Stephen turned away. He still couldn’t process the news. They had beaten this monster. How could it have come back? Each of their doctors had warned them of these risks but those were caveats, something they had to say. How could this be happening again? Why was it that after everything they had gone through, everything Hailey had gone through, their family still couldn’t catch a break? Stephen closed his eyes and tried listening to his mother’s words for something, anything that could give him a breath of hope.
Rebecca continued, “We humble ourselves before you, Lord. We confess before you, Father. We throw ourselves at your mercy, oh God. We…”
Enough! He couldn’t listen to another word. Stephen opened his eyes and turned away in disgust. His mother’s god was obviously asleep at the wheel. If he wasn’t, and his mother’s comments about God being in control of all things was true, then it was even worse. Then he could take the blame for the return of Hailey’s cancer.
It would be nice to have someone to blame. Someone to be mad at. Something to hate for all of this.
But he couldn’t. As angry and upset as Stephen was, he didn’t have the energy in his heart for hate. Devastated, numb and mentally exhausted, he looked down and gripped the edges to test the counter top’s resistance once again.
“You will not quit! You will not stop! You will finish this race!”
The familiar abruptness of the tone yanked his attention from the difficult memory. He knew the style but it was completely out of context.
“You have worked for this. You have trained for this. And now, you will execute your mission.” The man’s voice barked each word at each passing runner.
Stephen turned to see through the thinning crowd and observed the most militant race motivator he could have imagined. The man had the freshly cut ridge of a flat top haircut with closely shaved sides that drew a faint line between skin and hairline. His eyes were aged but sharp and intentional. His body, which Stephen noticed was at rigidly tense definition of rest, appeared to be fit but worn from decades of service. The man’s morning t-shirt was a faded brown and the hip-tight gray shorts could only be military issue from a time before people walked around with cameras in their pockets. He stood atop an immaculately cut lawn. What stood out was not the perfectly unspeckled sea of green blades. Instead, what caught Stephen’s attention was the perfectly cut right angles of grass on the edge of the curb. A feat which could have only been accomplished by someone who was enough of a perfectionist to take the time to raise one side of the lawn mower’s wheels along the curb so as to achieve the exact right angle for each blade of grass located between the yard’s edge and the curb. The man had all the characteristics of the stereotypical Marine drill sergeant and from the sound of his rhetoric, he clearly believed he was still instructing basic training recruits. How Stephen appreciated these men. A smile formed as he knew he could never forget looking up at that fresh face of that young Marine who dragged him from that Iraqi building where certain death awaited him.
This particularly energized Marine, not so young and certainly not fresh, stood apart from the other well-wishers and their heartfelt encouragements. While Stephen felt a comradery, the abrupt revision of the crowd’s motivational tactic by this man was too much for many of runners. It was like trying to put a toddler to sleep and quietly swapping Mozart with Metallica. Whether the Marine meant to or not, his gruff and blunt voice cascaded intimidation upon the passing runners. As they hurried by, their heads remained locked in an uneasy forward direction as if they knew that a single instant of eye contact would invite this man’s wrath. And when it came to wrath, the man clearly had reserves. The spectacle distracted Stephen because it reminded him of teenagers scrambling off an enlistment bus and meeting their new drill instructors. It was that point where the first real wave of fear overtook them. Like those recruits, the runners were scared. But the desired result ensued as any thoughts of quitting had been harshly put down.
The Marine continued, “You know what pain is. You have seen it before. Pain is not stronger than you. You are stronger than pain. You will not quite! You will not stop! You will finish…”
Stephen quickened his pace and found himself relieved and disappointed as the man’s voice trailed off; becoming aware that the Marine’s anti-motivational speech was not just loud and out of place, but on repeat mode.
Like all soldiers, Stephen had spent his time under the indignant care of a temperamental drill sergeant. While their delivery was legendary; though perhaps infamous was a more appropriate description, the reason they were effective in producing efficient warfighters was because they spoke truth. Nobody wanted to believed it while the growling voice of what sounded like a homicidal maniac rained down atop them; raining down not necessarily being a metaphor because like llamas, drill sergeants had a tendency to be unconcerned with useless courtesies like not spitting at the person they were speaking to. But when a drill sergeant told someone they were being hard on them because they wanted to save lives, it was actually very true.
Stephen had to admit that while the old Marine’s ways may have been foreign to the environment, the man was still saying what needed to be said. Every runner at this stage had to be feeling some pain by now and more than a few were probably considering whether or not they were up to the task. The early miles had been filled with cheering and the hope of great expectations for successful outlooks upon the day. Perhaps for many people, this stage of the race required less exhilaration and instead, a crude dose of reality. Maybe what was needed was the direct, pointed approach. Something with a more influential tone, a dose of harsh truth. While the Marine’s commands were abrasive, they were nothing if they were not true. His fatigued mind began to meander.
Truth. That guy’s got some truth, alright. At least, true enough for him. But he’s not the one with another nine miles to go. Well then, you old jarhead, you keep a good grip on your truth there. But then, what was truth. Hold on. Wait. Isn’t that a line from the Bible somewhere?
With curiosity piqued by the wandering of his mind’s restlessness, he remembered that Sarah now had a Bible. He could look that whole truth thing up later when he got home. If he ever made it home, because at this point nine more miles might as well be ninety. But then, how long would that take him to find one sentence within the entire Bible? Since delegating was a gentler path than labor, he considered an easier alternative. His buddy Ray would know where in the Bible that whole speech about truth was. He’d ask him the next time he saw him.
Yeah, I’ve got quite a long list of things to talk to Ray about. For starters, like why the hell am I running this thing!
“I understand that you were told you should come by and see me. But Stephen, what I want to know is, do you feel you need to be here?”
Stephen continued to look around the small office for some hint of who this man was supposed to be and why he had been pushed so hard to sit down and spend an hour with him. It was the first time Stephen had been back on a military base since leaving the Army. He had thought arriving as a civilian would be uncomfortable to him, like not knowing if he was still welcomed or if he even belonged in an environment once so familiar to him. Those concerns left the moment he drove into the chute of the base checkpoint and flashed the retiree ID card he had received as a medically retired service member. Anxiety departed and Stephen felt comforted to once again be under the controlled and purposeful surroundings of the base. He liked that the Army didn’t waste space with distracting aesthetics. It gave him an opportunity to see the real estate for what it was and what it was worth. Let the Air Force spend money on decorating barracks with the latest in spring foliage. He was content to have drab buildings if it meant having more money for ammunition.