He never wanted to be a soldier.
He didn’t ask to be called.
He wasn’t trying to save anybody today. That was the martyr’s job.
He didn’t sign up for this shit show.
He just wanted to go to work, stop for lunch, kiss his wife, have a normal day.
What he didn’t know was,Ā the grass he was walking on was a battlefield.
He didn’t want to fight.
But when the news came reeling, like a studded bat along his right side. Smacking him in his flank, crushing his ribs on contact …. he had two choices –
To lay down and die, or get up and fight.
For the ones he loves, for the sake of continuance, for humanity … he knew no goodness could come from allowing his will to be shattered or his life to be taken.
He choose to fight.
So he clambered to his feet and took a swing.
A pathetic attempt at first, but with each one, and each one after, he gained more power and more precision.
With every painful blow, knocking the wind out of his breath, he fought harder to breathe.
With every slicing cut, he lost more of the vital liquid that sustained his body, his mind and his heart.
With every loss, he created another scar, another endless ache, another painful memory.
And when the blows stopped coming and he collapsed on the ground in respite, getting back up seemed an even harder feat than withstanding the assault. And he hoped that somewhere there was a hand that would reach down to help him off the field.
With tougher skin than he once had, dirt on his face, scars on his heart and the experience of a battle survived but not won, he picked up his weapon. And moved to a safer place.
And the bystander who saw the fight that he fought, calls him a “Warrior” now – a worthy and respectable title.
But a title that he never wanted. From an attack he would’ve done anything to stop. In a fight, he couldn’t run from, though he tried.
Those in the trenches and on the battlefield know, that the resiliency and might that is seen by day is equally shared by wailing at night. And underneath that harden outer shell is a tender organ that still aches when the warrior goes back to that place.
While the world will see his strength; the darkness, knows his weakness.
Warriors don’t just wear camo, they wear heels and skirts, sweatpants and tennis shoes, ties and jackets, skinny jeans and flats, studs and leather.
Heartache and misfortune know no age, race or locale.
Dirt is oftentimes invisible. Pain is misconstrued. And our skin is just a very thin barrier to the life we try to protect underneath.
Everyone, at one point or another will find themselves on a battlefield. For some it is rare and brief and they come away with a few scratches. And others, just can’t seem to escape that scene and their many battle wounds tell the story of a life that has been unfair.
Though the battlefields of life are often hard to see at first glance, if we are astute, if we can look outside of the bubble of self-consumption, we might just see a comrade with pain in his eyes, who is working harder to succeed, to survive, than we are.
If you can’t join him in his fight, at least be the hand he sees when the battle is over.
If your own leg is bleeding, give him your shoulder to lean on.
Cuz one day, it’ll be you ā¦ looking through the smoke, asking for a break, hoping for a friend.
Life is one hell of a battle and the amount of times we will find ourselves out in the field, under the barrage of ammunition, isn’t known to us now. But if we are to survive, we must always be prepared to get back up and take another swing, another try. For when we lay down, we die.
