The Day Canadian Soldiers Freed My Country - Jack Popjes

 We are honoured to have Jack Popjes, our InScribe President, guest post for us today.

It’s called Memorial Day in Canada, Veterans Day in the USA, and Armed Forces Day in the UK. Today is the day we honour soldiers who fought to bring freedom to subjugated nations--both those who died and those who survived.

Every time I see an elderly veteran in his uniform, tears come to my eyes as I remember the day Canadian soldiers freed my country. Here is my story of that day. I wrote it many years ago and is included in my first book, but bears repeating in honour of those who gave their lives in war so that I and my countrymen might live in peace.

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I squirmed and squeezed my thin seven-year-old body through the jostling crowd until I conquered a spot on the curb. The bright sunshine warmed my face, arms and bare knees as I squinted into the light. I clutched my little paper flag, the Dutch red, white and blue, ready to wave, ready to shout and ready to sing a welcome to our rescuers. It was Tuesday, May 8, 1945.

The approaching rumble of a column of Canadian army trucks started the crowd up the road cheering and singing. The noise grew louder until huge dull green trucks blocked out the sun. Shouting, laughing soldiers waved their machine guns from the backs of the trucks. The applause and cheers of the delirious crowd lining the street nearly drowned out the singing of Wilhelmus, the Dutch national anthem.

Young soldiers whistled at the tall blonde girl jumping up and down behind me. Her homemade rose petal perfume fought the stink of the diesel exhaust fumes and the stench of close-pressed sweating bodies—bodies and clothing that had not been touched by soap for years. Camouflaged tanks grumbled past, pulling long-snouted artillery. Their thunderous booming had kept me awake for several nights. Now the cannons were sniffing the air, eager to rout the enemy from the next city.

The cheers died down suddenly as a column of prisoners of war in grey-green uniforms shuffled past. The Luger pistol holsters flapped empty on their brown leather belts. They held their now-empty hands high, or fingers laced on top of their heads. Canadian soldiers, each with his machine gun at the ready, walked alongside them.

The crowd stood silently watching the infantry prisoners go by, but then began to boo and hiss as a small column of Gestapo officers came into view. Finally! No more strutting. No more haughty looks. No more death-dealing commands. Their once-feared black uniforms glistened with the slime of saliva as people rushed from the sidewalk to spit on them.

The last trucks in the parade rolled past. I cheered myself hoarse, and waved my little flag until a soldier snatched it out of my hand and waved it high as his truck rumbled on down the road. I tasted the salt of tears, not for the loss of the flag, but for the joy of knowing the peace-bringers had arrived and the enemy would never make me afraid again.

My Great-Uncle's Story - Bonnie Way

Every year when Remembrance Day approaches, I think of my great-uncle and tell myself that this year, I will get around to asking him for his story. He was the only one of six brothers who fought in World War II, serving somewhere in Italy—but that’s about all I know of the story. It is not something I’ve heard him speak about often, though I’m not sure if that’s a cultural or a personal reticence.


I’ve seen a plaque on his wall—put together by his artistic granddaughter, I think—that shows off some of his papers, medals, and memorabilia from the war. At one time, he handwrote four pages of notes for my younger brother, who was working on a project for his English class. My brother lost those notes. They were only the story in a nutshell, but they would have been a great starting place.

My great-uncle is ninety-nine this year, I believe, and still sharp as a spike. I saw him this summer, when I dropped in on my grandparents while he was there playing cards. He had no problem remembering me, though it had been a few years since I had seen him last, and I think he was walking himself back to his room at the lodge when he left.

Because of his age, I realize that time is running out if I want to tell his story. He and my grandpa are the only ones left of the six brothers. At the same time, a shyness holds me back. Despite the fact that he lives in the same town as my grandparents, I see my great-uncle only every few years. It’s hard to sit down with someone you don’t really know—even if they are family—or maybe especially if they are family—and say, “Hey, tell me about the time you fought in the war.”

Maybe this Christmas—with the skills I’ve learned in interviewing in Writing 100, some ideas from the other profile pieces we’ve studied, and a newfound confidence in my own writing abilities—I’ll find a time to sit down and chat with him, to ask him the questions that I’ve been wondering, to record his story not only for myself but for my daughters and his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Who do you remember at this time of year? Whose story do you wish to tell? And what holds you back from remembering or telling?

~ © Bonnie Way
http://thekoalabearwriter.blogspot.com/

Selective Memory--Janet Sketchley

Then the chief priests and the Pharisees called a meeting of the Sanhedrin.

“What are we accomplishing?” they asked. “Here is this man performing many signs. If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, and then the Romans will come and take away both our temple and our nation.” John 11:47-48, NIV*

This comes near the end of Jesus’ ministry. He’s been preaching, healing, restoring people who’ve been dead for short periods, and now He’s raised Lazarus after a four-day stay in the tomb.

Many of the people watching Him think the only way someone could do miracles like this is if God is involved. Others can’t get past their suspicions.

Then we have the chief priests and Pharisees. Yes, some are secretly impressed by Jesus, but the party line is clear: “denounce this itinerant preacher who dares rock our boat.”

They’ve recognized His claim to equality with God—and that’s a killing offense. They’ve also seen how the people love Him—and how he makes religious officialdom look bad. He doesn’t play by their rules, doesn’t buy into the monopoly they’ve built on holiness.

But there’s more: they’re afraid the brutal Roman empire will crush a perceived uprising. They’re not just scared for their cushy positions, they’re scared of their beloved nation being pasted again.

I don’t have much sympathy for their self-protection, but protecting their people sounds more noble.

They remembered the exiles, the military humiliations in the past. Now they’d achieved a form of peace under Rome, and they didn’t want anything to wreck it.

But they weren’t remembering back far enough.

What about the God who brought the Israelites out of Egypt’s slavery? The God who brought them back from exile in Babylon?

Even the God who sent them into exile in the first place because they had turned away from following Him.

What if... the leaders believed Jesus was who His words and actions claimed? God come down to His chosen people?

I know it couldn’t have happened that way. He came to die, to sacrifice Himself to buy us back. To bring healing and eternal life.

But think about it... what if they’d recognized God in their midst? Remembered what He could do? Relied on Him to do it again?

The threat of Rome wouldn’t have seemed so overwhelming if they knew God was there: God who had defeated so many of their enemies, often at incredible odds. Running to Him would be much smarter than trying to kill him.

They remembered the pain, but they didn’t remember the hope.

Aren’t we the same?

© Janet Sketchley, 2010

* THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2010 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
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For devotionals, reviews and conversation, stop by Janet Sketchley's blog, God with Us: Finding Joy.

Amanda - Glynis Belec

Sometimes I watch you.
I watch the way you look at your child, my grandchild.
I watch and wonder where the years have gone and how it is that you are now a mother.

Then I see the dependent, adoring way your child looks at you.
I remember when you used to look at me like that.

But time marches on
You, my once desperately, dependent daughter have become a fiercely
independent woman.
Did I teach you that?

We had our moments of conflict.
We faced joys and challenges together.
We overcame grief and sadness.
We triumphed.

I love spending time with you.
I appreciate when you ask me for advice.
It makes me feel valued and worthy.

Our relationship is special.
We are more than mother and daughter.
We have become friends.