If you know me, this may surprise you, but when I was young, I fantasized about being a soldier or, at the very least, some kind of thrill-seeking adventurer. I thought staring death in the eyes was the apex of human endeavor and I was ready to be a casualty if it meant going to something resembling Valhalla as my reward. With this youthful vision all but being my northern star, I hoped for heroic lethality and some kind of noteworthy death. It sounds weird to say it out loud, but I used to dream of that moment of ultimate sacrifice frequently. I felt it was my destiny and I looked for ways to make sure I could fulfill it.
I suppose, more than anything, such a burning inner desire spoke of simply wanting deeper meaning and purpose in life, seeking a reason to be heroic, a mission to which to belong. Being born with a club foot and the various corrective surgeries that followed all but curtailed any dreams I had of giving my life to some great military cause, and my attempts at seeking a similar fate, whether on the wrestling mat or out in the streets, were every bit as foolish as they were dangerous. But it was what I wanted; the way I had always envisioned my life playing out, and I was determined to secure my place among the brave.
Now, in my mid-forties, those dreams are but a fuzzy invocation of some lost version of me, like a photograph of childhood that becomes less and less familiar with time. Now, I dream of my children growing up kind, healthy, happy and strong. I dream of it and I ask for guidance to help me remain worthy of the love and trust they place in me every single day.
The fears that kept me lost in alleyways, searching and sifting through various paths of darkness or seeking the hand of fate seem so ludicrous now, in the light of my living room, where I can watch my children laugh and tell stories or argue about scientific theories or the mathematics of baseball. I see these things before me and realize I'd trade in every battlefield honor, athletic victory or potentially heroic final moment without hesitation.
I know so many of my brothers who sought the hard road, either in battle or elsewhere, who share the same basic fear of a world that will forever pale in comparison to the incredible gravity of battle, where nagging self-doubt can so easily replace the certainty of purpose.
So, I say this to you today, my fellow warriors: If that fear is what keeps you in uniform, year after year, or in the dojo or some other incredibly treacherous environment risking the beauty of life for some foolish pursuit or cause, please be sure of this: There is no greater purpose, no higher calling, no more sacred duty, than to be a father to your daughters and sons. And there is more glory to be found in a single afternoon spent playing, talking and laughing with your children than in all the valorous citations, battle scars, tattoos and black belt degrees from any kind of war fought in any kind of area in any corner of the Earth.
Leave the forever wars behind, my brothers. Leave the noteworthy death to someone else. Valhalla ain't shit. Heaven is here and it is available now. Go home. Be home. Your children are waiting. Their kindness and strength will someday become the honor you've always sought.
