by Tom Reilly
I just returned from a four-day spiritual retreat with my brothers and sisters-in-arms. I call it “four days with my peeps.” Veterans of different times, different wars, and different branches of service. Some young. Some old. Some older. Some marched with a spring in their step. Some limped from one activity to another. Some navigated their motorized wheelchairs. Many wore logos on hats and shirts—badges of their service, while others dressed to forget. Conscripts and volunteers, but no one was drafted into this retreat—all were there voluntarily. Some packed light; others rucked weighted bags of burden.
This was a four-day retreat into past service and present sentiment—laughter, stories, and of course tears. Brave souls who ran to the sound of guns now recount youthful adventures packed with excitement, fear, and connectedness. A community of brothers and sisters with a common history but different stories.
I was struck by their openness—a rare blend of vulnerability and courage. They shared everything: failed marriages, alcoholism, addictions, broken families, and of course, salvation. It was best friends intimately sharing their life’s narratives. Nothing was off-limits: the bitter taste of the N-word spoken in a mixed-race group, the obscenity of politics that traveled a circuitous path of random thoughts, and naturally, the high cost of service. Past wounds and current ailments paled in comparison to their view of sacrifice and faith. They carry their crosses bravely.
One of my brothers spoke of God, his shadow whom he said wanted to move out of the shadows. Yet, what I heard was a description of a God who was always at his back, guarding, girding, and guiding him for the battles that he still fought. Another spoke of the battle he is fighting with his wife’s Alzheimer’s, a merciless enemy. One sister told us that she made “putting on her Jesus” a top priority every day. Another spoke of the people he didn’t like but was obliged to love in an agape sort of way. One shared his deep-low with alcohol. He nearly died trying to bury his ghosts of war. They were all here for redemption. A spirit of hope keeps them marching on.
I was impressed by their spiritual courage. Veterans who faced trauma in early life soldiered on, got jobs, raised families, and retired to a peace that only time and God can grant. One shared that people cry in unspeakable situations, as their tears are their words. Another admitted, “I had to get out of God’s way—I was making His job tougher.” One vet quoted, Isaiah 43:4, “You are precious in my sight and I love you.”
These selfless souls shared generously the details of their lives and faith journeys. We were old friends, new friends, and family. There were no strangers here. Everyone fit. We were the person to whom we spoke. It was just yesterday that we transferred into their units and became fast friends. Military service made sure that we double-timed our way to friendship—we were all that we had. We were bonded by trauma, a glue that sticks. We discovered that the most resilient dynamic of service is camaraderie, the bond of shared sacrifice.
I was struck by their generosity. They opened their arms and hearts to each other. They welcomed the pain of their brothers and sisters as a way to lighten their loads.
Four days of this. And it went fast. We ate our last meal together said our good byes as we shipped off for home. “See ya’ next year, God willing.” “Take care of yourself.” “Call me.”
I drove home slowly, savoring this experience. I was ready to go home but didn’t want to leave my brothers and sisters. I was already missing them. Oh, that sentiment is as fresh as it was 55 years ago. I worked hard to remember the words of Henry V:
“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition.”
Bowed legs, stooped backs, age spots as so many barnacles of time: these once-strong, once-young, old soldiers are my band of brothers.
Tom Reilly is the author of Hope in The Shadows of War.
