A Place Called Normandy
He was reconnecting with memories long put away since 1944. As his child, I was reconnecting with him.
The year was 2003 and the place was St Lo, France. The man whose image appeared in the glass was my father. At the young age of 21, he marched and fought his way into this European city, then occupied by the German Army. He and his generation were successful, both in answering the call of their country and in liberating the people of St. Lo from the Nazis. The final tally resulted decades later by creating a quality of life unparalleled by most of the current world.
We traveled on and saw most of the Normandy country side including Omaha Beach, its famous cemetery, and the little French village of Vidouville, where my dad was wounded in battle. We visited buddies, who in his mind, still looked like 19 and 20 year old boys. “They never lived a full life” he said, “They are the real heroes.”
He was reconnecting with memories long put away since 1944. As his child, I was reconnecting with him. For many of my father’s generation, the way to deal with painful memories was simply to put them away, After the war, many returned home to quickly seek out their place in society. Some pursued careers, most married and started a family, giving way to this nation’s largest population boom. Whatever their endeavor, the work was exciting, honest and noble. Most of all it was peaceful, anything but war. The war for them had been so terrible, so violent, robbing many of them of their youth entirely. “Peace” was the buzzword of the day; painful memories were shoved back, never to be remembered or spoken of for years to come.
My father was no exception. He retuned home to Charleston, South Carolina, no longer a boy, but a man. Making good on his deal with God, also known as “foxhole religion,” he quickly committed his life to Christ, married and was soon called into the ministry. It was a far cry from war. He moved to Cleveland, Tennessee with his young bride of six moths, attended Lee Bible College on the G.I. Bill and graduated two years later. He soon was called to Kentucky, where he raised six children, pastored over nine congregations; and as they say, the rest is history - but not really.
I believe much of that experience during those war years fueled my father for this success in ministry. A Godly man, loving husband and a good provider, you haven’t met a man who loved people more. A witness of the horrors of war, he was completely driven and consumed by deep convictions to help and minister. He married people. He buried people. He baptized. He dedicated babies. He visited the sick. He pastored. He preached. He did the very best he could.
Growing up, I always had change in my pocket, a candy bar in the afternoon after school, and a high score in Pac-Man was just one quarter away. So why then, with a great dad, almost perfect in every way, did I feel disconnected from him growing up? How does this happen? What did I do? I knew that I was loved and cared for, that was not an issue. The answer to those internal questions would come in a place called Normandy.
As the touring van cam to a quick stop, one of the most meaningful conversations with my dad stared with these words, “Dad, are you ok?” From that gateway question came expressions I had never heard before, a side of my dad perhaps hidden from my perception. It was a new experience. The man who I idolized and always saw as strong became vulnerable and honest.
“ I could still hear his voice saying, “You are my son”, even when he no longer had a clue who I was.”
It’s indeed strange how seeing a place will bring back vivid images and emotions. It caused him to reflect on his entire life’s effort. As he overlooked the countryside, he also surveyed his own heart. Unlike some of his buddies, he lived his life fully. Now in the final recount, he honestly had few regrets, except one. “I’m sorry” he said. Somehow in those two words I understood. We were both honest. He spoke about his absence in my life while busy doing the “right things” and I revealed to him my rebellion as a son. We talked. We walked. We laughed. We cried. We hugged. I rediscovered my dad. Most of all, we connected.
I had no way of knowing at that moment in less than a year, Dad would leave. This time not by his choice or circumstance, but rather by a cruel disease that robbed him of almost every memory he had, both good and bad. Those few short months were like gold. In the almost eight years that followed, I leaned on those conversations in Normandy…still do. I could still hear his voice saying, “You are my son”, even when he no longer had a clue who I was.
In the last book of the Old Testament, Malachi writes that, “He will turn the hearts of the parents to their children, and the hearts of the children to their parents.” Simply put, the verse speaks of God’s desire to reconcile the generations. To redo what was undone. God’s heart is not only for us to connect with Him, but to each other, as well.
Because of this personal life changing experience, I now lead tours back to Normandy every year. It’s my small attempt to give people a similar experience of what was given to me. Some go simply because they love history. Others take the journey to honor a family member or ancestor who served in that great conflict. All go to make a connection. Some come back changed.
This week the world’s eyes will once again look to Normandy, because of its historical relevance. But to the readers of this article, I offer a different perspective - from one who has walked on its beaches. If you find yourself searching to re-connect with a loved one, whose relationship is estranged or lost, LOOK FOR A NORMANDY - YOUR NORMANDY. Find the “place” where you can be real, or at the very least, begin again. Not just a physical, geographical, or historical place, but a place where it’s safe for connection to happen. A place where honesty is welcome and real love lives. When you find that place, you will more than likely rediscover more than just the person you love.