Last weekend Dave and I attended the first Tune it up for the Troops event in Mankato. For a first time event, they had a great turnout. While chatting with a couple other ladies, a woman approached us and joined our conversation. She then told us her father was coming home after 67 years.
She was only 3 months old during WWII when her father's airplane went down with 9 other men. One man managed to jump and survive, the remaining men were listed as MIA the following year. The wreckage had never been recovered in the dense and hostile area, until recently. On September 18th, she will travel to Arlington to lay the men to rest, one casket for all 9 men. The tradition is to lay out the uniform of the highest ranking man, usually the pilot, and circle it with the head wear of the others. The story gave me goosebumps.
The thought of not knowing where your loved one was, or not having them return to you has always haunted me. Knowing the pain of my loss, I cannot imagine what other emotions could come along with that added complication. The strength and faith I see is inspiring.
This woman's mother remarried and she was raised by a wonderful man, but she never forgot a father she never met. The joy and pride of her father's return was written on her face. I wish her well, and I will think of a hero named Christopherson, as well as the others on the 18th. Welcome home.
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