Perspective on worry

My father is part of the Greatest Generation. There are days (especially days when I'm in a hurry and following one driving toward Wal-Mart) when I don't give adequate respect to these quaint fellows in their hiked-up pants and SAS shoes.

Yesterday, though, Dad was part of the Honor Flight that takes World War II veterans to Washington, D.C., to visit their memorial. He was chosen as one of the four veterans to place a wreath on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I've looked at this picture over and over.

I often fight worry as I wave good-bye to my boys, watching them leave for college or for a conference or for a semester abroad. I worry that they will miss their planes. I worry that they will merge onto the freeway at the wrong time. I worry that they will be lonely or bored or scared because those emotions are breeding ground for bad decisions.

My father is 83 now but he was 17 when he caught the train to join the Navy. Like me, my grandmother had four boys. She waved good-bye to three of them as she sent them off to active military service, two in the Pacific front and one in Korea. I can only imagine her worries.

Today I'm thinking of Grandma as I honor my father's war service. I'm proud of you, Dad, and I love you.