Leo the resident was a white-haired gentleman in a wheelchair. He seemed old and kind of harmless, like a big teddy bear. I was fifteen when I met him, sunny, doe-eyed, and thrilled with the thought of keeping a war veteran company. Around me, several other teenagers flocked around their aged companions, chattering away gaily about this or that. I couldn't wait to hear Leo's story. I hoped that he would grow animated, gesticulating to bring alive grand old battle stories and recollections of heroic comrades and noble feats. Naively, I thought that was war. Blood and suffering, yes, but also the glory from being the nation’s honored protectors. But, I remember watching his expression grow haggard and eyes cloud at the memories of war and death and things worse than any curious teenager in the room had ever seen or experienced, including me. He wouldn’t tell us why he chose to serve or about his stint as an aircraft pilot, not even after I coaxed a crumbly chocolate cookie into his hand. I was a bit exasperated, not understanding how he was supposed to tell his story without actually articulating it. I didn’t know. I didn’t understand.


Although he refused to speak of the military images haunting his mind, Leo spoke of the loves of his life: his wife Ann, his children, his family, and his country. I began to realize something about myself as he spoke. I have never known true bravery. The ultimate act of bravery is to commit oneself so wholly to their love that he marches for his beloved’s future, knowing that he may not return to share it with him or her. I think that Leo knew this at eighteen. His trembling, blunted fingers encircled the stuffed monkey—a gift— with a gentleness that betrayed a tender ambience under the grizzled exterior and various military decorations. A cut on his left hand left a red smear on the white table cloth. These snapshots in my mind remind me that Leo was not that much older than I when he first volunteered. And yet, he insisted that he had no regrets. The bloodied stain in what should have been the most carefree years of his life, to him, was the noblest declaration of his devotion. It made me seriously question my own path in life. My major decisions largely boil down to which electives I should take and what I should put in my oatmeal in the morning, things that are hardly fatal or even meaningful, much less noble. Would I willingly offer myself to Hell to give my people a second chance? Could I?


I wasn’t sure if I would ever have the strength to sacrifice what he had sacrificed, and endure what he had endured for the ones I loved most. At the end of the visit, I felt the need to express my small thanks to his great service, humbled by the man who laid himself down in the name of love. And—I’ll never forget this—his clear eyes burned bright and expressive, as if they were trying to convey to a little fifteen year old girl all that their owner did not say for ears to hear. "It was for you," they seemed sing. "I did it for you because I believe that you can do something great." “Thank you,” he said aloud, gruffly. As his gentle paw took my hand and brought it to his lips, something in me shook—with sorrow, with elation, I had no idea. Tears stood in my eyes as I gazed at him, moved by the simple gesture and by the older man’s unwavering pride and belief in us... in me.


When I stand—gazing back—on my wiser platform of 17 years, it strikes me that one man's faith has buoyed me to heights that were so much taller than my 5'2" that I would never have believed that I could reach them alone. I reach higher, further. And... I think I see it all very clearly today. Leo was a man who fell in love with his country. He bled for it, he cried for it, and he nearly died for it. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, he loved America and he loved the children to whom he committed his youth fighting for. And, above all, he was a man who inspired young people to better themselves with humility and bravery beyond words.

Leo the veteran is my hero.