Marshall Ramsey

Robert Franklin was 39, had a family, and had just received the most devastating news he could imagine. It was a moment when he needed to pick himself off the of floor and fight. But as he looked inside of himself, he saw a small child hidden in corner, afraid. He recognized that child as himself when he was 8. He could hear his parents fighting, the threats of divorce and the belittling words toward each other. He stood there, hearing the echoes of those threats, and felt the fear rise up inside of him. And then he felt himself shut down.

The metaphorical plane was in a nosedive and here he was locked up and unable to act. Robert felt like throwing up and put his hand on the wall to brace himself.

His first reaction was to yell at that kid. Dammit, this was no time to hide! But that kid had suffered enough. Instead, he mentally put his hand on the little boy’s shoulders and offered him the one thing the child had always needed: Unconditional love.

“You’ve been so strong for so many years. Thank you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for all you’ve done for me. But you weren’t responsible for their fights. It wasn’t your job to save your parents. It was your job to be a kid. I’ve got this. I’ll always protect you, but know this: I’ve got this. You go and play. I’ve got work to do. You are and always will be loved.”

The little boy crawled out of the darkness and hugged him. He could see his own face from all of those years ago and he felt nothing but love for the little boy.

Robert Franklin was in the fight of his life. He needed to be there for his family. But he knew he had the strength to fight it. That strength, that ability to conquer fear once and for all, came from love.

Normandy, France. American Cemetery.

Jim Randolph’s great granddaughter Jennifer pushed his wheel chair through the garden of stones. The beach below was a dance through Hell. This was the final resting places of heroes — and the unlucky. Medals on his chest clinked like wind chimes as he rolled across the manicured lawn. His eyes burned with the salty pain of his memories.

“I’ve got to see my friend one last time,” he repeated.

Each stone had a name. Each stone had a story. Each person beneath those stones had sacrificed their life for the very freedom he had enjoyed for over 80 years.

Yet he had sacrificed, too. While not the ultimate sacrifice, he still suffered from the pain due to shrapnel buried deep in his body. It wasn’t just physical pain, though. The PSTD had been buried deeper. It came out, though, with a vengeance, at night. His wife feared waking him from his nightmares. Once, in 1954, he had nearly choked her to death after she startled him awake. She told the kids, “Don’t wake up daddy.”

Some nightmares, though, were impossible to wake up from.

Jim could still smell the blood and the cordite. The beach that day was littered with pieces of humanity. He thought of the men who had to clean that carnage up. They had their own set of nightmares, he thought. Jim didn’t have time to process that day. His unit pressed forward from the beach into the hedgerows to Paris to the Battle of the Bulge and finally toward the Rhine River.

Like then, Jim and Jennifer were on a mission. They continued to press forward.

Each grave’s name had a golden hue. The French, who had deeded the land for this cemetery over to the Americans, would rub soil from the beach onto the name. A cold mist rose up from the beach as they rolled further toward his objective.

The wheelchair slowed as they reached their destination.

He and his best friend Hadley Bryant joined the Army in 1943 when they turned 18. They trained together, drank together, went on leave together, chased English women together, and then went to war together. Hadley made it halfway up the beach before the German shell took his head off. Jim had watched his friend’s body drop like a rag doll.

That’s when the nightmares began.

Hadley’s headless ghost had haunted him for years. It was the same nightmare over and over. Hadley would reach out his hand and then try to embrace him. Jim would awaken and ask,”Why did I live and he died?” It was a question that haunted veterans since the Romans, he was sure.

Jim knew, though, why they had fought. He had smelled burnt flesh in the liberated concentration camps. He had seen first hand the hellish train tracks fascism would take you down. Evil had to be answered head on. Hadley had answered it head off.

The mist thicken around them. Fog from the sea swarmed the beach and the cliffs like the Americans. British, and Canadians had so many years ago. He felt the cold, wetness wrap around him like a blanket.

As Jim looked out at the crosses and Stars of David, he noticed bodies walking toward them. They were soldiers, all in full uniform. They looked young, just as they had looked during the War. Birds stopped singing and the cemetery got ghostly quiet.

Then he saw him.

Hadley emerged from the fog and held out his hand. Jim slowly stood and embraced his old friend. Hadley hugged his friend and began to lead Jim into the mist.

Jennifer, panicking, grabbed her phone. “Hello? I need an ambulance. It’s an emergency! My great grandfather has collapsed,” as she desperately checked her great grandfather’s non-existent pulse.

Jim’s nightmares ended once and for all.

The birds started singing again. A lone sunbeam broke through the fog and illuminated the body of the warrior in the wheelchair. The nightmares had ended and Jim Randolph was finally at peace.

On Memorial Day 2025, an old veteran’s war was finally over.

The bird started singing again. A lone sunbeam broke through the fog and illuminated the body of the warrior in the wheelchair. The nightmares were over and Jim Randolph was finally at peace.

On Memorial Day 2025, an old veteran’s war was finally over.

I woke up this morning and said a prayer.

Oh, it was disjointed and like one I would have spit out when I was five. You know, like you’re asking a genie for a something after rubbing a lamp.

“Give me a million dollars and a pony.” Or something like that.

I listened for an answer and only heard the clock ticking in the bathroom.

I’ve always envied Moses. Not about the wandering around in the desert part, no, I envy he had a direct line to God via a burning bush. I’ve never had a flaming gardenia that sounds like Morgan Freeman talking to me. (Wait, isn’t envy a sin? Durn.) But I do firmly believe that God answers prayers. Just not how I want them answered. I’m usually forced to do the work.

TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK

The Good Lord usually (and yes, I do subscribe to the theology of Garth Brooks and unanswered prayers, too) gives me opportunities to work towards what I’m asking for. And the even Greater Lord sends people into my life to help me find a path forward.

Angels come dressed in funny clothes sometimes.

I won’t lie to you. The last year has kind of kicked my butt. But I think that butt kicking has helped me realize I need to make some changes. It’s time to see the world differently. It’s time to pull my head out of my navel (or other hole) and look outward.

TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK

I once again heard the clock ticking.

Time is slipping through my fingers; It’s time for urgency. It’s time to live and love to the fullest. The time is now.

And that’s when I figured it out:

The clock was my burning bush.