Note: this is another Twitter thread I am trying to save if that place goes down
A Story about War and Hope
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I was pretty scared going into the Gulf War, I won't lie.
We were well trained but faced thousands of dug in Iraqi troops, behind massive mine fields, and armed with terrifying chemical weapons.
But like most Americans, I came home intact.
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Approximately twelve years later I learned about another young man who was not so fortunate.
He held the *exact* same position I did - the Medical Platoon Leader of 3/7 Infantry during the Iraq War.
After Baghdad fell, his HMMWV was hit by an IED. He came home paralyzed.
As it turns out, this young fellow - this hero - grew up in my denomination, and happened to live in my old Army neighborhood in Richmond Hill, GA.
At the time, I pastored in Statesboro, GA, about an hour away. So I got his contact information and asked if I could come visit.
He was very happy to have me come so I sat with him in his home for a couple of hours, swapping war stories. He had more than I did.
I prayed with him and we spoke about the hope of the Gospel, but truth was, I did not feel like I could say very much to make things better.
It was a sobering visit. Why him, Lord, and not me?
Why do so many bad things happen to so many people while others of us in similar circumstances escape harm?
Time and chance happen to us all, but when you sit with a fellow blown up by an IED, it hits home.
I am not entirely sure whatever happened to him, but his wife was devoted to his care, and the V.A. were doing what they could.
But when I got home, the date of the visit struck me: December 7, 2003.
Pearl Harbor Day. There's more.
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About a week later, I was invited to a dinner at a friend's house which included a young Japanese couple I had come to know.
This couple had been coming to my office every Wednesday to study the Gospel of John. They wanted to learn about Jesus and so we did that together.
And at this dinner, they were so happy and proud for me to meet her father, who was visiting from Japan.
He was a delightful man. He did not speak English, but smiled easily and was very talkative. His daughter translated.
At one point, I asked him about his father. He paused, and his twinkle momentarily dimmed.
Then he said simply, but with no anger, "My father was killed in the Philippines. By the Americans."
During World War 2. Pearl Harbor Day.
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I know that one day, all the injured, the lame, the diseased, all those in Christ will run and leap for joy.
And that the number of the redeemed will be a multitude no one can number, people from every nation, tribe and tongue.
War does not have the last word. That I know.