Marshall Ramsey

I watched American Sniper and walked out of the theater (which was full) like everyone else:

Quietly.

As I headed to the car, I tried to gather my thoughts and process what I had seen. For the past 14 years, our men and women in uniform have been asked to fight on some of the toughest battlefields on the planet — and many for multiple tours of duty. Thousands have given their lives. Even more have given parts of their bodies due to wounds. But as I was heading home, I thought of the tens of thousands of veterans who’ve come home with wounds we can’t see. If a highly trained and mentally tough U.S. Navy SEAL like Chris Kyle suffered from PTSD, imagine what they are going through?

American Sniper is on its way to being one of the highest grossing R-rated movies of all time. If a fraction of those who bought a ticket demand our veterans get the care they deserve, then I give the movie two enthusiastic thumbs up.

The late winter sun peaked over the trees, bathing the cold land with a warm, golden glow. The ancient Appalachian mountains loomed like sentinels, guarding a small family farm.

Below them, an old gray mule struggled to keep his footing on the rocky ground. Behind him, a farmer tried to control the bouncing plow. It was a job beyond his strength. But he kept going. He had to get the crop into the ground. He had to feed his family. His wife and three children’s survival depended on his persistence.

Of all the plots of land, he had to be given this one. He looked up at the mountains and felt pity rise in his throat. And then he focused back on his goal and kept going. Pity was poor fertilizer.

The plow hit another rock and this time, broke. The farmer cursed his luck. Luck — the farmer pretty much knew he had nothing but bad luck. His wife had been sick all week and his oldest daughter had been running the house as he worked out in the field. The farmer wondered if his name shouldn’t be Job.

There was that pity again. He looked at the plow and realized the damage was fairly minor. “Thanks for small blessings,” he mumbled skyward as he fixed the damage. In no time, the plow was fixed and he kept plowing.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, the field was plowed. He then hooked a small wagon to the mule and began to collect the bigger stones. The farmer felt pity rise up again in his throat, “Why do I have to remove these rocks? Why couldn’t I have been given better land” — but then he realized the rocks were a blessing. He needed them to build a wall to keep his pigs and chickens contained. He continued his work until the sun began to set behind the mountains. Their shadows wrapped the land in a cool blanket of grayness.

As he led the mule toward the barn, he looked toward his cabin and once again felt pity grip his soul. “Why do I have to work so hard?” he asked the sky. “Why is life so hard?” Not that he expected an answer. Moses had it easy. He had a burning bush to answer his questions. He put the mule in the barn, feeling like all his hard work was for nothing.

Then the door to cabin opened. Warmth radiated from the wood structure as a lone figure was silhouetted in its door frame.

It was his wife.

For the first time in a week, she was out of bed. He felt his heart race as he ran up the stone path. His kids ran out and hugged him, welcoming home.

Life wasn’t easy. It wasn’t supposed to be. But each challenge led blessings when you looked for them. He realized his life was like field he just plowed: Full of rocks that turned out to be blessings.

He pushed the hair back from his wife’s thin face and said the only thing he could, “thanks be to God.”

First there was the sound of gravel under the tires and then the car’s engine stopped. The little boy repositioned himself in the back seat after being thrust forward from the sudden stop. His grandfather, who had his arm around the blue front bench seat, turned his head and said, “We’re here.”

“Here” was a place the little boy didn’t want to be. No little boy wanted to be “here.” He sat up and looked out his window. A sign read, “Peaceful Endings Funeral Home.”

Protesting would do no good. The little boy knew his grandfather was a polite man. He loved to pay his last respects to the townspeople. But while his grandfather may have found some pleasure in this trip, it flat creeped the little boy out. A stiff was a stiff.

He walked into the room and smelled all the aftershave and cheap perfume. A short line snaked toward the rosewood coffin in the center of the room. It contained Mr. Woodruff, a bank vice-president. But apparently he wasn’t a particularly popular man. “Must be more like Mr. Potter than George Bailey,” the little boy thought. He loved “It’s A Wonderful Life,” for some strange reason. He hoped to be like George when he grew up.

His grandfather walked up to the coffin and peered in at Mr. Woodruff. The little boy peeked around his grandfather at the waxy, ashen face. The man had had something called “cancer,” and honestly looked very different from how the little boy had remembered him at the bank.

The little boy just stared.

Whatever was lying in that box wasn’t Mr. Woodruff. It kind of looked like him – the mortician was an artist. But the spirit was gone. The life. That spark that made him human. Now he was no different than a piece of gravel out in the parking lot. What was it that made up that spirit? And where did it go? His grandfather told him heaven. Heaven sounded like a wonderful place to the little boy. And he knew Mr. Woodruff’s spirit was glad to rid itself of its cancer ridden host. Almost like a butterfly must feel when it leaves the cocoon.

The headed back out to the car and the little boy stopped and hugged his grandfather. “I love you grandpa.” The old man smiled and said, “I know, buddy. Thank you for coming with me today.”

Three months later, the little boy looked into another coffin. This time it was his grandfather. The line was long from the respectful townspeople who had loved the man. They wanted to pass along their condolences to the family — and to the little boy. He stood there in his J.C. Penny suit with freshly combed hair and tears in his eyes.

“Where did my grandfather’s spirit go?” he thought. But he knew. And he knew that in less than a blink of heaven’s eye, he’d see his grandfather again.

And he looked forward to that day. Just as long as he never had to go to another funeral again — even his own.

A little bigger than a cigar box, the wooden box sports a design lovingly burned onto it by a long-gone relative. Inside are souvenirs from a life well-lived. There is a well-worn pocket knife, a father’s gift on a sixth birthday. There is a badge from service in the U.S. Army and a ring from college. There are wrist watches and tie tacks. A photo or two. Each item precious. Each item a treasure in its own right. But without the memories attached to them, the treasures become trinkets. Their stories slowly fade as time passes. It’s up to us to keep the treasures in our lives alive.  If not in the wooden box, in our hearts.

Listened to the governor’s State of the State speech last night until I had to break away for pork chops (seems appropriate).  Was thinking about what I’d say if I had that podium.  I’d be like him and express my love for this state. After 18-years of living here, I have a very deep affection for Mississippi. So, If I did speak, I probably wouldn’t chide those who say negative things about it because frankly, we do have problems.  I’d address them head on and challenge the people of Mississippi to rise to the occasion and find solutions.  Sure it wouldn’t be through “gub’ment” (although efficient government plays a role). No, I’d try to inspire everyone to improve their lives and then reach out to someone else.  Aw, I know. That’s pollyanna-ish.  But I’ve seen the people of Mississippi do some pretty amazing things when backed into a corner.  Remember Katrina? Sure, not everyone won a good behavior medal. But I saw some pretty darn awesome things happen on the Coast.  We got it in us.  Sure, I know feel-good legislation is awesome during an election year. Let’s feed drones deer meat and MREs.  But as a parent of three boys, I want to leave this state in a better place than where I found it. Yes we have problems. They are just starting lines for making peoples’ lives better. And if I had the misfortune of being a governor, I’d figure out how to inspire people to do just that.

5:30 a.m.

Good morning. I’m writing this after having a two-day father/son bonding experience called “a stomach virus.” My poor boy got it worse than I did, but I didn’t want to eat for two days. This after coming back from Atlanta after another emotional weekend with my parents. Let’s just say this getting old stuff ain’t for wimps.

I feel like a New England Patriots football — deflated.

The house is dark and the family isn’t stirring yet. It’s the calm before the storm. Soon we’ll be rushing around, trying to get five people out of the house in less than an hour. I just pray my boys get to school without their underwear on the outside of their pants.

So the peace, while fleeting, is enjoyable. And it allows me to ponder all the crazy stuff going on in my life.

Let me say, my crazy stuff isn’t any worse than your crazy stuff. I read Facebook. Everyday, people lose jobs, loved ones and at times their minds. So in no way is this a “poor me.” What I am experiencing is called “Life.” We all go through it. Just some handle it better than others.

I’ve been writing down all the things that are bad. I have two columns next to each thing: What I can do about it and what I can’t change. This may come as a shock to you, but are a lot of things I can’t change. But what I can do is learn from what’s happening. Treat it as angels in ugly clothing. I can use it to change me. I can change how I treat my kids. I can change how do my job. I can change how I love my wife. I can change how I live my life.

I can dwell on the bad. Or I can realize that the bad can change me for the better.

It’s 5:45 a.m. The sun will be up soon. I have another chance to get this life right. I’ll make the most of it.

And I will eat breakfast. Man, I’ve really missed food.

The sun battled the crisp February air, but Will still felt the chill of the morning. He threw his bag into the back of his truck. So this was it. He was being kicked out of his own home. Life had punched him in the mouth once again.

He grabbed a bag of chips from his front seat and chuckled, “At least I have snacks for my pity party.” Suzanne had gotten tired of his dreams. She wanted something he couldn’t give her — security. After 14 years of marriage, things had just fallen apart. A dog barking — his dog — woke him out of his thoughts. He started the truck and watched his life disappear.

It had been that kind of year for Will. First he had lost his job Then he had lost his parents. Now his wife. It was a hat trick from hell. He had considered turning to the bottle, but the bottle was a selfish friend. The doctor had offered him medical help, too. But Will decided to fight this one alone. And he initially failed miserably.

But as he watched his house fade in the trucks rearview mirror, he had an epiphany: The rearview mirror was smaller than the windshield. He was supposed to keep his eye on the future and not dwell on the past. Will had dreamed the night before that his truck didn’t have a steering wheel and he had run into the ditch. Will knew that he had lost control of his life. But wasn’t control an illusion anyway? Will felt a burning in his heart. He decided to turn over things he could not control to a higher power. Will was determined to succeed.

Now to figure out what success really meant.

That night in a hotel room, he sipped on a bottle of Yoo-Hoo and wrote down all his successes and failures. He mapped out his dreams. He mapped out goals to turn those dreams into reality. He took responsibility for his failures.

God, he missed Suzanne. Even if she did tick him off.

The next morning at his new job at PezCo Industries, a coworker said, “Heard Suzanne kicked you out.” Will sipped his coffee, smiled and said, “You heard correctly. She booted me right out onto the street.” And then Will walked away.

His coworker looked at Will and wondered why he was wasn’t feeling sorry for himself. The man had every right to — there is nothing more humiliating than your wife kicking you out of the house. But nothing was going to slow Will down. He was a man on a mission. In fact, everyone that day noticed a change in him. Every action was suddenly deliberate. Everything Will did seemed to be by some plan. He was looking into his windshield, not his rearview mirror.

Within two months, Will had gotten a sizable raise. No longer was he worried about his job security. He was too busy studying for his management training test. Will had joined a local gym and lost 40 lbs., too. He ran with the local running group and met new friends — healthy friends who had dreams also.

On March 15, the sheriff knocked on the door and served him divorce papers. Will looked down at the documents and felt a part of him die. But at that moment, he chose to look out the windshield and not in the rearview mirror. Will would survive. Will would succeed. His dreams were coming true. No one would stop him now.

No thing would either.

On April 15, the phone rang. Will picked it up. “Will, this is Dr. Roberts. I don’t know how to tell you this, but the scans show a tumor. We need to operate tomorrow.”

Will laughed and said, “Thanks, Doc. We’ll beat this.”

And by September, Dr. Roberts called again, “There is no sign of the cancer. You are my miracle patient. Actually, the fact that you were in such good shape helped you recover that much faster. And your attitude. I don’t know what it is about you, Will, but you have the strongest, well, will I’ve ever seen.”

Will said “thanks” and could almost taste the chemo when he said it.

One year from the date Suzanne had kicked him out, Will sat in his corner office and looked out over the city. His life had changed for the bad and the good over the past year. But when he chose treat life like the blessing it was, he had broken out of the purgatory he was in.

“Sir,” his assistant interrupted his thoughts, “You have a visitor.”

“Who?” Will said. “I didn’t have anyone scheduled for this morning.”

“An old friend,” the assistant said.

Will turned around to see Suzanne standing in the doorway.

“I don’t expect you to want to see me. But I miss you. Could we at least have lunch,” his ex-wife said.

Will said, “Sure. I’ll buy.”

And once again, Will chose to look out of the windshield and not his rearview mirror.

Good morning. What was that? Can’t hear you…. GOOD MORNING! Much better. See that big yellow thing up in the sky? Don’t stare at. Trust me, you don’t want to do that. It’s called the sun and it will BLIND you. The gloomy clouds have headed east on I-20 (sounds like me these days) and traveled on to the ATL.

Want some good news? It’s Friday — a crowd favorite. I hope you have a great weekend. You know, have fun and all that stuff. Me? Well thanks for asking. I’ll be tending to family stuff. I’ve aged and grown up a lot in the past few months because of that. And I’ve been a bit myopic and my posts have probably reflected that. Sorry. Too much navel gazing.

I will say, this has been a tough week for the world and the city of Jackson. Terror has reigned in Europe. And crime has festered like a tumor locally. We’ve lost good people in Jackson to senseless predators. Teenagers are killing people. Teenagers! The world has gone mad.

No, the world has been mad all along. What’s good — and what makes me think that there is hope for us after all — is seeing people stand up and say, “Um, no. We’re not going to live in fear.” Just look at the people marching in the streets of Paris. And Belhaven residents packing a police meetings. We have a problem and good people are willing to do more than just complain and whine — they’re doing what it takes to meet our problems head on.

People are remembering their purpose — and that purpose is helping others.

People still give a #$%#.

And that’s a little sunshine after a really gloomy week.

Happy Friday, y’all.

Marshall