The Extra Mile

It was not unheard of for my mother to pull over and give someone a ride.
The person was not a hitchhiker.
It was usually an elderly person waiting at a bus stop.
My mother was especially known for such behavior on a hot summer day.

I knew to expect that extra time would be added to whatever we were going to do.
It’s not out of my way, she would say to the person.
That was not altogether true but the person never knew.
I sat in the back seat and listened to their conversation.

My mother was very easy to talk to, the elderly passenger felt very comfortable with her.
If I cold have written down the names of everyone who sat in that passenger seat.
I never understood the reason she did what she did, except for the reason she gave.
I don’t like to see an older person wait for the bus.

She was modeling what it looked like to go the extra mile.
Going the extra mile never got her any rewards or accolades.
Going the extra mile meant that she went out of her way.
However, she had a little girl in the back seat who was watching her.

My mother was especially kind to veterans.
She always seemed to know who they were without ever meeting them before.
She had great respect for those that served our country.
She instilled that same respect in me as well.

My mother and her two sisters had many friends who were soldiers in WWII.
In fact, one soldier wrote a book entitled, Memoirs Of My Military Life.
My aunt that I took care of  had a copy of the book signed by the author.
After she died, the book was something I wanted to keep.

The author wrote an inscription: To my Irish singing buddy.
It was dated ten years before she died.
I had no idea my aunt had even seen this man all those years later.
Apparently, it was important to him that she have a copy of his book.

My aunt never married but this soldier was very special to her.
He was fond of the three sisters: my mother and my two aunts.
He was stationed at Fort Dix at the time.
He reminisces about the times he and his buddies would go to their house.

When I got back to Fort Dix, my buddies told me about the sisters they had met in Philadelphia. They were Irish girls…there were three of them…we had great fun singing and dancing. It was twenty six miles from Philly to Fort Dix in those days. We would stop by their house most weekends and sing a lot of the Irish songs. At times the girls would take the lead or sing solo. They taught all the songs to me. Unfortunately to those within hearing distance, I still enjoy singing those songs. (taken from, Memoirs Of My Military Life)

I had forgotten about the book until I pulled it off one of my bookshelves.
It caught me by surprise to see pictures of my mother and my aunts in the book.
They were so young, just girls a little older than my youngest daughter.
I think that is why my mother loved veterans so much.

She had such fond memories of that time.
She and her sisters always sang.
I can still hear their harmony in my memory.
Hearing any of those songs brings me back to singing that happened any time and anywhere.

It was another era when my mother would give a ride to those waiting at the bus stop.
It was a simpler time.
I am glad that I experienced her giving spirit.
I am glad I witnessed her going the extra mile.

I remember the day we were shopping and she saw a man in a wheelchair.
My mother knew that he was a veteran.
I was little and he smiled at me.
My mother said hello and walked me over to his chair while she held my hand.

I looked down and saw only one shoe.
I looked down and saw a pant leg neatly folded underneath the man’s upper leg.
I looked down and didn’t know where to look next.
I was always taught not to stare but I had not expected to see what I was seeing.

The man reached out his hand to my mother.
When did you serve? She boldly asked.
I remember him giving her the name and numbers of his unit and the places he had served.
I did not want to stare at him but he had only one shoe.

I remember my mother taking my hand and placing it in the veteran’s hand.
This man served our country so that we can be free, she said simply.
I remember looking up from his one shoe and into the veteran’s eyes.
They were moist like my eyes would get when I was about to cry.

Thank you for doing that for me, I said somehow knowing to personalize his selfless service.
You are welcome, little Miss, he said, It was an honor.
We left and I had lots of questions.
He only had one shoe, I said because that is all I could say.

That’s right, my mother said in a serious tone.
That is what sacrifice looks like, she said in no uncertain terms.
I have never forgotten her words.
That is what sacrifice looks like.

He grew up before him like a tender shoot and like a root out of dry ground. He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to Him, nothing in His appearance that we should desire Him. He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed Him not. Surely He took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows, yet we considered Him stricken by God, smitten by Him and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed.
(Isaiah 53:2-5)

Someone else willingly went to battle for us.
He went first to the Garden, where He submitted his will to the Father.
He then went to Calvary where He hung on a cross, bled and died.
The enemy thought that he won the battle; he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Three days later that bloody, beaten Body rose from the grave.
Death was defeated.
The enemy lost the battle.
That is what sacrifice looks like.

Going to battle willingly for another.
Dying in our place.
Dying so we can be free.
That is what sacrifice looks like whether it is good soldiers or our precious Savior.

Sacrifice costs more than we can ever repay.
All we can ever do is be grateful.
We must be extremely grateful.
My mother never forgot; may I never forget.

By His wounds we are healed.
By their wounds we are free.
May we never forget.
Never, ever forget.