dad spent years filling their home with life and love, so most of the memories sweep us back to happy times. Some don’t though. Each of our minds harbors dark, scary recesses that we would rather avoid. They are recollections of times we learned that the world can be a cruel place, causing the scared child inside to scream and seize control of our thoughts for a moment. The intensity of the feelings is a reminder of all the hurts we still carry.
People say that wars are started when families divide the belongings of one of their fallen. I can understand the hurt feelings that accompany the loss of an item that is someone’s remaining connection to a moment in time. It is impossible to evenly distribute a group of items whose value is different to each person. I will do my best to extend grace.
I hope that my loved ones understand that if I seem selfish, it is because I am unwilling to let go of a past I cannot reclaim. When I am suddenly sad, it is from releasing my mom along with the little things she held dear. If I am unsympathetic to other people, it is because I was unaware of the invisible threads that connect them to their past.
I have been blessed with a rich inheritance, whether the world can measure its value or not. The very best things that my mom possessed are very much alive inside the lives she touched. We can all share a love that was freely given. When I return back to Texas from my travels, I hope my heart will be full to overflowing, regardless of what is in the box in the trunk of my car.
It is becoming clear that the COVID-19 pandemic is going to be with us a lot longer than anyone originally anticipated. In some way, it has touched every life.
In the United States, the latest reports indicate 1,350,000 infections and 80,000 deaths, with the totals still climbing. The April jobs reports tell us that over 20,000,000 Americans became unemployed in that single month alone, not counting partially furloughed people or small business owners.
Navigating through this mess is an impossible task. Using social media as a barometer of our temperament, it doesn’t seem that much of anyone is satisfied. There are angry rants about the human costs of isolation and demanding that we should open back up. There is an equal number of people criticizing the heartless pursuit of money while our neighbors continue to die. Video after video is pulled down from Facebook and YouTube because the sources are deemed maliciously false. Traditional news outlets receive the same assessment.
I have grown weary of the search for answers, mostly because the avid pursuers haven’t seemed to find joy or effectiveness in their pursuit. Right and wrong are complicated. In the end, only God knows or understands.
I had a great lunch at Red Robin on Friday with a friend of mine. He acknowledged that his “risk category” was high enough to be a cause for consideration. He also acknowledged that his employment in a brutalized industry made his job as tenuous as his health. He was excited though that he and his wife and been able to pull money from their savings to donate to a favorite cause and help their neighbors in need. He was a refreshing reminder that we have a cause, and it is higher than choosing a side.
In the book of Joshua, the Israelites were beginning their invasion of Canaan. Called by God to claim their birthright, they were conquering cities and killing all the inhabitants. Just like today, everyone who lived in the region must have been discussing the issue and choosing sides. Were they bloodthirsty savages or followers of the true God who was guiding their actions? Both arguments were compelling. Nobody was safe. Living in lockdown may result in becoming a victim. Boldly moving forward may have an equally devastating result.
As Joshua marched to do battle against the city of Jericho, he looked up and saw a powerful angel in front of him, sword drawn and ready for battle. Joshua challenged him, “Are you for us or for our enemies?” The commander of God’s army shook his head and said “Neither.” Then he instructed Joshua what to do next.
This angel was uninterested in the arguments that either side could make about the justification for their actions. He didn’t care to know “the truth” or even to project the outcome. The most powerful man on the field was the one who stood ready to serve the Lord, guiding His army to certain victory. All he needed to know was God’s instruction, which he would immediately carry out. He answered to a higher calling than kings or generals.
While I relaxed in my favorite recliner, slowly digesting my Royal Red Robin Burger and bottomless fries, I realized that my friend was a reflection of that angel. He is uninterested in choosing sides in the biggest conflict of our times. However, he stands armed with the weapon God gave to him and only cares about using it to honor the Lord. Aligned with no agenda other than God’s will, he is the most powerful player on the field.
The Bible never gives us the name of the angel in the brief story (Joshua 5:13-15). I am not going to reveal the name of my friend. Neither would want the recognition. Both are only interested that God’s will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
I am trying to learn to let go of my judgment of whether or not other people are making the best decisions. Instead, I hope to stand with my sword in my hand, ready for battle, focused on what I am asked to do, and complete that task with excellence. Part of no longer belonging to this world requires letting go of the circumstances and pursuing things that are eternal.
Life would have been much different for the Canaanites if they had let go of their thoughts about if the Israelites were right or wrong, justified or guilty. Every side they chose met with the same fate. It didn’t matter if they ignored the threat, banded together, sought peace, or attacked alone, they all died and disappeared. Imagine for a moment if they had instead turned their focus to God, thrown out their idols, repented of their sins, and pursued a relationship with Him. If Balak had embraced the prophecies of Balaam instead of insisting on curses against the Israelites, how great might the Moabites’ reward have been? Instead, they guarded what they had and were swept up in the destruction.
The Canaanite nations foolishly faced each other and debated the best course of action when they should have lifted their eyes to God. What if they had sent a group of delegates to ask Joshua to teach them about the powerful God who had performed so many miracles? That was their only path of rescue.
Many people today are looking to God for answers. Their hearts are open to eternal truths. Let us focus on their salvation, not our escape from the flames. That is the side we should choose.
This past Friday was May 1st, 2020. It will be remembered as the day our country began to reopen. State-by-state there are differences in definition of the reopening, but light has begun to crack through the grip COVID-19 has held over our planet. The threat is not extinguished, but for the first time in weeks and months, victory seems on the horizon.
Since the blessed day of our reopening fell on a Friday, Kim and I celebrated by going to dinner at Chili’s. The familiar, ice-cold, Blue Moon beer washed down our chips and salsa while I waited for my traditional buffalo-chicken salad. William stopped by our table to see if we needed anything. He told us how glad he was to come back to work even though they had hoped for a bigger turnout. Although it was still early, only two tables held customers.
I know that some people will rejoice that we were able to get out of the house while others will shake their fingers and call us irresponsible. That judgment seems to be a sign of our times.
Shouldn’t she be wearing a mask? Are they six feet apart? How much toilet paper does one person need? I hear Amazon is hiring, why don’t they get a job there?
The bar for decision-makers is set even higher. The president, governors, and mayors face an impossible balance of protecting our health and ensuring our economic survival, knowing that any path forward will include casualties on both sides. Business owners face the same dilemma – keep my essential business open and my team working, or close and protect their health while their paychecks disappear? Sleep escapes them as the weight of their responsibilities looms large.
Facebook, YouTube, the news, and personal conversations are full of people suddenly best-educated to shine a pathway forward as they sit back, protected from the consequences of their decisions, pointing out the specific failures of each stimulus provision, virus exposure, or plan for our future.
Grace seems to have taken a back seat.
I don’t know the right answer, but I do know people that are suffering on both sides. Two of my best friends are in their mid-60s and have diminished lung function. They pray for protection from a danger that is small enough to slip through any defense but is big enough to steal their lives. Other of my friends work in health care; they are the unsung heroes of our crisis. Their hours and income have been reduced but they are ineligible for much-coveted $1,200 payments because of the money they made in better times. They are working too much to qualify for unemployment, but not enough to pay their bills.
Our country cannot build its future on the stories of hardship. Hope is founded in our trust in a good God who cares for us. As we delicately care for the tiny flame of freedom that is spreading across our land, let’s provide the fuel it needs to grow into a mighty blaze that will shine His light as never before.
My dad reluctantly sheltered in place, still recovering from my mom’s passing into greatness. Even as he ached for connection, he faithfully closed himself behind closed doors. In His compassion, God found a way to bring someone special into his life. Pops has spent hundreds of hours exploring a new relationship and planning for better days ahead. After suffering enormous loss, he opened his heart for a new future. That’s the America I believe in.
Erin and Josh got married six months ago. The life they started to build together was shaken in ways that haven’t been seen in a hundred years. Prosperity evaporated like water in a drought. Instead of taking the world by storm, they have hidden in their small apartment. As their tax refunds and stimulus payments arrived though, they didn’t use it to console themselves with indulgences that temporarily numb the pain. Instead, they paid off their previous debts, breaking the chains of bondage as they focus on the promise that tomorrow holds. This season will end, and they are looking to tomorrow.
Kim and I have seen disaster threaten our friends, family, and community. I have told stories of picking the long lines at the grocery store because I like to check in on familiar faces during checkout. One of the brightest faces died unexpectedly while we locked down. The week she passed, I had chosen the longer line at her register to share a smile. Her obituary provided details that I had already learned from her. I miss her but I am so happy that I took every chance to share life with her while we had the time.
I treasure each handshake, friendly embrace, and smile more than ever before. Life is special and time is a gift. I am reminded that we should make every moment count and seize the days that we have. I see visions of Robin Williams in Dead Poet’s Society, leaning forward to speak to a crowd of emerging men, counseling them to “suck out all the marrow of life”. More than ever, I want to live like that.
Our country and our world have better days ahead. May we provide future generations with stories of rising above our situation and shining brightly in days of darkness. The flame of freedom has not been extinguished and this is our chance to guard it carefully.
