So Thankful for Them

This story was posted by a man named Paul Widener. It moved me to tears, and I just had to share it with y’all. This Thanksgiving let’s show our gratitude and love for the generations who came before us.

I stopped breathing at exactly 10:15 AM inside a Goodwill on the south side of town.

I was only there because my daughter, Sarah, is moving me into “Sunrise Meadows” next week. That’s the polite name for the place old people go when their kids run out of patience and spare bedrooms. Sarah was three aisles over, aggressively sorting through my life, tossing things into donation bins while talking loudly into her AirPods about square footage and “decluttering.”

I let her do it. When you are eighty-two and your knees click like a rusty gate, you learn that fighting takes too much energy. You just become a passenger in your own life.

I wandered off to the men’s section to escape the noise. The store smelled like other people’s laundry detergent and forgotten dreams. I was shuffling past a rack of oversized hoodies and flannel shirts when the room suddenly started spinning.

There it was.

Olive drab. M-65 Field Jacket. The zipper was still busted on the left side, stuck halfway up. The right cuff was frayed—I did that, chewing on the fabric during the monsoon season of ’69 when the rain didn’t stop for three weeks.

Someone had slapped a neon yellow sticker right over the breast pocket: $14.99.

My chest tightened. I reached out, my hand shaking. The moment my fingertips touched that rough canvas, the fluorescent lights of the thrift store vanished.

I wasn’t an old man with a pacemaker anymore. I was nineteen. I was standing on red dirt, the humidity thick enough to drink, feeling invincible because I had a rifle in my hand and three brothers at my back.

I pulled the jacket off the rack. It felt heavy. Heavier than I remembered.

I turned it inside out. My breath hitched.

There, on the inner lining, written in black permanent marker that had faded to a ghostly gray:

MAC. RIZZO. “DOC” MILLER. ARTHUR.

We wrote those names forty-eight hours before the ambush near the border. We passed that marker around, laughing, making jokes about who would get the girls when we got back to the States. We thought we were writing in a yearbook. We didn’t know we were signing a last will and testament.

I was the only one who came home.

And now? Now Mac, Rizzo, and Doc were hanging on a discount rack between a stained polo shirt and a ugly Christmas sweater. Priced cheaper than a DoorDash lunch order.

“Yo, that fit is fire.”

The voice snapped me back to 2024.

I turned around. A kid was standing there. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Curly hair falling over his eyes, oversized jeans that dragged on the floor, phone glued to his hand.

He reached out, not asking, just assuming. “You buying that, Pops? ‘Cause if you aren’t, that’s a serious find. Vintage military is trending right now on TikTok.”

I held the jacket tighter. “I… I’m just looking.”

“Let me see it?” The kid stepped closer. He didn’t look mean, just fast. Everything about his generation is fast. Fast scrolling, fast talking, fast fashion.

I handed it to him. My hands felt empty and cold immediately.

He slipped it on. It was too big for his skinny frame, but he popped the collar and turned toward the smudged mirror at the end of the aisle. He pulled out his iPhone, snapped a selfie, and swiped.

“Sick,” he muttered. “Actual authentic wear. Look at that distressing on the cuffs. You can’t fake that.”

“No,” I whispered. “You can’t fake that.”

He shoved his hands into the pockets. He paused. He felt the uneven lining. He took the jacket off and looked inside. He saw the names.

“Whoa,” he said, his thumb tracing the faded ink. “Who are these guys? Previous owners?”

I stepped into the reflection of the mirror with him. The contrast broke my heart. A boy with his whole life ahead of him, and an old man whose life was being packed into cardboard boxes.

“They weren’t owners,” I said, my voice cracking. “They were brothers.”

The kid looked up, phone lowered for the first time.

“We were your age,” I told him. “Mac—the first name there—he wanted to be an architect. He drew sketches in the mud with a stick. Rizzo could fix any engine with a paperclip. And Doc… Doc wrote letters to his mom every single day.”

The store went quiet around us. The hum of the vending machine seemed to stop.

“What happened to them?” the kid asked softly.

“They stayed nineteen forever,” I said. “I’m the only one who got old enough to shop at a thrift store.”

The kid looked down at the jacket. He looked at the $14.99 sticker. Suddenly, the “vintage aesthetic” didn’t seem so cool. It seemed heavy.

He started to take it off, peeling it from his shoulders with a sudden reverence. “Here. Take it. I didn’t know. You should have it, sir. It’s yours.”

I looked at the jacket. If I took it, I’d just hang it in a closet at the nursing home. It would sit in the dark, smelling of mothballs, until I died. Then Sarah would donate it right back to this same rack.

History dies when you lock it away.

“No,” I said.

The kid froze. “What?”

“I’ve carried the weight of that jacket for sixty years,” I said. “It’s heavy. I’m tired, son. Maybe it’s time for it to go on a new adventure.”

“I can’t take this,” he shook his head. “It feels… wrong. Like stealing.”

“I’m okay with you taking it,” I said, locking eyes with him. “On one condition.”

He straightened up, pulling his shoulders back. “Name it.”

“If anyone asks you about that jacket—if anyone compliments your ‘drip’ or asks where you got that ‘vintage look’—you don’t tell them you got it at Goodwill for fifteen bucks.”

My voice stopped shaking. It became the voice of a Sergeant again.

“You show them the names on the inside. You tell them that Mac wanted to build skyscrapers. You tell them Rizzo loved classic cars. You tell them Doc loved his mother.”

I poked a finger at his chest, right over where the heart is.

“You tell them that the freedom to stand here, scrolling on your phone, safe in a warm store… it was paid for by boys who never got to come home. You make them real again. Can you do that?”

The kid didn’t look at his phone. He didn’t look around. He looked at me.

“I promise,” he said. And he meant it.

He walked to the register. I watched my youth, my pain, and my friends walk out the door with a teenager who listens to rap music and probably has never held a rifle.

It hurt. But it healed, too.

Because that jacket isn’t collecting dust anymore. It’s walking down the street. It’s going to concerts. It’s living.

As I walked out to the parking lot to meet my daughter, I passed a bin of old photo frames. $1.99 each. Beautiful black and white wedding photos, pictures of babies laughing, soldiers saluting. Someone once loved those people more than life itself. Now, they are just clearance items.

We all end up on the clearance rack eventually. Our favorite songs become “oldies.” Our clothes become “costumes.” Our stories become “too long” for the younger generation to listen to.

But here is my favor to you:

The next time you see an old man moving slow in the checkout line, or staring a little too long at a coffee cup in a diner… don’t look through him.

We aren’t invisible. We aren’t just obstacles in your busy day.

We are walking libraries. We are holding onto names that no one else remembers.

Say hello. Ask us how we are. Give us ten seconds of your glowing, buzzing, high-speed life.

Because one day, sooner than you think, a kid will be trying on your favorite hoodie and calling it “vintage.” And you will pray to God that someone, somewhere, still believes your name is worth more than $14.99.

(Annie) The older I get, the more I appreciate stories like this. This is the kind of respect I tried to instill in my students when I showed them the black-and-white pictures of my parents, looking like movie stars of the 40’s, and telling them a little about the history they had lived through. This was shortly after we had taken my mom home from Florida after the fall and head injury that ended up taking her life. I remember when we were wheeling her through the airport and getting her on the plane, I saw the way most of the airline staff treated her. It wasn’t mean, it just made me want to scream, “Hey, this is not just some old lady, this is my mom!” Thanks for this beautiful reminder that every wrinkled face we encounter is telling a story. Now I’m seeing a wrinkled face in the mirror, and I guess one of the reasons I write is to keep from becoming invisible.

To the Young among Us

What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. – James 4:14

Yesterday my grandson Jackson and I hit the theater for the matinee of “Peter Pan.” I was eager to share with him the show that I had loved so much as a child. I was very familiar with the songs, which my sister and I had played on a vinyl record day in and day out, and I sang them to Jack in the car on the way there. He was somewhat less enthusiastic than I was when he left the house, reluctant to leave his videogames behind and spend all afternoon at a show he wasn’t sure he’d enjoy.

But God answers all kinds of prayers, including those of a grandmother wanting to make some good memories. By the time the window magically opened, and Peter was flying into the bedroom, a dark silhouette against a deep blue sky full of stars, complete with fairy dust and music hitting an ominous crescendo, my grandson was whooping and clapping as excitedly as any child there.

He recognized the songs I’d been teaching him in the car, and I caught him mouthing some of the words, especially “I Won’t Grow Up!” which was so easy, since much of it involved just repeating what Peter sang. We sang along. We tapped our toes to the dancing. We laughed together at Captain Hook and Smee.

And I cried.

It took me by surprise, since the first time it happened was during an especially silly song, and I didn’t know why it would elicit tears. But then I realized that my mind was replaying hours of play with my big sister Susie, where we would sing and dance and pretend to be the characters. Usually, I was Wendy, since I was more of the girly-girl, while Susie was the one determined not to ever, ever grow up!

Fast Forward – She did grow up … kinda. Susie’s living in the Arizona sunshine with her pool, her hiking trails, her mountain bikes, and motor home to satisfy her wanderlust. Of course, now she spends too much of her time going to health specialists and has less time and energy to “play,” but her spirit hasn’t changed.

Meanwhile, “Wendy” grew up, too. I was the one who became a mother of three, grandmother of five, and teacher, not of lost boys (exactly) but of middle school students, which was not that different.

But yesterday afternoon, suddenly all those years melted away, and there we were again in my mind’s eye, and the tears were spilling over during the silliest parts of the play.

What happened?! How did we get to be in our seventies? Where did the last 65 years go?

This thought is especially sobering, since I know that the next decade will fly by faster than the one before, and for all I know, I may not even reach tomorrow. (That possibility becomes more likely with each passing day.)

This might even be a depressing thought, if I didn’t know that the best is yet to come. I don’t know how unbelievers deal with the certainty of death, but those of us who follow Jesus Christ also have the certainty of resurrection and eternal life! And the next life will not only be better, but it will also be far more real than this life. “Now we see but a poor reflection, as in a mirror; then we shall see face-to-face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” (I Corinthians 13:12)

A couple of dreams I had recently drove this point home. https://seekingdivineperspective.com/2025/03/01/behind-the-veil/

So, while I may weep at unexpected times as the brevity of life hits me especially hard, I am comforted and excited to know what lies ahead – not know exactly, since Jesus said we couldn’t even imagine it – but to know that He’s preparing it for us, and so it’s going to be incredible!

No, there is no Neverland, but there’s something better. I hope I see you there.

Prayer: Dear Lord, thank You for the past 72 years of life. Thanks for blessing me with the “good times,” for carrying me through the hard times, for giving me the strength when I did what was right, and for forgiving me when I didn’t. Every moment of this life that has flown by has been in Your hands, and I know that every moment of the future will continue to be. I am Yours, today, tomorrow, and forever. And I pray that every person who reads this post today will draw a bit closer to You because of having read it. And if any of them have not given their lives to You yet, especially those whose lives have just begun and who are completely oblivious to the brevity of their years, may they seek the Truth, find You, give their lives to You, and during these fleeting years be everything You created them to be, in Jesus’ Name. Amen

My Crutch

To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” – II Corinthians 12:7-9a

I’ve been told my faith is a “crutch,” as if that’s a bad thing. But right now, as I await getting my hip replaced, it’s the only way I can get around. So, this crutch is my friend. It’s also my teacher.

I have always said, “Wise people learn from their experiences, but the wisest learn from the experiences of others.” However, I’m finding first-hand experiences tend to be more effective. (It’s easier to forget what someone else has been through.) So, maybe that saying wasn’t as wise as I had given myself credit for.

Here are just a few random lessons I’m learning in this “season of the crutch”:

1.) Attitudes change with circumstances, and some attitudes need to be adjusted. I’ve never had anything in my life quite like hobbling around with a crutch to strip away my pride and see myself as I really am. I’ve always known in theory that I am helpless and utterly dependent on the Lord (Who is utterly dependable.), but this experience has forced me to face the reality that I depend on others, too. I have always looked to be the one who helps others, but I am not so good at accepting help. But if it’s more blessed to give than receive, maybe I’ve been hogging all the blessings for myself. Which brings me to …

2.) There is still a lot of kindness in the world. As much as I have struggled with having gone from being the helper to being helped, my heart has been opened to see the kindness of people, often total strangers. They smile, open doors, and offer to carry things for me. Even the simple gesture of being patient as I’m struggling up or down the stairs and slowing them down has touched me, as they reassure me, “No hurry, take your time.” Speaking of which …

3.) Slow down. As my regular readers have probably picked up, there’s a little of the “Martha” in me – going-going-going-doing-doing-doing … (Today we call it ADHD.) Now everything takes much longer. Having to do so many things using one hand is reminiscent of the early days of parenthood and having a baby on my hip. Only babies are a lot more fun than a bad hip. And you can switch sides. These days I’m doing everything with my left hand, which is counterintuitive for me. And speaking of counterintuitive …

4.) Not all pain makes sense to us. A lot of pain is the body’s communication system. Hunger pains say, Feed me! Thirst says, I need water! An intense burning sensation says, Take your hand off the burner, dummy! But there are also times our bodies seem to be screaming at us in a foreign language. At first, the pain of putting my weight on the bad hip meant I needed to sit down, so I would, and the pain would go away – message received. But now there are times when moving feels better and other times when moving makes the pain intensify. And there are those random moments when I’m sitting, relaxing, minding my own business, and the stabbing pain of muscle spasms hit for no apparent reason. It’s like my hip is suddenly screaming, “DO something!” And I want to scream, “DO WHAT?!” Speaking of questions …

5.) Who says pain is a bad thing? OK, this is a little experiment I’m trying in an attempt to cope. Apparently, just praying, “Make-it-stop-make-it-stop-make-it-stop!” doesn’t often produce the desired results. Obviously, I prefer no pain to pain, but why? Pain is an experience, and it’s a pretty novel one for me, different from comfort, and very different from pleasure. So, what if instead of fighting it, I observe it, even embrace it? (At any rate, it’d be a change from “make-it-stop-[etc.]!”) My mind has been coming up with imaginary scenarios, such as an enemy’s inflicting that pain, demanding that I renounce my faith, and I’m looking him in the eye and telling him to go jump in the lake! (Lovingly, of course. I mean, “Go get baptized.”)

This train of thought may seem totally loopy, and maybe it is. I blame the pain. And speaking of blame and other childish things …

6.) I was a very insensitive child. I can remember when I was younger, thinking old people moved slowly just because they were tired or lazy, or they didn’t really have anywhere important to go. In my more impatient moments, I could even imagine that those people slowing me down were being annoying on purpose. (Everything was all about me, you see.) I would occasionally encounter an older person who was grouchy, sullen, and unimpressed with my youthful “cuteness” and bubbly banter. I remember thinking, What’s HER problem? (Although I was pretty good at hiding these thoughts and appearing to be a sweet, kind young lady, these things nevertheless crossed my mind.) Now I realize the real reason a lot of older people move and behave the way they do – they’re in pain! Yes, old people can hurt, too – and I’m guessing they hurt a lot. (Guess how I know?) There’s a good chance at least some of the grouches may have been seeing through my facade, knowing that I was totally clueless, not the godly young lady I fancied myself to be. Perhaps they were thinking, You’ll get your turn, sweetie...

Now my turn has come, and as I said, it’s has been a very humbling experience.

Prayer: Lord Jesus, You didn’t have to come to earth and share our pain and suffering, but You did – even to the cross! We can’t fathom such a great love – taking the punishment we deserve so we don’t have to face an eternity of pain and regret. Although we tend to avoid pain, help us learn the lessons it can teach us, not the least of which is compassion for the suffering of others, in Your name. Amen.