too, too much

 We all reach times when we suddenly feel that we have more to bear than we can handle. Thank goodness I've lived long enough to know this is fact, because for many years, I thought I was all alone, that I was the only one who ever felt inadequate, or selfish, or so overwhelmed that all I could do was crawl under the covers and pray that morning would be a long time coming.

Tonight is one of those times. I tell myself I am being silly, as I sit here typing away next to our Christmas tree. I remember every single ornament: who gave it to us, or where we bought it and where and why. There were presents under the tree, until Fiona started trying to unwrap them. (They now repose in an undisclosed location until Christmas morning.) Every day more Christmas cards from friends and family arrive in the mail, reminding me that George and I are part of a whole community of friends and family.

Yet all I can do is cry. Last Friday, as we all know, a very sick young man killed 20 children and 7 teachers at an elementary school in Newtown, CT. I've been immersed in discussions/disputes about gun laws, treatment of the seriously mentally ill, grief for the parents and families left behind, as well as for those little darlings who will never graduate, not even from grade school, never travel, go to college, get married.

And for some reason I am having an even harder time than usual dealing with the absence of my own parents this year. My dad was like such a little kid about Christmas; he and I always had so much fun together, decorating the the tree (always the day after Thanksgiving), going downtown to see all of the Christmas lights and the mechanized displays in the department store windows, especially Dayton's. Caroling with mom and other parishioners from Incarnation. And every year, until I was 24, sitting between mom and dad at Midnight Mass, hearing the ancient words "For behold I bring you tidings of great joy..." Going up to the Creche afterwards to see the Baby Jesus lying in the manger, and in later years the Choir always sang the Hallelujah Chorus from Messiah immediately after the conclusion of Mass. Holding hands with mom and dad as we prayed in the "words our Savior taught us, Our Father who art in heaven..." and most of all, singing the old, familiar carols, especially my favorite, Silent Night, Stille Nacht, written in Germany so long ago. Now there is new family, warm, loving, caring family. I have a husband, whom I love very much. But I haven't been able to go to Midnight Mass since I lost my mom.

This is, without a doubt, the hardest time of year to be childless. We keep running into one roadblock after another, until I have to shut myself alone in our bedroom so George doesn't have to listen to me crying in hysteric despair. Yes, I feel selfish bringing up our loneliness for a child when I know parents out in Newtown are grieving their lost babies. But grief is grief, and it deserves to be honored and spoken of, regardless of the circumstances, or who is doing the grieving, or why.

I'm particularly overwhelmed by my upcoming neck surgery. Less than two days to go now. And I feel so alone, I guess everyone does when they are facing surgery or something similar. Because no one can experience it with you. George is spending the day with me; Friday he's taking me over to  my Aunt Jo and cousin Melinda's house, so they can fuss over me, and Sunday my birthmom is coming over to baby me. Plus, I am receiving the Catholic Sacrament of the Sick from one of my favorite priests tomorrow. So I have all of my ducks in a row, so to speak. but I still feel sick to my stomach every time I think about it. Part of my issue here is, yet again (this question has been popping up everywhere the last few days) is WHY. Damn it all, I am sick of being in pain every single blasted day of my life. Why do I have to endure more? Yes, I know other people have it worse. but I have have never understood why that is supposed to make me feel better. I'm supposed to be happy and grateful that at least I'm not suffering the way other people I love are? I don't think so. 

I guess this is one of those times of, maybe not doubt, so much as feeling so desperately alone. This is why I ask for prayers, because right now I've lost the ability to form the words myself. I guess my tears and my writing tonight will have to be my prayers.

I guess a partial answer lies in something I told a friend the night of the tragedy at Sandy Hook, when we were struggling with the question of why, of how, an event so hideously, cosmically wrong could happen:

 You just sound upset, that's all, hon. Don't apologize for that. As to why this happened...can there possibly be a satisfactory answer? We live in a violent society. We can work for peace and justice. But does that help right now, at this very moment? All we know for sure is that God weeps with us, and that in the end God will wipe away all of our tears, and we will all be together again. And I always remember that Jesus wept when Lazarus died. He understands our feelings of grief and loss, because He experienced it too.

Amen.

seventeen years??????

My dad's funeral was 17 years ago today. It's amazing to think so much time has passed, when I thought I could never live without him. But I discovered that I can, because he is now a part of me and I am never alone, never without him, and I know that he will never be truly lost to me. St. Leonard, a member of the communion of saints. It's not that I don't still grieve, and sometimes I miss him so much my heart, literally, aches, but the grief has changed; gradually, the comfort of my memories and my sense of his presence has finally outweighed the pain. Most of the time...

Certain smells, certain moments when I feel unloved, certain aspects of the Christmas rituals, and hundreds of other ordinary details of life, will reopen the wound. But at least now I can let it bleed for a while and go on. At least now I can be open, not only to those painful moments, but also to the many joys of my life.
--Joyce Barrington

friday five: the fork in the road

This week's Friday Five come courtesy of Singing Owl from RevGalBlogPals. She writes:

Friday, February 27, 2009

Friday Five: The Fork in the Road

"I am at a life-changing juncture. I do not know which way I will go, but I have been thinking about the times, people and events that changed my life (for good or ill) in significant ways. For today's Friday Five, share with us five "fork-in-the-road" events, or persons, or choices. And how did life change after these forks in the road?"

Okay, Singing Owl, here are my five forks in the road:

1. I didn't have a lot of say in this one, being five weeks old at the time, but the first big fork in my road came when I was adopted by Millie and Leonard Resch on October 24, 1968. It turned out to be a 38-year-long love story, lasting until my mom's death in 2007. I could not have been more blessed, both by the mom and dad who loved me and raised me, and the mom who loved me so much she was willing to give me up. I love all three of them, my wonderful parents, more than words can express.

2. At 19 I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and clinical depression. This led to years of therapy and, even more important, much painful soul-searching, trying to figure out where God was speaking to me in my suffering. And I found out that not only was he there, he was holding me, lovingly, and feeling my pain as his own.

3. At 27 I did a unit of C.P.E. (Clinical Pastoral Education), which is, basically, an intensive chaplaincy internship. It's impossible to sum up in only a few sentences what that summer meant for the rest of my life...suffice it to say, I fell in love with the work, am finally back in grad school (after years of struggling with fibromyalgia), and hope to work as a hospice chaplain once I get my degree.

4. When I was 32 I met my husband through mutual friends at the Basilica of St. Mary. Can you say instant lightning? We've been married for five years and he's my rock, the light of my life, and on many days, especially when my depression is bad, the reason I get out of bed. Our marriage tells me a lot about God's love for us--steadfast, constant, always forgiving. We want to adopt so we can share the love with which we've been graced with a special child.

5. Two years ago in April my beloved mom died of emphysema. I am still so lonely for her. But in the midst of her dying, she taught me, by example, what it means to have lived a good life, and what it means, for a person of faith, to go to meet her Creator. (Check out "top ten things I learned from my mother" under "select posts" near the top of the right-hand sidebar.)

Come on ladies, play along with me! Either on your own blogs, or in the comments box. :)

the day he died

He died face down in the cold, wet, new-fallen snow sixteen years ago on a shivery, white, mid-January Minnesota day. A day exactly like today. He was a husband and a father, a brother, an uncle, a nephew, a cousin, and a friend. And although Tom Brokaw hadn't coined the phrase yet, he was one of the "Greatest Generation" the United States of America ever has known.

He was born in 1919, the third of eleven children in a large, exuberant German-Catholic farming family. He was forced to leave school after fifth grade, at the age of ten, to go work and help support the family. That was the year he and his older brother Leo shared one pair of shoes; one day Leo would wear them, the next day, Leo's little brother got to wear them. In his teens he worked in the CCC--the Civilian Conservation Corps--sent all of his pay home to his folks, and remained a New Deal Democrat until the day he died.

He was sitting at the kitchen table filling out his card for the Selective Service (i.e. the draft) the afternoon he heard over the radio that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. Within a few years, he would take part in the bloodiest nightmares World War II had to offer: landing in the third assault wave on Omaha Beach, spending Christmas Day 1944 in some of the fiercest fighting the Ardennnes saw during the Battle of the Bulge, helping liberate one of the sub-camps of Buchenwald in the Hartz mountains of Germany (a work camp, not a death camp, was all he would ever tell me, adding a moment later that there wasn't any difference).

When he finally came home in September of 1945 and discovered that his mother had saved all of his combat pay (which he'd sent home for the family to use) in a bank account for him, he used the money to buy the place where the family had been tenant farmers. He, his dad, and brothers founded a construction company too, and built many of the barns and houses in the Rush City-Pine City area of Minnesota, a number of which still stand today. He was the son who stayed home to farm and look after his mom and dad, putting off marriage and family until his parents decided to move into Rush City to live with his sister Julie. He was always the doting older brother and uncle, though, the tease, the one who made sure every niece and nephew had a Christmas present. He was the reason his little sister Jo refused to let her boyfriends come visit her at home--she knew she'd NEVER hear the end of it once her big brother found out a boy liked her! (Funny, his daughter had the same problem many years later...)

But in 1963 he married the girl he'd had his eye on for more than a decade and they settled down together in Minneapolis. They adopted a tiny daughter of five weeks in 1968. He almost died five years later, when he suffered his first heart attack, but luckily, it was mild and he lived another nineteen years. He lived to stick by his wife through two separate bouts of breast cancer, to take care of his daughter when she had three back surgeries for scoliosis at the age of seventeen. He lived to teach his little girl to fish, to show her by example that nothing in the whole world ever comes before the people you love. He took her to the Shrine Circus (unaware that she was terrified of clowns), the State Fair, and, every year, to see the Christmas lights in downtown Minneapolis. He stayed up with her all night when, at eighteen, the boy she thought she loved stood her up to go out with the campus floozy.

He was my father. His name was Leonard Henry Resch, and I adored him beyond reason, beyond words. And sixteen years to the day he returned home to God, I still do. I always will. And it's one of the greatest gifts I've ever been given. Thanks, God, you may have him now--as long as you promise that some day, I'll see that twinkle in his eye again, and I'll get to kiss him on the forehead once more. That we'll all be home again. Together, at last.

i'll see you in my dreams

"I never knew grief felt so much like fear."
--C.S. Lewis

Lewis was right on target: grief does feel like fear. The same breathless, sickening sensation of a sharp kick smack in the middle of the gut; the trembly, disoriented, foggy feeling in the brain; the same clenching, harsh pain around the heart.

All summer--strangely, ever since my headaches started easing up--I've been dreaming about my parents, especially my mom. The dreams always follow the same pattern. I'm reunited with either or both of my folks, only to have them die right in front of me. Almost every morning I wake up, crying, to face another day of fresh, raw grief, as though they died only yesterday. It's as though I'm haunted. It's made me depressed and weepy as of late; I'm extra sensitive, so every perceived slight hurts all the more, and my self-esteem is swimming around in the depths of the toilet.

Obviously, I haven't processed my mom's death. As I look back over the past year, I realize I've dealt with my grief, in many instances, by not dealing with it. By focusing on having a baby, partly to fill the void left by her absence. (Yeah, my head knows that won't work, but I suspect my gut feels differently. I should point out that I've desperately wanted a baby for a long time; it's just that losing my mom makes my grief over not conceiving even more intense.) By distracting myself with the TV and books. By telling myself that hey, I'm forty years old now, it's time to grow up and stop yearning for my mommy. The constant migraines, I now think, were in part, my grief coming out sideways.

Oscar Romero once said, "As a Christian, I do not believe in death without Resurrection." And I do, it's the hope I cling to. But I can't bear the thought that I will never again in this life feel my mom's arms around me, or be able to rest my head on her shoulder. That she's not there to soothe my hurt feelings when I feel rejected or like a failure at something. That there's no one left to reminisce with about the things the three of us did as a family together. I want to get past the grief, to get on with my life, to focus on enjoying my wonderful memories of my mom and dad; I just don't know how to, I guess.

seven truths

My friend Liz tagged me to reveal seven true things about myself. So here goes!

1. I was adopted 39 years ago yesterday, October 24, at the age of five weeks.

2. I am Irish, English, French, German, Danish and Lithuanian; my adopted parents (although I think of them as my "real" parents!) were German (my dad) and German, English, Scottish and Cherokee (my mom).

3. My favorite comfort food is macaroni and cheese from Noodles.

4. When I was a little girl I wanted to be a priest and was sure that if I could just meet with the Pope I could convince him to let women become priests.

5. In college I worked for Senator Ted Kennedy and attended several parties at the Kennedy Compound in Hyannisport, Mass. I had first applied for an internship with Senator John Kerry because I thought I didn't have a prayer of getting a job in Ted's office. Then when Kerry turned me down, I figured I had nothing to lose so just for the heck of it I applied for the job in Kennedy's office--and got the position, even though they had already finished hiring for the summer and had to create a new position just for me!

Me with other Senate interns at Hyannisport clambake, summer 1989. Check out my huge '80s hair!

6. I am number 41 out of 44 grandchildren on my dad's side. He had ten siblings, all of whom were fruitful and multiplied. We are also a family of baseball freaks. I am the only grandchild and sole remaining descendant on my mom's side.

7. I was a political science and philosophy major at Boston College, with an interdisciplinary minor in Faith, Peace and Justice studies.


I am supposed to tag seven other people, but I think everyone I know has already been hit. If anyone reading this hasn't, consider yourself tagged!

d-day plus 63 years

Leonard H. Resch
U.S. Army
Third Assault Wave, Omaha Beach, Normandy, France
June 6, 1944

"They may be older now, and grayer now, and their ranks are growing thin, but when these men were young, these men saved the world"
--President Bill Clinton
June 6, 1994
Omaha Beach

Note: My dad served with an artillery unit rather than the infantry, which is why he lucked out and was in the third wave rather than, say, the first. The third wave took only around 50% casualties whereas the first wave sustained about 90% casualties.

holocaust remembrance day

During WWII, my dad's outfit helped liberate a small camp somewhere in the Hartz mtn. area of Germany, near the infamous camps of Nordhausen and Buchenwald. I don't know anything more about it, because although he told me a few bits and pieces about D-Day, and the Battle of the Bulge, and the push through Germany, the camps were the one thing he'd refused to talk about. Please, Daddy, you must at least remember the name of the camp, I'd coax. That's when he'd bury his face behind the newspaper and mumble, Nope. Don't remember. And I knew better than to press any further. (I've tried to find out which one of the camps it was, but apparently the entire area was simply crawling with them; I'll probably never know which one it was.)

He did tell me one thing, when I was working on a paper about the Holocaust for a college course: It was a work camp, not a death camp, he said. But, he added, there wasn't a hell of a lot of difference between them. My dad didn't anger easily (except whenever Ronald Reagan was on TV) but I never saw him angrier that the night we watched an episode of 60 Minutes that featured Neo-Nazi Holocaust deniers. Eisenhower said this would happen, he sputtered. That's why he made them take so many pictures.

After my dad died, I found his own snapshots. And finally understood why he never talked about the camps. Because every time I look at them I, quite literally, feel as though I'm about to vomit. And I wasn't even there. (Somehow, probably because they were taken by my dad, they seem more real to me than the many other Holocaust pictures I've seen.)

So, now that we finally have a printer with a scanner, I can in my own small way honor my father's legacy and be a witness to history, that those who perished, all six million of them, will never be forgotten. May they live forever in our memories and our hearts.

NEVER AGAIN!!!!!

as we remember them

I meant to post this yesterday in memory of my dad, but was so overwhelmed with my mom's illness I never managed to get it done...however, I don't want the anniversary of his death to pass without doing anything in his memory. This is a Jewish prayer I found in a book about grief after he died, and I've always found it to be a tremendous comfort; it expresses so many of the feelings about grief and loss, and the world to come that I've come to believe since he died. He's always with me now; I can feel him patting me on the back and saying gruffly, "Good job, kid" or "hang in there kid, you're stronger than you think" or just being with me, smiling at me with that beloved twinkle in his blue eyes. So here's to you, daddy:

We Remember Them

In the rising of the sun and in its going down,
we remember them.
In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,
we remember them.
In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring,
we remember them.
In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of summer,
we remember them.
In the rustling of leaves and in the beauty of autumn,
we remember them.
In the beginning of the year and when it ends,
we remember them.
When we are weary and in need of strength,
we remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart,
we remember them.
When we have joys we yearn to share,
we remember them.
So long as we live, they too shall live,
for they are now a part of us, as
we remember them.

happy birthday dad!!

My dad's 87th birthday was Monday. Wow. I can't even begin to imagine him at 87; to me, I guess, he'll always be 73 at the most, which is not a bad thing: he never grew feeble in mind or body, and I never had to watch him suffer though a terminal illness. In fact, this week I've been remembering that I have so many things to be grateful for, that I am so blessed in the love and caring of my family and friends, and have been all my life.

On Monday, thinking about my dad, I realized that the flip side of the terrible agony of grief and loss is the comfort of memories; so often I feel my dad's presence and know that he's with me, and when I go over the times we shared together I feel immense gratitude that I was blessed with such a terrific dad (thanks, God!). The first few years after he died, the anniversary of his death (Jan. 12) was always such a painful day. In many ways, it felt as though the wound was reopened all over again, every year. But gradually, without my realizing it was happening, celebrating his birthday has come to seem the more natural thing to do, which, I guess, is how it should be: those we love are gifts from God, and should be celebrated and enjoyed as such!

June has always been my dad's month, in my mind. I think it's because both Father's Day and his birthday come so close together. On gorgeous summer days like this, when the sky is blue, the air is warm, and the birds sing, and the scent of roses and mown grass is in the air, I remember my father, and I am happy.

There's a lovely old WWII-era song that has come to remind me of my dad:

I'll be seeing you
in all the old familiar places
that this heart of mine embraces
all day through.
In that small cafe
the park across the way
the children's carousel
the chestnut trees
the wishing well.

I'll be seeing you
in every lovely summer's day
in everything that's bright and gay
I'll always think of you that way...

So many memories to take out and cherish, one by one: pink dresses..."walking on ice"...sitting on his lap drinking grape juice out of my bottle (my earliest memory of all)...getting my tricycle...long walks through the neighborhood, me pushing my pink plastic doll buggy, stopping at the corner store for orange dreamsicles..the Shrine Circus (an annual father-daughter trip)...fishing...trips with mom and dad and Bridget (our dog) up to Blue Lake Resort...the State Fair (also an annual father-daughter trip)..."our" flower garden...the smell of fresh varnish and paint (yes, strangely, I like them)...Gunsmoke (especially Festus!)... sawdust, the smell of freshly mown grass...my rolltop desk (gorgeous, solid oak, he made it for me when I was a teenager)...my dollhouse...putting up the Christmas tree together...going downtown to see the Christmas lights and decorations on the Nicollet Mall (yet another annual father-daughter tradition)...going to Midnight Mass and sitting between mom and dad...Sunday matinees...Laurel and Hardy on Sunday mornings (we went to mass on Saturday night, I still think it was so we could watch Laurel and Hardy on WCCO in the morning even though my parents would never admit it)...zucchini cornbread the summer of the Great Zucchini Takeover of the garden (shudder)...Memorial Day 1992...Baccalaureate mass and party at Boston College, 1991...and most of all, of course, the Minnesota Twins, so many games every year without fail, especially the 1987 season (Magic! as the Strib so aptly proclaimed)...our last conversation, when we laughed and joked for 15 minutes straight, (long-distance even!)....

Yeah, I've been blessed. Unbelievably, astonishingly blessed.

excerpt, rush city post

Here's an excerpt from the Rush City Post, dated Friday, June 15, 1945:

Technician Fifth Grade Leonard H. Resch, son of Mr. and Mrs. John Resch, Harris, Minnesota, liason airplane mechanic with the First Army, captured two fleeing German soldiers yesterday from the rear cockpit of an artillery cub plane.
On a a jaunt combining business and pleasure, T5 Resch spotted the enemy soldiers as they were sneaking through a clump of woods. The pilot of his plane, Lt. Robert H. Williams of San Antonio, Texas, immediately put his ship in a dive towards the running Germans as T5 Resch opened up with his carbine in a manner which would do credit to a P-38.
The enemy, upon being strafed in such an erratic manner, immediately waved a white handkerchief. Resch then landed and took his two customers in tow.

NB: My dad was actually promoted to T3 before his discharge in Sept. 1945. Also, Pilot Robert Williams, more commonly known as "Crazy Roberts," liked to fly his Piper Cub under the Eiffel Tower, at least until his superiors, who for some reason frowned upon this practice, made it clear that he had to "cease and desist." Dad would never admit to being with him--but he wouldn't deny it, either.

d-day plus 62 years

"Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Forces!You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world. Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped, and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely....I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!

Good Luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking."

---General Dwight Eisenhower, Supreme Commander, Allied Expeditionary Forces (This "Orders of the Day" was issued to every Allied soldier prior to the Normandy landings on June 6, 1944. The picture above depicts American soldiers aboard an LCI [Landing Craft Infantry] attending Mass on their way to Normandy.)

62 years ago this morning, my father, along with other young men--boys, really-- from the United States, Great Britain, and Canada, stormed the Normandy beaches to begin the Allied assault on Nazi-occupied Europe. When Eisenhower said the hopes of freedom-loving people everywhere went with them, he wasn't kidding; D-Day has been called the definitive day of the twentieth century because it became the turning point in the European War and gave Hitler his first real taste of what he had so underestimated, what Eisenhower called the "fury of an aroused democracy."



A few of the troops landing in Normandy that day had some combat experience, primarily in North Africa and/or Italy. But the vast majority, like my dad, had never before heard a shot fired in anger. For them, the Normandy Beaches were to represent the ultimate loss of innocence. There were five landing beaches: Gold, Juno, Sword (British and Canadian), Utah, and Omaha (American). Of the five, Gold, Juno, Sword, and Utah went relatively according to plan; Omaha, however, has been known as "Bloody Omaha" ever since. The first assault waves sustained tremendous casualties, as soldiers were mowed down by German mortar and artillery fire. Many drowned, wounded by German fire and loaded down by 60 lbs. of gear, before they ever made the beach. The beach itself was a slaughter, littered with the bodies of the dead and wounded. There were body parts, blood and gore everywhere, along with the never-ending sounds of artillery fire and the screams of the dying. One soldier famously described landing on Omaha that day as a "descent into hell." Did you ever see "Saving Private Ryan?" The opening scenes were set on Omaha Beach.

This, then, was what my dad, a farm boy from Minnesota, saw in the early morning hours of June 6, 1944. I don't know very much about what he experienced, as he wouldn't say much about it and, like all children of combat veterans, I instinctively understood that there were some things one simply didn't push dad to talk about. But he did tell me a few things: he was in the third assault wave to hit Omaha; in response to my question "what was it like" he said vaguely "...well, you know, gettin' shot at a lot...bullets in the air, everyone in the boat was seasick goin' over...." My mom asked him once what he thought about while crossing the English Channel on his way to France, and after he reflected for a while, he said that he mostly worried that he might be a coward, that he'd let the family back home, and his buddies, down.

After he died, my Aunt Marie told me a story about my dad and Omaha Beach. After he finally worked his way on to the beach, a lieutenant (I've read that most of the officers that day were useless idiots; for the most part it was the enlisted men--the noncoms and the new privates--who saved the day) grabbed him and barked, "Soldier, dig me a foxhole!" To which my dad replied, "Dig your own goddamn foxhole--I'm gettin' off the beach!"
To paraphrase a famous quote, there were two kinds of men on Omaha that day: the dead, and those about to die. The rest got off the beach--and won the day by knocking out the German defenses from high up on the bluff. That was their job. Pinned down on the beach, the men had no hope of survival.

WWII historian Stephen Ambrose wrote this about D-Day:

D-Day, June 6, 1944, was the climactic moment of the twentieth century. The outcome of the war in Europe was at stake. If Field Marshall Erwin Rommel's forces had thrown back the invasion of Normandy, Nazi Germany might well have won the war. Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, the Supreme Commander of the American, British, and Canadian forces, was prepared to resign his post if the attack had failed.
Operation Overlord, as the invasion was called, had superb planning, training, and equipment. But no matter how good the commanders had been in preparation, it was the men on the beaches at Gold, Sword, Juno, Utah, and Omaha who counted. At Omaha Beach, the infantry was pinned down at the seawall, taking fire from German mortar, artillery, and small arms fire. The U.S. First Army Commander, Gen. Omar Bradley, was at one point ready to pull them off the beach.
But they were soldiers of democracy. They were not as good as the German soldiers at taking orders [as my dad so amply proved], but they knew how to take responsibility and act on their own. What happened along the seawall--over there a sergeant, down the line a corporal, over there a lieutenant--they all came to the same conclusion: if I stay here I'm going to die, but before I do, I'm going to take some Germans with me. So he would yell at the men on his right and on his left, 'I'm going up that bluff. Follow me,' and start out. One man would follow, then another, soon a dozen or more. They got to the top of the bluff to begin the drive inland, toward Germany...
Their triumph that day against the best the Nazis had to put against them, insured our freedom. There were eleven months of hard fighting ahead, but once the Allies got ashore in France, neither the skill nor the determination and the fighting abilities of the Germans could stop them. They put the Nazis where they belonged, in the ash can of history. (From D-Day June 6, 1944: The Climactic Battle of World War II, by Stephen Ambrose.)

In 1994, the year after my dad died, I remember watching the 50th anniversary celebrations from Omaha on TV. What I remember most, and what I wrote in my grief journal later, was what President Bill Clinton said to and about the veterans of D-Day that day:

They may be older now, and grayer now, and their ranks are growing thin. But when these men were young, these men saved the world.

My dad never wanted to be a hero, and certainly didn't think of himself as one (I was just doing my job, he said once to sum up his service during the war) but a hero he was. As were they all, those boys who became young men on the beaches of Normandy that day.

And as for me, my father has long since gone to his peace, and memories of D-Day have no more power to torment him. This I know. I know, too, that the beaches of Normandy have been quiet and still for 62 years and that Hitler's Nazi regime and all of its evil was soundly defeated. But it still breaks my heart to think of my dad, a sweet, gentle farm boy from Minnesota, facing that beach the morning of June 6, 1944.

***********

Postscript:
In Normandy, they have not forgotten. After 9/11, the French left thousands of notes and flowers at the American Cemetery overlooking Omaha Beach in Colleville-sur-Mer. Many of the notes read, simply, We Remember.

prayer for peace

Sometimes we learn of our loved ones deepest feelings by the things they leave behind, particularly if they have traveled lightly. My dad, unlike me, was a person of few words, not inclined to wear his emotions on his sleeve. He didn't talk much about the war, except to share a few bits and pieces here and there, mostly funny stories; in fact the one time he really opened up to me about his experiences was the Memorial Day I wrote him the letter, when he told me about a good buddy of his who was blown up by a land mine in France--the only time in my life I ever saw my father cry, other than when my grandma died.

So, after he died, when I discovered the following prayer--along with an old missal, his rosary, my letter, and assorted old photographs, including a number from the war--it told me a lot about the the scars the war had left.

God of power and mercy,
In the midst of conflict and division,
we know it is you who turn our minds to thoughts of peace.
Your Spirit changes our hearts:
enemies begin to speak to one another,
those who were estranged join hands in friendship,
and nations seek the way of peace together.

Protect us from violence
and keep us safe from the weapons of war.

This we ask though the Prince of Peace,
our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you
and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.
Amen.
(Based on the Eucharistic Prayer for Masses of Reconciliation II)
Archdiocese of Saint Paul and Minneapolis


My dad was once a crack shot; he qualified as a rifle expert in the Army and, being a farm boy, hunted frequently before he was drafted into the service. Yet after he came home he never picked up a rifle again. As he told me, "Once you've seen what a gun can do to a human being, you just don't want to ever look at one again."

It's good to remember that all combat veterans sacrifice for their country; it's just that in some cases, the wounds aren't visible on the outside. But that doesn't mean they aren't there, and that the suffering isn't real. My father had nightmares and insomnia all his life, and when I was a chaplain intern I worked with WWII vets who, more than 50 years later, still had flashbacks of concentration camps and landings on Normandy Beaches, desolate Christmases in the Ardennes and firey Pacific Islands, haunted by unimaginable horrors that could not be put to rest.

So if you (if anyone is actually reading this) happen to meet a WWII vet--or any vet at all--say thanks. Believe me, it will mean the world to them.

a letter to my father

Memorial day, 1992
1 am

Dear Daddy,
It was just announced on the radio that the annual Memorial Day Parade in new York City has been cancelled--due to lack of interest. One organizer of the parade, a WWII veteran, said that the parade had become so small in recent years, that it was "an insult to the memory of those who fought."
It is inevitable, I suppose, that with the passing of time, people will lose interest. Most of my generation has a lousy sense of history anyway, and I wonder if to many of my contemporaries, the Second World War seems ancient history, irrelevant to our lives today.
But not to me. Daddy, I don't know if you realize this, but I am so damn proud of you! That's why I ask so many questions about your experiences overseas; I really want to understand what you went through. I know I'll never be able to fully understand--I've read enough about war to know that the horror of war can never be comprehended by someone who has never seen combat. I hope my questions don't stir up painful memories for you. Some things are best left in the past, forgotten.
But I am 23 now; when you were my age you were in the war. I can't imagine you, at my age, landing on Omaha Beach, living through the Battle of the Bulge. I admire the courage and strength that brought you through the war, and I love you even more for it. You are an incredible person to have survived the "war to end all wars" and kept your decency and humanity.
And I thank you. Because you were willing to risk giving what Abraham Lincoln called "the last full measure of devotion," because you risked your life for your country, today I am an American. Because of you I have grown up in freedom, and because of you, someday your grandchildren will also.

Some may forget. But I shall never forget. You will always be a hero to me. And someday I will tell your granchildren all about their grandpa, who was a hero in the biggest, most horrible war ever fought. And they will tell their children. I promise, your sacrifice for us will NEVER be forgotten.

I love you very much.
Barbara

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Although I couldn't know it at the time, that would be our last Memorial Day together. My father, Leonard Resch, died suddenly on January 12, 1993, of a massive heart attack. He was 73.



World War II Memorial, Washington D.C.