My Airport Miracle

It was like any ordinary day of travel: early morning rising, drive to the airport several miles away, the checking in of luggage and the subsequent arrival at the gate for departure. I sat down to relax a bit before my flight. The first I noticed him was when his cell phone went off. I glanced past the person sitting next to me and saw a guy about my age wearing a ball cap, casually dressed. As he answered his phone, my eyes locked in on a small but telling detail - a bracelet with what looked to be names of fallen military. Instantly, I knew they had to have been friends of his. I looked away but somehow I couldn't fully look away.

The pain of losing my dear friend Alex still fresh on my mind, I felt a odd connection with this stranger I didn't know. Without any exchange of words, I knew right away that we spoke the language of loss. When you've endured your share of goodbyes, somehow you have this ability to perceive the losses of others. You gravitate toward those who have felt the same. I toyed with whether or not to say something to the guy. About that point, I glanced over again. His phone conversation over, he was simply people-watching. Just taking in the rhythmic passing of the people around the gate. At that moment, he leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. Through his pants I could make out the presence of a prosthetic leg. Evidence of a deeper story. He looked over in my direction, and our glances met. He smiled and nodded politely. That was my cue. I decided to go say something to him. 

Walking over, I quietly said, "Excuse me. I don't mean to disturb or anything, but I noticed your bracelet and wanted to thank you for serving." He put his hand out and firmly shook my own. Smiling, he expressed his gratitude. He told me he was up on a fishing trip for wounded warriors and seemed eager to tell me all about it. When I asked if they'd caught many salmon, he grinned large: "We killed it out there," he said proudly. A warrior loves victory always. 

When I mentioned my military volunteer background and my familiarity with injured personnel, he began to open up and share his story... "Stepped on an IED (improvised explosive device) in 2010," he said, "Lost my right leg, part of my left pinky, and I have residual hearing loss from the concussion of the blast, as well." I acknowledged that he was a survivor, that it's a blessing he's still alive and able to live well in spite of his injury. I was shocked to learn that he's still on active duty with the military even after all he's been through. I had just assumed he was on veteran status because most who endure an injury like that end up being medically discharged and cannot continue serving actively. "I fought really hard to stay in," he told me, "I wanted to leave on my terms, and I think that helped my healing process. Many aren't able to have that." I could tell I was in the presence of one, tough guy. "Some weren't so fortunate that day though," he added, pointing to his wrist and the names on the bracelet I'd seen. Though gone, his brothers remain with him everywhere he goes. Deep in my heart, I knew the feeling. 

I told him about my recent loss of Alex as well as my loss of a friend named Michael in combat while serving in Iraq in 2006. I told him about Alex's career and what an exemplary individual he was. He smiled when I told him Alex was a trauma liaison on Bethesda Naval Hospital. "I was treated there for awhile after my injuries," he said. Judging by the timeframe, I knew the two most likely barely missed each other due to Alex transferring out shortly before this guy would've arrived there. When he heard that I too understood the pain of loss, he began to ask where Alex was buried. I told him, "San Antonio, Texas - his beloved hometown - at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery." I could hardly believe it when he said that San Antonio is his hometown also. That he plans to return there after getting out of the military. When I asked him what branch he serves in, he told me with a smile, "The Marines, ma'am." Amazed, I thought...Of course he'd be from San Antonio and in the Marines, treated at Bethesda. The similarities between this guy and Alex seemed uncanny. He even acted a bit like Alex, talked like him too. I asked his name. He said simply, "Jason." He told me if I ever make it back to San Antonio to pay respects at my friend's grave that he's willing to go along and honor him, too. "You know Marines...it's what we do," he said sweetly. After so many years of being around the brotherhood that is the Marine Corps, I could only agree with his statement. Marines honor. They remember unlike any other. 

I asked Jason for his contact information so that we could possibly stay in touch. He readily gave it to me. When I looked at his full name, it seemed oddly familiar, but I couldn't figure out why. Neither could he. We enjoyed a smooth flight, sitting a few rows apart. I got off the plane first but waited to say a quick goodbye to him after he got off. After we'd wished one another well, I watched him walk off. Unlike most amputees, he hardly showed any evidence of what he'd been through. He had suffered yet healed well. 

A few days later, in my hotel room, I decided to look Jason's name up to see if I could jog my memory on why his name was so familiar. It didn't take long for me to put it together. Upon Googling him, I discovered Jason is actually the first Marine amputee in the history of the Corps to return to combat. He was back on the front lines a mere fifteen months after injury. An impressive feat to say the least! Not only that, but he's competed in the Department of Defense's Warrior Games (an adaptive sporting event for veterans and military personnel with injuries) and is one of the top combat instructors in the Corps. I immediately recalled seeing an interview with him on national tv, talking about the Warrior Games. 

God can make your world so small sometimes when paths are destined to cross. Apart from His plan, sometimes it's unexplainable why and how things take place the way they do. 

Awhile after discovering more about Jason's story, I realized that days earlier, I had journaled about a quote I'd read in a book recently. How the author mentioned that loss can be like undergoing an amputation, a losing of a former self you once were. A self that's familiar to you but is now no longer part of your identity. He drew the analogy that loss can sometimes feel like the phantom pains that amputees experience - the nerves telling one that they still have a leg or an arm when the limb is long gone. That the old self sometimes still cries out for the life it enjoyed with the person who is gone. I had felt his comment deep. 

Suddenly, it dawned on me: it's just like God to send an amputee to remind me that loss doesn't have to have the final say in our lives. That while one is never the same after loss, one can still live a full and meaningful life in spite of that loss. One can be given the grace to love and thrive again even as one carries the emptiness of grief forever. 

As Jason proves, it's a battle all its own to learn how to embrace loss and to carry it well. To make peace with our own story. To be given grace to grow into our suffering and learn how to wear it better over time. But it's a fight that joy and hope depend on. While talking to Jason, I could feel some hope returning to my soul. The grief still on-going, but a belief that I can emerge from this with strength. Strength that comes through weakness. 

Jason was my miracle that day. When I set out for the airport, I never thought God would have such a special thing waiting for me. What miracle might He have waiting for you today if you'll just continue to show up for life, even when it hurts?