Stretch walks up to where we sit, a huge cigar hangs out of his mouth. He looks like a dead fish. Eyes wide with yellow teeth, he reminds me of a gaspergou I caught in the Mississippi River.

“Gentlemen, throw it down your neck and taste it later. We roll out in five mikes. Check your gear, we will go house to house.” As Stretch walks away, someone mutters, “I don’t like that guy.” They sum up my feelings perfectly.

As a young man, I read many books concerning World War II and how some of the most vicious fighting took place when going from house to house. Today is no different. Breach, bang, clear. We repeat this process over and over. 

“Hey, Freeman!” I turn and see a friend of mine from my unit. Wearily, I smile and make my way through the rumble of buildings to where he kneels. Andrew Ranken slaps me on the back.

“You good, man?”

“Oh yeah, good to go. How are you, Ranken?”

“Man, it’s crazy out here. These tanks are destroying entire blocks. How goes the house to house business?”

I flash back to those killed in the name of liberation, the wounded forever scarred by the hands of war. Ranken notices my forced smile.

“Ah, you know how it goes, Ranken. It’s messy.”

The rewrite continues…AWID…

As time goes on, my psyche’s scarred by the various things I’ve seen, and the things I’ve done to stay alive. I use humor to hide the pain inside. 

“Morning, Freeman.” SSG Jayme Willard walks into my room. “You are to report to the office for a briefing.”

“Morning, Sergeant. Am I going somewhere?” SSG Willard chuckles as he walks out of my room. “I guess I am about to find out.”

I push away from my desk and walk down the hall to my platoon’s office. Inside sits my platoon sergeant, and two people I don’t know. They look up as I enter. 

“Morning, Freeman. How are you feeling this morning?” I force a smile. The two other people look on but say nothing.

“Fine, Sergeant. What is going on?” I am waved to a chair next to his desk. I sit and wait for whatever is coming down the pipe. 

“These folk sitting across from you need help with something.”

I look at the representatives who are seeking help. Both are males in their forties or early fifties. They nod in my direction and I nod back. Both men have beards, although one is tall and slender, the other is of average height and built like a stonemason. Their eyes are soulless.

“Okay, Sergeant. Where am I going?”

“There is a troubled spot up north, and our friends have asked for some support in executing their mission. They require the best, you will go north and help them. The rest of us nobodies will stay here and carry on.”


“Pack for a minimum of three days, but you may be there for seven. Gentlemen, you can brief him on the rest.” The tall agent stands, I call him Stretch. He stares at me for a moment and then he begins his rehearsed speech.

“We have an area swamped with insurgency. They have access to small arms (rifles and RPGS), and they are executing anyone who disagrees with their ideology. We are the scalpel that will remove this cancer.” The average agent chimes in, I call him Goon. “This is a joint task force. Our mission is precise, there is no room for error. Meet us at your squadron headquarters at 1330 for a full briefing. We will see you soon.” I glance at my watch, it’s 1000. 

“Roger, understood.” Both men stand and exit the room. My platoon sergeant nods and I follow the two men out. I pack an assault pack. I filled it with uniforms, extra magazines for my weapon, energy drinks, and clean socks. “Sometimes, there is no greater feeling than changing your socks.” I lie across my bed and wait for the next briefing.

Twenty minutes prior to the briefing, I leave my room and walk to squadron headquarters. As I walk in, I am greeted by the squadron XO. 

“Are you lost, Freeman? What brings you up this way?” I chuckle. Major Williamson smiles and shakes his head. “What’s so funny?” I shake my head and look at the floor.

“Nothing, sir. I am here for the briefing.” Every time I see the XO, I can’t help but chuckle. When we were home in Texas, he complained about soldiers not saluting him. One day, some friends and I caught him at the commissary buying groceries. As he walked out, we stood a few feet apart from each other. Every two steps, he had to stop and salute us. Finally, he stopped and gave us all one salute. Angrily, he threw his groceries in the car and we never heard about saluting again.

“The briefing is down the hall, last door on the left.” I thank him and walk down the hallway. The door is open, people sit around a horseshoe table. I take a seat toward the middle. Stretch and Goon walk in and close the door. 

“Okay, gentlemen. Let’s get down to brass tacks. We selected you to carry out this mission. You are the best and the brightest your unit has to offer. We can’t guarantee your safety, because we are walking into the jaws of hell. The odds of you returning to this place is nil. Does everyone understand? However, if we succeed in our mission, we will destroy a huge part of the insurgency and liberate the populace. Valhalla will sing our praises. Gather your gear, we roll out in fifteen minutes.”

We all stand to our feet and secure our gear. Together, we fall into step and walk to our vehicles. My riding buddy is a tanker from another unit. He nods at me, and I nod back.

“I am Hank, but everyone calls me Buster,” he said in the way of greeting. I chuckle and shake his hand.

“I’m Freeman, and no one calls me Possum.”

Buster laughs. “Why would anyone call you Possum?” I shake my head and open the door to my vehicle. “When I was young, my parents would rock me to sleep. When they put me in my crib, I would wake up. My dad started calling me Possum because I always faked them out.”

“Man, that is a great story.” I look him in the eyes. My mouth tightens into a mirthless grin. “Yeah, and if you tell anyone, I will make sure you don’t tell anyone ever again.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Sure. I’m joking. According to Stretch and Goon, we are dead already. We just don’t know it yet.”

“Do you think it’s that bad? Are we all going to die?”

“Only the Lord knows. I guess we will find out.”

Hours pass, but we finally make it to our destination without incident. My new home for the next week is a small camp with a few scattered buildings. Hank and I walk to our assigned hooch and throw our gear onto a bunk near the doorway. A Marine sticks his head in the doorway and looks at us.

“Y’all with the newly arrived task force?” 


“There’s a formation in five mikes at the motor pool.”

“Roger, understood.”

Hank and I walk to the motor pool. Hank is a good ole boy from Alabama. His accent is thick enough to cut cane syrup. A good natured man, he hasn’t missed an opportunity to smile, except for now.

“I guess we are about to find out what they want us to do.”

“Yep. I’m sure it’s what they always want us to do. Find the enemy, destroy the enemy. It’s a straightforward job.” Hank guffaws.

“Where are you from, Freeman?”

“Hattiesburg, Mississippi.” We walk up to the gaggle of people standing around a Humvee. Goon stands on the hood, his Ray Ban shades shining in the late afternoon sun.

“We go into the city in three days. The city has insurgents and civilians in it. The point of this task force is to limit civilian casualties, while removing the threat of the insurgency. The DFAC is in the center of camp. A shoppette is next to it. Make liberal use of both.”

They dismiss us. Hank and I walk toward the dining facility. “Hopefully, the chow is better here.” We walk into the air-conditioned tent and stand in line. Shepherd’s Pie, mashed potatoes, gravy, and various other foods are on the line. 

Grabbing a tray, the cooks load our plates, and we walk to the nearest empty table.  In the background, a television plays the news. ‘Experts’ spout their opinions as truth concerning the war. “This war is being carried out on a false premise” one military ‘expert’ shouts. Hank looks up from his food. 

“Whatcha wanna bet, the ‘expert’ has never even made it to a combat zone, much less picked up a rifle and fought for something he believed in.” I nod and try to swallow a mouthful of mashed taters and gravy before responding.

“Mmmhmm, you’re right. It’s easy to sit at home and spout off at the mouth, when someone else’s kid will go fight the war. These fools make me sick.”

“Me too.”

“Let’s change the subject. I hate politicians and the media. Who’s your favorite team?”

“Pro or college? Football, baseball, basketball, or soccer?”

“Um, whatever you want to talk about Buster.”

“Well Possum, I like college football. Ohio State is my favorite team.”

“Ugh. That alone is worth a bullet. Why Ohio State?”

Hank laughs. He wags his finger at me. “The tradition man, plus I went to college there.”

Laughing, I took another bite of my Shepherd’s Pie. “Fair enough.”

“Who is your favorite team, Freeman?”

“College football? Alabama.”

We finish our meal and head back to our bunks. The night air is a cool 90 degrees, the moon is full. As we walk in silence, we hear indirect fire coming in. Both of us fall to the ground and cover our heads. The mortar hits a building and explodes. Jumping to our feet, we rush to where the explosion occurred. Emergency personnel help us pull people to safety. 

“Wow. Looks like they know we are here. Guess they didn’t want us to get bored before we kill them.” I look at Hank, his face is grimy. His eyes are cold, and his mouth is in a hard line. “Yeah, Hank looks like he could kill somebody.”

“Well Buster, boredom isn’t an issue.” The fire is quickly put out, and our casualties treated. Together, we walk from the ruined building, and make our way to our bunks. I throw myself across the single mattress and close my eyes.

“That explosion is just a small taste of the hell we will face. Might as well sleep while I can.

It doesn’t take me long to figure out that hell isn’t just a place, but also a state of being.

Warfighters don’t quit…AWID

General Sherman’s famous quote, “War is hell,” springs to mind as I watched Hank bleed out. We walked right into the killzone. “Thanks to that idiot Lieutenant.” Hank and I had sought cover behind a barrier made of sand, and God only knows what else. Thick, black smoke fills the air, the smell of burning rubber and human flesh makes it impossible to take deep breaths. We return fire and provide covering fire so our men can get out of the killzone. As usual, you never hear the shot that kills you. I hear a loud crack and Hank hits the ground. Blood pools in his lower torso, and I drag him to the corner and begin first aid. The bullet hit Hank in the liver, just below his flak vest. 

I open his vest and cover the wound with my glove. “Freeman, I’m dying. Put me out of my misery and continue mission. We have to help these people.” I can’t get the bleeding to stop. Hank groans and I prop him up against the barrier. 

“Hold this bandage against the wound, Hank. I have to beat back these clowns, they are charging us.” I put Hank’s hand over the wound. Lifting my weapon, I press the trigger and spray bullets. With the help of the other soldiers, we finally beat the insurgency back. I turn to Hank and sit down next to my friend. I put two fingers on his neck to check his pulse, but he is dead.

I stand to my feet, and can’t believe my eyes. Dead bodies litter the ground, blood stains the walls, the ground, and the faces of my fellow soldiers. Vehicles and buildings are burning. I grab Hank by the shoulders and pull him to the nearest vehicle. The entire scene is carnage. 

“God help us.”

As I walk back to my vehicle, a Sergeant Major stands outside his Humvee yelling into a hand mic. I feel something whiz past my ear, and I watch as the bullet strikes the SGM in the ear. His brains fall out of the side of his head.

“Jesus!” I duck and race to where the Sergeant Major had fallen. His body lies under the armored door of the Humvee. I check him and I see movement from the corner of my eye. Turning, I lift my weapon and track the insurgent.He comes out of the ditch, RPG raised and aimed at my friends. I pull the trigger three times. The bullets thud into his body and he slides down the ditch. Our new convoy leader signals for us to load up. We all jump into our vehicles and continue mission to the next rally point. Darkness falls upon us as we pull into our ‘secured zone.’

After the last vehicle has pulled up to the rest, we all download. I stretch. My body feels like it has been ran over. Wearily, we all trudge to the formation that Goon called. 

“We lost some good men today. However, we have dealt a critical blow to the insurgency. They know we are here. Today, they felt it. We should not get cocky though, these guys will not back down. We have to take this city. Hunker down for a couple of hours. Get some rest.”

“ Hank is dead, God only knows how many more will die in this dump.” I walk to my truck and crawl in the driver’s seat. Stripping down, I take off my helmet and open my vest. It feels like my gear weighs a thousand pounds. 

“I’m gonna die in this freaking place. I will die lost.” Alone in my truck, I cry. I cry for Hank, for those who didn’t make it to the rally point, and I cry for me. It has been years since I went to church. My thoughts turn to God. Does He still love me? Will he forgive me for what I have done? When I am done here, will He be able to call me His son?

Exhausted, I lean back against the seat and in seconds, I’m asleep.

The beginning of A Walk in Darkness…A short story…

I have written many stories, all exaggerated, about my walk in darkness. Yet, for all my writing, I never have written of how it started. Cue my struggles with alcoholism and drug addiction. It is a simple thing to blame it on my addiction or my change at the hands of war fighting. There are multiple reasons that led to my darkness. My struggle with addiction are only symptoms of my disease.

Like many folks, my descent into darkness happened quickly. It started with me leaving Ft. Hood and moving to Germany. At Ft. Hood, Texas field exercises were about two weeks long. Home was 10-15 minutes away at any given time.

In Germany, field exercises were 90 days and took place in various parts of Europe. I spent more time in the field than I did with my family. More time with my soldiers than with my children. I gave my devotion to the Army and my career, instead of to the woman to whom I swore undying love and loyalty.

As I write these words tonight, my issue is made manifest to me. I had my priorities in the wrong order. My ex-wife once told me, “you’re a great provider but a horrible husband and father.” The more things fell apart, the more I focused on my career. Then, I deployed to Iraq for fifteen months. The stress of war, the stress of drowning in the abysmal failure of my marriage, it was too much to bear. To top it all of, I began to have migraine headaches.

When I returned home to Germany, things became even worse. Minor problems caused me to erupt. All too often, I lashed out at my family. They weren’t the problem, they were just available targets for my rage. 

Tonight, as I tear the scabs off my heart, I wonder what would have happened if I had sought help earlier. Nothing matters now, what is done is done. There is no life in the past. I know this, but still I need to purge this out of my system. The story of A Walk in Darkness, is my story to tell. It is the story of a man with messed up priorities, who loses his way. It’s not a special story, but it is mine. 

My time in Germany morphed me into a hardhearted, calloused, unemotional caricature of the man I once was. To protect myself, I shut down all avenues to my heart. My sole focus rested on the advancement of my career. Moving to Colorado was the final nail into the coffin of my marriage.

At the end of my career and retirement from the Army in Colorado, my last unit was squared away. It didn’t start out that way. At the beginning of my time in Colorado, it was a gigantic Charlie Foxtrot. The structure of the unit was in disarray. The leadership had long given up on righting the ship, and I was one of the only ones who gave a rip about being an example for the lower enlisted to emulate. Hundreds upon thousands of hours was given to the unit, and none was given to correcting the issues in my marriage.

From the first day at the unit until the last, stress was my constant companion. Instead of communicating, I shut down and drowned my problems in Irish whiskey. To alleviate the pain of my failures on all fronts, I popped pills. My self-medication combined with stress, along with numerous traumatic brain injuries (TBI) led me to having a seizure. Then, I had 90 more in seven months. My walk in darkness had already begun, it just became more apparent when I lost everything.

I have been writing this story for a long time. Now that the beginning is on paper, maybe the rest of the story will flow out of my heart and A Walk in Darkness will finally be able to be told.

The claymore of love…AWID…A short story…

All to often, love is like a claymore mine. You see the flash before you hear the sound. When things go south it crumbles quickly. Take my former marriage for an example. I married my ex-wife on 19 May 1999. Yeah, I got married the year before the prophesied end of the world, for more information see Y2K.

I was married for 12 years. When the marriage was good, it was really good; when it was bad, it was really bad. There was no middle ground. The whole illusion of love is that love is the only thing you need to have a successful marriage. Take it from someone who is divorced, it takes a lot more than love. 

Y’all remember the saying, “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me?” Well, I beg to differ. Words are powerful. They hold the power to build up your partner or to tear down what you’ve built together. My marriage consisted mostly of the latter. I would never lay all the blame at my ex-wife’s feet. It occurred on both sides. To be fair, I am guilty of striking out verbally, and so did she.

In divorce, there is plenty of blame to go around. I fought, bit, clawed, and poisoned my marriage. Words were my weapon, and I wielded them mercilessly. I was no innocent victim. Trust me, I’m not proud of the damage I caused. 

Still, like a claymore mine, I saw the flash before the boom hit me. Of course, the shrapnel destroyed my marriage, and all I was left with are the remains of what used to be a good thing. Unfortunately, words are hard to forget. The pain caused by them all too often linger in the mind of the recipient. There is no salve to remove the stain of words said in anger. 

My ex has moved on to greener pastures, and I am happy for her. She deserves to be happy. If I could take back the words I uttered in anger, fear and all too often rage, I would but I can’t. The best I can do is grow from this past mistake and try to do better in the future.

Otherwise, my next attempt at love, if there is another attempt, will see me shredded by the claymore of love. 

Flying donkeys…A Walk in Darkness…A short story…

Torrential rain has poured 4-6” of rain on Mississippi in the last 24 hours. Thunder rumbles, lightning flashes, and sheets of rain crash to the earth. The screams of the dying drops of water explode open in silence. It reminds me of exploding donkeys in Iraq. Have you ever been nearly killed by a donkey?


You’re driving along in a convoy, when you spot a dead donkey lying on the side of the road. Everything appears to be normal, when you notice a wire running out of its rectum. Too late.


Dead donkey, shrapnel, and burnt flesh slam against the ballistic windshield. The most god-awful smell fills the cab of your vehicle. The smell makes you want to puke. Nausea floods your body but you must continue mission. You turn on your wipers, and blood smears the windshield. 

Okay, that is enough of putting y’all in my shoes. It’s a smelly job, but someone has to do it. Why am I writing about this? I guess the rain reminds me of flying donkeys. Still, it would have been embarrassing to die in this fashion.

“Hi. We’re sorry to inform you that Pvt. Jambalaya died today in combat action. He was killed via an explosion which sent a donkey’s hindquarter through the windshield.”

Yeah, bad news. Of course, I’ve heard of people dying from a stall wall falling on a guy while he was on the toilet. One of the funniest things I ever witnessed was a guy running to the port-a-john during a mortar attack. He didn’t die, but man, he smelt like he did.

Death strikes when we least expect it. I have always been told, “you never hear the bullet that kills you.” All too often, death comes as a surprise. Especially, in a combat zone. One moment you’re there, the next moment you’re not.

Yes, this may seem to be me making light of death, but it’s just my way of dealing with the pain of loss. Humor is the means with which I cover my tears. Life becomes an unbearable mess sometimes, but there is a silver lining if we look hard enough to find it.

Humor is often the silver lining. So, spend your time enjoying the small moments, because death may be right around the corner.

Be careful of the exploding donkeys though, but if you must clean it off your windshield, use a putty knife first to remove the burnt flesh, and then wash the windshield. 

A persistent idiot…A Walk in Darkness…A short story…

The banks of Tallahala are red clay. When it rains, you can barely make it up the banks, especially when you are dragging a 60-pound beaver behind you. As a young man, my dad introduced my brother and me to the world of trapping. We trapped raccoon, foxes, beaver, and the occasional possum. 

Tall pine and oak, sweet gum and hickory, and various other trees and bushes line the banks of Tallahala. We would set our traps around watering holes, and small streams. Wildlife was plentiful, and given it was the 1980s, good money was paid for pelts. My brother, dad, and myself hit the trapping market too early. With the success of shows like Mountain Men, we could have made a killing.

Still, those early mornings in the woods, creeping through the gray mist of fog in search of gas money to get us to school, taught me many valuable lessons. If an animal had been trapped and it’s survival instinct kicked in, they would chew their trapped limb off. 

My walk in darkness taught me this lesson, as well. When everything is pitch black, and there seems to be no escape, just keep moving. Fortune may favor the bold, but when life pulls the carpet from under you, you need something else to get you through. May I introduce you guys to dogged determination.

Dogged determination will take you further than you ever thought you could go. Persistence is the key to life. The ability to push forward without quitting will get you over any obstacle. In the darkness of my life, I would seek the strength for another step. I would pray for hope, but I felt as trapped in the darkness as the animals I once trapped for money.

My brain was often the greatest enemy that I faced. It would shout how I was unwanted and unloved. “Your life is worthless, just kill yourself already. Stop being a burden to your children. They hate you. Your wife hates you. End your suffering and be done with it.”

Every naysayer from my past would join in the shouting for my suicide. “Do it, don’t be a sissy! Do it!” Instead, I channeled the chanting into fuel for my rage. I became determined to prove the naysayers wrong. Of course, in many ways my hardheadedness caused my health issues. I would drug up, drink alcohol like it was going to be outlawed, and my sleep pattern was non-existent. Toss in a horrific diet and stress and you have the making of volatile combo platter. 

Still, I persisted. 

Eventually, the trap lost its grip. I was able to find my way out of the darkness. All it cost me was everything. A wounded animal is forever scarred by the chewing off of their trapped limb. I bear the scars of my choices, just like a trapped animal. There is nothing that can take the scars away, but scars are a reminder that you survived what was meant to kill you.

Survival isn’t pretty, but life is not for the weak. It’s for those who are willing to persist, to fight no matter how many times you get knocked down.

Tallahala, turtles, and rock bottom…A Walk in Darkness…A short story.

Tallahala Creek is a sight to behold when it is above flood stage. Dark swirls and sinkholes are scattered, as the rocks form rapids down the river. Muddy water rushes by dragging trees down the river to some unknown destination. From the camp we have set up, you can hear the river pulsating with dark desire at night. 

I have many fond memories of this river. It was where I learned to swim, where my grandfather and dad took my brother and me fishing. We would sit on soapstone and bump bait to attract fish. My pawpaw called it ‘agitating’ the fish. Our seats were buckets, our feet dipped in the puddles that formed in the crags of the soapstone. At night, you had to battle mosquitoes and horseflies to get any kind of sleep. 

Tallahala was where I discovered turtles could grow to weigh hundreds of pounds. One hot, sticky day we ran trotlines and bank hooks. The river was way above flood stage and we paddled out to the first line. My dad grabbed hold of the line and we began to check hooks. In the middle of the river, we discovered we had a massive turtle. It weighed about 80 pounds. We checked the next line and had another turtle. Again, it was almost 100 pounds. On the last line, we had another turtle. In Mississippi we call them loggerheads. If I am not mistaken, the correct name for them is alligator snapper. Long story short, we went home with over 200 pound of turtle.

My family had no recipe for turtle, so we fried it up like chicken. It was the only time I have ever caught turtles that big. Tallahala fed my family for many years, and not just mine, but every poor family in the Morriston community fished Tallahala. 

When I deployed to the Middle East, I often thought of that river and the memories that we made there. In the middle of Iraq, being blown up and shot at, my mind was never far from home. The roar of the river would play through my mind, and no matter how bad my day, I felt closer to home. Sometimes, in my mind’s eye, I would see my grandfather’s smile when my brother or I caught a fish. His glasses would fog up from the humidity, but I can still hear him laugh.

I am often asked what brought me home from Iraq. The easy answer is that the Lord had His hands upon me, and that He protected me. I like to think that the memories of home, of my grandfather, and my family played a role too. At the very bottom, also known as rock bottom, it was the memories of my childhood, the good and the bad, that kept me from committing suicide. Sometimes, when you have nothing left to lose, proving the naysayers wrong is enough to pull you through.

Even if, you are pulled through like a tree on the flooded waters of Tallahala.

A good truck…A Walk in Darkness…A short story…

If you were to look at my yard, you might think I am a connoisseur of vehicles. In my yard sits a 1989 Chrysler New Yorker, a 1984 Dodge Power Wagon, a 2000 Chevy 1500, and a 1999 Jeep Cherokee. 

Why so many vehicles?

I spent eight years in Colorado. Four of them, I spent in the Army. I drove a 2003 Dodge Ram then. Man, I loved that truck. It was a monster, it came with the 5.7 Hemi, leather interior with the Ram stitched into the seat backs, mega cab, it had it all. I got about 8 miles to the gallon. Still, I loved it.

My notes ran 197 bucks a month. It was my daily driver and I thought it was the one thing I was going to keep out of my divorce. Then one day out of the blue, I had a seizure behind the wheel. On base. I hit a F-250 head-on, bounced off it, hit a parked Nissan Altima, bounced off it, hit a building, bounced off it, and ran nose first off into the ditch. All, while I was asleep at the wheel. 

Then, I woke up in the hospital. My left hand still has the scar from the glass that cut into the flesh. The ribs on my right side was fractured. I came too restrained to the bed rails. Good times.

To make matters worse, the acting First Sergeant showed up and let me see the photos of my ruined truck. The entire front of my truck was mangled beyond recognition.

I was heartbroken. Over a truck. Pathetic.

After retiring, I had a van and a 1998 Mustang. I was blessed to have these vehicles, I drove them until my license expired. At my lowest point, my mother came and lived with me. The doctor called her said I needed help. Without a second thought, my mother helped me through the darkness.

When I moved home, the first thing I did was try to get my license back. After several bouts with the local DMV, I resorted to contacting the former governor of Mississippi. One email, and I had my license back.

Then, I saved up money to buy me a truck. I didn’t care what kind of truck, I just wanted something that ran. My dad found me a Chevy Cheyenne with a reasonable price tag. It was the ugliest thing I had ever seen. White with a gray fender on the left side, paint chips ripped off the bed, and the interior was horrible.

I was the happiest guy in the world. I had lost my license for four years. The truck came with a 350, five speed, and slowly I put money back into it. I bought a maroon seat for it, 400 dollars worth of tires, and I loved to drive it. On the dirt roads around here, that truck would scat. 

Maybe, I am a connoisseur of vehicles. 

In my opinion, nothing beats a long drive on a dark night, with the radio turned up. It is the simple things that make life worth living. Like a good truck and dirt roads. Now, I want to load up and floor the gas. 

Take care. 

Redemption…A look back at my walk in darkness…A short story.

Once more into the fray. Every great battle starts with crossing lines. I am tired, sick and more than a little agitated. However, I am thankful to be alive. 

 I gaze down the long, winding road that leads from my house. Dark clouds, heavy with rain, threaten to burst while I consider the battle for my sanity. It’s been a hard fight to keep from slipping into the darkness. Depression, anxiety, and at times, a complete lack of control has hindered my progression. “At least I am not what I used to be.”

“What I used to be….”

I was raised in church from the time I was a small boy. Every time the church doors were open, my family and I visited the house of God. I received the gift of the Holy Ghost at age 12. My teen years had the same hiccups every teenager faces. It took war to make me lose my faith. The horrors I witnessed and committed paved the way for my addiction to drugs and alcohol.

“You’re not what you used to be.”

I’ve always thought redemption was only for bad people. You know, rapists, murderers, pedophiles, etc. Never, did I think my life would take me to the lowest place I’ve ever been. Drugs didn’t lift me out of the mire, it dragged me deeper. Alcohol took the pain away and replaced it with a hangover. There was a void in my heart, and in my soul. I didn’t know how to fill it. I had turned my back on my faith and parts of my family. “I will do it on my own or die trying.”

I nearly died trying.

Still, I continued to try to carry the burden on my own. Until one day, I heard a snap. It shook me to my core. It wasn’t a bone, it was my mind. Everything sped up. I had a complete loss of focus. I would start speaking and then just fly into another conversation. It felt as if I was on the outside of my body, watching myself sporadically leap from topic to topic. People would stare at me. As if, I was some type of new lunatic which had just been discovered. 

My thoughts zipped through my mind, and like bumper cars, they often collided into each other. I remember going home to visit my parents, and the looks I received from my family. They had no idea how to help me, and I had no way to tell them.

Slowly, with time and therapy, I was able to begin the healing process. The process made me angry. Internal turmoil led to outward bursts of frustration, but eventually the pieces came together. 

In 2016, I moved home to Mississippi. I had been retired for 4 years, and living in Colorado had become increasingly difficult. Rent kept going up, the cost of living exceeded my money, and I was out of options. The bus ride home gave me plenty of time to consider what my ‘life’ would be like in Mississippi, and if I would ever find redemption.

“There is that ‘R’ word again. Am I worthy of redemption?” People told me throughout the years that God would forgive me for what occurred in Iraq. In my heart, I knew it was true. God is faithful to forgive us, but my problem didn’t lie with the Almighty God. My issue lay closer to home. I couldn’t forgive myself. 

Time passed, and I met wonderful people in the small town I moved to. To help fill the void in my heart, I had started college while in Colorado. Because of my intense hatred of all things mathematical, I postponed my math courses until last. I barely passed Algebra I. I was failing Algebra II. After ignoring the course (because that is what mature people do), I called the local college for a tutor.

With the help of my tutor, I passed Algebra II. She invited me to church. After saying no several times, I went. As I sat on the pew, I felt out of my element, but I also felt at home. I clapped my hands to the music, and I stood when the Scriptures were read. When the altar call was given, I went home. On the way home, I noticed the void in my heart seemed smaller.  

“Is this what I’ve been missing? A return to my roots?”

I went back. The more I went, the more complete I felt. At the bottom of the barrel, I found Jesus. As I developed my relationship with Him, I found something else. Redemption. Come to find out it’s not a matter of worth.

Thank God, I’m not what I used to be.