My Heart Is Broken
My heart is broken.
When I close my eyes I see what I imagine are my friends faces as I take their children from them. I’m faceless in this dream, as are the men around me. I don’t recognize my friends, but for that dream haze that tells you, this is someone you know.
My best friends are new mothers and new fathers. Their lives are about doing what is best for new life they created. How will they raise them, how will they house them, feed them, play with them? Is this the best location, best environment, best chance to thrive?
Every day we make decisions that will echo through generations.
I don’t think of my grandfather’s much. One was an abusive, racist, drunk. The other opted not to raise his son, and neither are men I choose to dwell on.
I have always sought to understand people.
My mother’s father returned from World War II a physical abuser, virulent racist, and alcoholic. She once shared with me how she used to stay home from school, hiding in the bathtub because she was too beaten up to be seen. It was there that she would read the Harvard Classics, books her grandfather had left behind, books which I now store in my home.
Should he be forgiven his broken nature, after enduring the horrors of Pearl Harbor and the Pacific Theatre? I don’t believe so. But in seeking to understand, I read; His memoir, the experiences of the men in his unit, and units like it. They went through hell.
Every day we make decisions that echo through generations
My mother’s grandfather didn’t have an education — I don’t believe he got past the 8th grade. But he knew education was the path to opportunity, so he purchased the Harvard Classics, all 51 volumes, one book at a time, to have in his home for his family.
To hear my mother tell it, those books saved her life. Her grandfather saved her life.
Every day we make decisions that echo through generations.
I have always sought to understand people.
Often in my youngest years I found myself surrounded by people who made no sense to me, who believed things I could not fathom and who seemingly did it for reasons that made no sense. I used to chalk it up to them being dumb and my being smart, as though my perceived-superiority meant I could dismiss them out of hand.
I work hard to step away from that arrogance. A co-worker of mine recently quipped that I always was there “to give the benefit of the doubt.” I was pleased, because that is something I strive for.
I am not you.
I am not in your shoes.
I believe we all intend to do good.
If we aren’t achieving it, an explanation for our failure can be found if we look for it.
I close my eyes and I see my friends children being ripped from their arms and I cannot see the good. I cannot fathom it.
Written by my Love. He asked me to share it, and so I have.
