The Honor of the Past

This weekend, I'll be spending several days immersed in a World War II event in Reading,

Pennsylvania, staying in an Airbnb with seven incredible friends. There will be military vehicles,

uniforms, artifacts, reenactments, music, and stories from a generation that is slowly passing

from this earth.

And honestly, I think that's what draws me to it most.

The stories.

Not the battles.

Not the equipment.

Not even the artifacts.

The people and the reality they lived.

My friends affectionately tell me I was born in the wrong generation—that I am a 90-year-old

stuck in a 27-year-old body. Truthfully, I take that as a compliment. I won't say they're wrong as I

write this by candlelight with a phonograph playing softly in the background.

There is something about the 1940s that captures my heart.

Not because it was a simpler time. It wasn't.

Not because it was easier. It certainly wasn't.

But because it was a generation that understood sacrifice.

• The young man who kissed his sweetheart goodbye and boarded a train, not knowing if he would ever return.

• The mother who folded letters until the paper wore thin because it was the closest thing she had to holding her son.

• The family gathered around a radio, hanging on every update.

• The factory worker spending long hours building what others would carry into battle.

• The women who stepped into unfamiliar roles, carrying burdens they never expected to bear.

• The child who learned far too young that tomorrow is never guaranteed.

They were ordinary people asked to live through extraordinary circumstances.

And somehow they did.

I remember the first time I sat with my great-grandfathers and listened to them talk about the

war. I saw photographs I had never seen before. I heard stories that no movie could ever fully

capture. There was a weight to their words. A pain. A loss. A depth that only comes from living

through history rather than reading about it. There was something stoic about sitting with their

pain and understanding the true gravity of what war caused. Two men, humble backgrounds

and families to support, Lester Peck and Lester Hansen, both Navy Men, both holding that

weight for years.

I remember realizing that the men sitting before me weren't characters in a history book.

They were young once.

They were scared once.

They missed home.

They lost friends.

They carried memories they would never fully put into words.

And yet they endured.

That realization changed something in me.

History has always been something that I leaned into. I think that is why I loved studying the

historical background of the Bible or taking Civics classes. I have memories of sitting in my

Grandma’s classroom in the old schoolhouse as she taught about the Civil War or sitting on the

couch with my Dad watching Saving Private Ryan and MASH and War Documentaries on the

History Channel. I remember Dad reminding me that those bodies are not actors but real

soldiers dead or dying. The tours of old barns around Iowa, the walks through historical

landmarks and learning about the history rooted in my life. History was one of my favorite

reasons for working at the VA Medical Center as people open up more about their stories to

people who are truly showing interest and Chaplains.

History also has a way of reminding us that every photograph was once a living moment. Every

artifact belonged to someone. Every uniform was worn by a person with dreams, fears,

struggles, and people they loved. When you have that mindset when walking into an antique

store or museum, everything changes. It would be a lie to say I haven’t looked at items in an

antique store with tears in my eyes thinking about the memories behind the item. Picturing the

family who sat with that dish or the child who played with that toy, the way in which these were

potentially prized possessions for that individual now sitting on a shelf with hopes to go to

another home.

Every piece of history that we treasure today was once simply someone's ordinary Tuesday. Or

maybe it was their biggest celebration!

A letter being written. A prayer being whispered. A goodbye being spoken. A family meal. A

train leaving a station. A soldier hoping to make it home. A black and white photograph in the

pocket of a jacket.

Sometimes I think we forget that.

We rush through life chasing bigger things while overlooking the sacredness of ordinary

moments. Yet when you step into the world of the 1940s, even for a weekend, you're reminded

that history is rarely made by famous people alone.

It is made by faithful people.

People who kept showing up.

People who did their duty when nobody was watching.

People who chose courage despite fear.

People who believed some things were worth sacrificing for.

Faith.

Family.

Freedom.

One day, our lives will become stories too.

One day, we will be the ancestors in someone else's photograph.

Someone may hold a picture of us and wonder what our lives were like. They may tell stories

about what we valued, how we treated people, what we stood for, and what legacy we left

behind.

That thought humbles me. That brings me to my knees.

Because the greatest lesson I find in World War II isn't found in victory parades or battlefield

maps.

It's found in the character of a generation.

A generation that understood perseverance. A generation that understood service. A generation

that understood that life was about something bigger than themselves. A generation that did not

throw items away simply because they did not want them anymore but reused and did all they

could to survive till the next day.

And as a Christian, I cannot help but see echoes of faith in that.

The same God who comforted worried mothers, traveled with soldiers across oceans, and

carried families through some of humanity's darkest days is the same God who remains faithful

today. The battles may look different, but the call remains the same.

Be faithful. Love well. Stand firm. Trust God. Remember what matters.

This weekend, I'll enjoy the history. I'll listen to the stories. I'll laugh with friends and make

memories of my own. But more than anything, I hope I walk away with a deeper gratitude for

those who came before us.

Because one day, all that will remain of any of us are the stories.

And some stories are worth preserving.