Healing in Sonora

Sometimes something happens that is so perfect and perfectly orchestrated that it's clear those Angels of Mercy I'm always praying to have had a hand in it. Today was one of those days.

I drove from Lodi to Sonora this morning and arrived several hours before the appointed peace rally. So I walked up and down the one main street eight times. It was Sunday morning and not much was open. On my ninth pass, the Veteran's Memorial War Museum, across from the park where the rally was going to be held, was open. Standing on the front steps was a big guy who looked to be maybe in his 50's, wearing a cap that had lots of army stuff on it -- like badges and little pins. I decided, MOST uncharacteristically for me, that I would visit the war museum. What I heard myself say to the big guy with the war cap, was: "This seems like the perfect day to visit a veteran's museum." Turns out he was the volunteer curator and was happy as could be to show me his museum.

It only took half a minute for him to start telling me how he felt about the peace demonstrators across the street -- he believed, he said, that they were agitating and demonstrating against him and people like him who had fought in wars to keep us free. Clearly, he was angry. Last night's peace vigil in the park had served to further antagonize him.

Now here's where the Angels of Mercy come into the picture. As I walked through the rooms of the little museum with the guy in the cap, whose name is Fritz, and saw uniforms and photographs and letters and memorabilia from every war we've fought in from the Civil War to Shock and Awe in Iraq, something happened. I was overcome with sadness and gratitude -- for all the men and women over all those years, who lived and died doing what they believed they needed to do in order to assure their country and their families would remain free.

Standing next to Fritz, who has been volunteering at the museum every Sunday for eight years, and using his disability payment for injuries received in Viet Nam to buy pocket copies of the U.S. Constitution that he offers free to museum visitors -- and reading the poems he writes (nearly 200 so far) and makes available at the museum, my heart and my judgement and my belief in right-and-wrongness melted. Tears came to my eyes. Tears came to Fritz's eyes. We both stood there crying. I asked if I could hug him and he said he wasn't big on touchy-feely stuff.

I had a copy of the Grandmother book in my bag and decided to give it to him -- even though I figured he'd think it was dumb. But he seemed genuinely grateful. When I got to the rally and met the coordinator who had arranged for me to come to Sonora, I told her about Fritz and asked if she'd come with me to invite him to the rally. She did. We did. Fritz said he'd already read the book and thought it was wonderful. He said he'd close up the museum at 3:00 and come hear me read the book.

It was a very big crowd. When I was done reading, Fritz came up behind me (where he'd been standing the whole time, I guess -- I hadn't seen him) and took the microphone. He told the crowd he was from the Veteran's War Museum across the street. He said he was happy to be at the peace rally and wanted us to know how proud he'd been to fight for us in Viet Nam. And then he put out his arms and said to me, "And now here's that hug." The whole crowd cheered. And so it is.