Fighter's Blood

You know there are some things that are simply too deep for poetry. I feel as if I'm grasping at the straws of life every time I write my Scarlequain. Most things I wrestle with are just incapable of being summed up in the few words I limit myself to. But I told a friend recently that the moment you undertake something merely for necessity is the moment the joy of pure creativity dies. She was kind enough to remind me of what I had said, and so I write, even if the words don't blanket my thought as I would like.

The last few weeks I've had the great privilege to study the era surrounding WWII. Ironically, the way my classes are progressing, I'm learning about the politics surrounding the War in International Relations while simultaneously studying the influences Wagner had on Hitler in Music History 4. And in one of the documentaries I've seen countless times in Dr. Clauson's classes, a woman said something that made me think. "People from that era are quickly leaving us. Soon we won't have them anymore. Ask them their stories. If you don't remember, who will?" Thankfully my dad has done lots of research and asked his dad all about his story, and some of those stories are of the Second Great War. So, in an effort to Remember, I'm writing to you.

My Papa, Fred Creasy, became the oldest man at his home in Middle Tennessee at the age of 12. His father died and left him to care for the entire farm and family himself. It was hard, but he did it. He made do with what he had. When the bombing of Pearl Harbor pulled the US into WWII, he responded as many young men then did. I asked Papa about the War once. He told me plenty of stories, ranging from raiding a liquor shop in Italy with some of his friends when they were being shelled night and day (hey, you get bored sometimes. Even when under constant attack) to hiding a monkey in a fox hole he lived in (the monkey ran away after burning his hands on a stove pipe). But I've never been so stirred as the time when he was telling a story to my dad and me in his living room.

My Papa has been in some horrid battles. He was wounded in France, he held his friends as they died, and he saw the results of the atrocities committed by Hitler. If the name Anzio Beach means anything to you, know that he experienced it. The night he told me about watching his friend die in his arms from a grenade explosion still rocks me to my core. My little sibling popped a balloon somewhere near, and he had a flashback to that day. My Papa experienced things I will, Lord willing, never come close to experiencing. My Papa was a fighter in his time. He fought to keep his family alive, and he fought to ensure the freedom and safety of his country. He fought for you, and for me.

Sometimes it is difficult for me to wrap my mind around the man my Papa is. Seeing him now, you wouldn't really know that he is the kind of person you read about in heroic novels of war and glory. I know from him there is no glory in war. But let me tell you about some glory my Papa has earned.

I know somewhere he has a purple heart for his wound and his bravery. I know that his uniform lays at rest somewhere in his house. I know that he would rather do without most of those memories. And I know, thanks to a summer youth trip to Washington DC what my legacy is.

While in DC, my youth group visited the Holocaust Museum. I thought I knew upon entering the doors I was in for an emotional rollercoaster, and I thought I could handle it. Then, I rode the elevator up with my Dad and some of my friends, and as the doors opened, I was greeted by an enormous mural and my father's surprised and reverent gasp. He pulled me to the center of the photo and pointed to one G.I. in the middle.

"Son...that's your grandfather."

Papa doesn't really care that his picture is the first one millions of people see when they visit that museum. He doesn't really care that many people marvel at the kind of man he had to be to do what he did.  I didn't know at the time how much that picture meant to me, and I probably still don't. But in the midst of what I call "hard times," I remember that picture, and I remember the kind of man my Papa had to be in his time. I remember that same Fighter's Blood is in my veins. Not the kind of fighter that kills for glory or thrill or personal gain. The kind of Fighter that kills to defend his country - the people he loves. The Fighter that strives to raise a family the right way - after Christ, because it's the Right thing to do. The kind of Fighter that has made plenty of mistakes, and keeps trying to pursue what he knows to be right. The kind of Fighter that has stared Atrocity straight in the face, and even though he was scarred and shaken, came back on VE Day just that - victorious. Papa may not be proud of everything that he's done, but I'm proud of him, and I'm proud of the legacy, family, and blood he has given me. And in light of the hard things that press around me every day, things not nearly as hard as the things he overcame, I do my best to stand tall and remind those things...

I have the blood of a Fighter.