Remembering

Sometimes it's not all about hockey.

I lead an incredible life.  I'm blessed with a loving husband and family; I have a wonderful circle of friends; I enjoy good health and financial security.  I am free to worship God in the way and manner that is right for me.  I live in a country that is controlled by an imperfect democracy (I've never been able to figure out a viable alternative).  I am at peace with myself and the world around me. I sleep soundly in my bed each night, knowing that I and my family are safe and protected.

I never forget that the reason I enjoy so many of the above mentioned items, is because people fought and died to protect them for me and for my family.  I am thankful and I remember.

My father, Michael Joseph Mooney was 17 when he became a Flight Officer (a temporary rank that created during W.W II) in the Royal Canadian Air Force.  As a bombardier/navigator, he flew numerous missions over Germany in a Halifax bomber.  My father would never really talk about the war, like many others who fought, they couldn't convey the actual horror of war in mere words.  I know he left the Catholic Church at some point during the war, his loss a faith, which had to have been deeply ingrained within him during his upbringing in Southern Ireland, was simply another casualty of the the war. 

My father died when I was 11.  I remember poking around in his desk soon after his death, I guess in some way looking for a connection to a man that I deeply loved, yet barely knew.  I discovered a notebook that he had kept during the war.  It wasn't a journal, more a study guide for his lessons in bombing and navigation.  I was struck by the intricacies of the work and job that he had to complete.  With only a slide ruler to help, he had to figure out the trajectories of bombs in order to hit his targets.  Targets that meant the loss of human life. 

It wouldn't be till years later that I would travel through Germany after graduating from university.  I remember being struck by the war memorials - one forgets (or perhaps you don't want to think about), how many young men died for the other side.  How many 17 year old boys like my father, were doing what they thought was best for their country. 

I think of Jamie at the age of 17 and I'm thankful that he never had to face the choice of choosing to enlist. 

Today, I remember and I am thankful.