The other day I was talking about the events of 9/11 with my mother-in-law.
As the conversation progressed I realized the great significance those horrible events have had on my life.
I was 12, living in California and shortly there after our family moved to Montana. The move had already been in progress, but was expedited by the terrorist attacks. I remember desperately wanting to find some way to help.
Roman was 17, a young volunteer firefighter living in Montana. His dream of being a soldier changed that day from boyish fancy to manly purpose. He would have gone to New York in a heartbeat if he was just a little bit older.
On this, the 13 year anniversary of the attacks, we are 25 and 30 years old. For years Roman has participated in memorials for the 343 firefighters who died that day, as well as the many others. This year he has become a soldier.
I am so proud to be the wife of this man. He is not a firefighter because it is cool (though he certainly enjoys those moments). Nor is he a soldier because he wants recognition.
Roman possesses a deep conviction that he is called to help others. Where there is chaos and disaster he knows that is where he needs to be. The calling of God for him is compassion for the weak, and the defense of the the oppressed.
This calling is why I sit on my lonely bed, missing him terribly in the cold nights. This calling is what I tell my three little ones about when they ask why Daddy is gone. This calling is why it has rarely bothered me to watch him answer that beeping pager. I have seen the visible truth that those who serve others, receive much from that service.
The words of Christ ring in my heart,
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.