Viewpoints: Thankful By Surprise

Right around Thanksgiving, while I was five states away from home, I learned a valuable lesson. I think it occurred somewhere in between the argument with my mom, the disbelief at seeing my 94-year-old grandmother with her new “Alzheimer’s” personality, and the fact that, though I was having a good time in general, underneath I was still kind of pissed that I had to spend Thanksgiving (again) without a husband because he’d recently left me. And who is now “dating,” I might add. Anyway, the point is, I was feeling sorry for myself and did not feel like there was much at all to be thankful about. Au contraire.

So…I’m standing in line at a bustling Panera Bread in New Jersey with my mom, my three children, and my 23-year-old sister. My sister is young, attractive and full of life, has just begun a promising career as a nurse at a busy northeastern hospital, and everything I wish I could be again. As we’re waiting our turn to order lunch, I realize the guy ahead of us, who is about my sister’s age, has no right leg from the knee down. What’s left of it is wrapped in bright white gauze. I don’t know that he’s military, but it’s my best guess. And though this is extremely upsetting and sad to me, because I live in North Carolina and see military personnel somewhat regularly, it’s not the shock it might be to someone else.

I see my children also surveying the young man, trying to process what might have happened to his leg, wondering how someone so otherwise healthy and normal-looking could have had such an accident. I’m proud of them for keeping their sadness and curiosity to themselves. I realize that, unfortunately, they’ve also seen this type of thing before. The other folks in Panera though had obviously not. Stares toward the young man were rarely discreet. Heads turned, whispers lingered. In a sea of gossip, the young man remained comfortable and mature, and I felt a sudden surge of pride for this random guy I didn’t even know. I wondered if I could ever do that—rise above the emotion of the crowd, particularly when it’s directed at me. But this was a man obviously made of incredible bravery and courage, as I was about to find out.

“Tommy,” my sister cries. “Hey, Mom, it’s Tommy!” She and Tommy strike up a conversation and remove themselves from the Panera line to catch up on old times. Wow, I think to myself. He’s my sister’s age. One of her friends. A regular guy with dreams and aspirations and a whole life ahead of him, and now, an amputated leg. They talk for about fifteen minutes. Smiling and laughing, just being young and finding out what the other one’s been up to. My sister introduces us to him, and he in turn introduces his friends. Then we go to our separate tables, and I find out his story.

“I didn’t realize that was Tommy,” my sister says. “He went to church with us. Went off to Afghanistan, fought in the war. Do you know he just got a Purple Heart? President Bush came and visited with him, and talked with his family, and sat down beside him. Tommy was a medic. Got a bunch of shrapnel in his leg. He saw his men getting pummeled and he kept going out to save them, one after another, even though he was badly wounded himself.”

Wow. There are no other words. I was speechless. Suddenly my divorce and my anger and my sorry-ass ex-husband and my self-pity and my wishing I could keep up with the Joneses that much better… instantly dissolved, and I realized that here was a kid (yes, a kid when you think about it) who had thought only of others in a time that truly meant life or death, was fighting with all he had to give me freedom (to wallow in that self-pity I’d just mentioned), and was more grown up than I’ll (or any of us, really) will ever be. Here was a kid, more courageous, more selfless, more sacrificing, more “Man” than anyone else I know, and much more mature than myself, who was almost but not quite twice his age. Who had given his leg, and probably most of his soul, so that I could have freedom. Freedom. Something every single one of us probably takes for granted. Because I know I do.

And it hits me. Not only do I have an incredible, mind-boggling amount to be thankful for, I owe much of it to him—and to all the men and women who fight for us. And I am very, very grateful.

So I vow never to be so self-absorbed again. That part, I’m still working on, because I think it’s an American habit that’s hard to get rid of. But I’m getting there, partly thanks to Tommy. And it occurs to me, I wonder if he’ll ever realize how many people he really saved, and continues to save, just by going around to Panera and all the other places in our world, and continuously rising above? Someone like him, he’ll probably never realize. But I do. And I’ll bet a lot of other people that day did too.