Dark Shadows
She gripped the thin pages in her hand, searching against the wind for the list of names. There was a desperate need to assuage her fears which reached new heights each day her beloved was fighting at the front. She turned the page and scanned the lists. Why were there so many names? From A to Z, the column covered pages numbered over four, front and back. That was just today's paper. She reached the K's, where she prayed his name wouldn't be. Today it wasn't, but there was always tomorrow.
Neatly printed on a telegram are words that steal her breath and bring her to her knees. Her husband is dead. Now there is no need to check the black and white pages. When she closes her eyes, she can see his warm brown eyes and the way his hair fell across his forehead. It is a bitter and beautiful memory. When she suddenly realizes she will never kiss his gentle lips again, her whimper quickly transforms into a shrieking cry. She is angry that the enemy across the channel could deal such a devastating blow. Her story is not unique.
In no time, this dark shadow spreads as ink dropped in water, coloring the eyes of mothers, wives, and sisters throughout nations.
War is never a quick or quaint affair. It reeks of blood and sweat, some of it embedded in the foliage of green uniforms, ally soil, and cotton sheets. Other times it is evident in sticky crimson walls, gas chambers, ashes, and mass graves.
There is another devastating type of war, the sort that has none of the usual tell-tale signs. It is not a war of old. There are no fields with wounded soldiers cluttering a muddy field or hiding in the trenches as bombs fall above them. It is not a modern war. No drones are surveying the terrorist cell or squads being blown away by RPGs. This war happens in our homes, our jobs, our churches. It is almost invisible and is often mistaken for being a fact of life. Yet, its effects are far more heinous than Hitler, Stalin, or Mao could ever manage. This war aims to devour every living thing it touches, and we let it. We would rather be comfortable than take the threat seriously, and remain ignorant rather than recognize that we might be the problem, not the solution.
Sitting alone on her shower floor is another woman. Like others before her, she is grieving the loss of her husband. He is alive, sitting with his phone, ravaging another with his eyes, lost to the lust that consumes him.
This is war.
Pacing the speckled floor of the sterile hospital is a mother. She is waiting to see if her son has finally OD'ed on his favorite lover, heroine. When the solemn-faced doctor walks in, she knows he is gone and shakes with anger. But the worse feeling that overcomes her is that of regret.
This is war.
Timid parents sit quietly at the latest school board meeting. Tonight progressives threaten to condition the hearts and minds of future generations. Refusing to ruffle feather's they gamble with their children's future. It's easier to leave their children in the hands of strangers than raise them themselves.
This is war.
A young girl tries to steal a few moments of peace before her next customer comes to satisfy his desires. Enslaved to man and fear, she is not sure she wants to make it to tomorrow.
This is war.
This is war, and the carnage is all around. If only we would take courage, look beyond the self-crafted illusion, and see things as they are. If only we could discard the illusion that everything is okay. If only. How different things might be.
