A Harvest of Hope for Veterans
I joined the Army to get away from the farm. Little did I know it would save me when I came home.
The guy in the mall food court was hard to miss. It wasn’t just his threadbare clothes and duffel bag. It was the way he scanned the tables, more focused on the food than the people. When my wife, Michele, and I stood and picked up our trays, he came over. “If you’re not going to finish that sandwich, I’ll take it,” he said.
“Sure,” I said, disturbed that a young guy—no more than 25—had to ask strangers for leftovers. Then something on his duffel caught my eye. A military ID patch. He was a homeless vet, back from combat with no idea where to go.
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That could have been me.
I grew up in Webster, Florida, on my parents’ blueberry farm. I couldn’t wait to escape small-town life. The Army was my ticket out. See the world and serve my country...what could be a better adventure? I enlisted just out of high school.
By the time my unit deployed to Iraq in 2003, I was 26, a sergeant, newly married to a beautiful pediatric nurse. I was excited about seeing action. Michele wasn’t. “Before, you were on support missions. This is combat. I’m scared.”
“Try not to worry,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
My first months in Iraq were more of a grind than dangerous. Then my platoon started running missions in the densely populated, tumultuous Sunni Triangle. We had to be on constant high alert. You never knew who the enemy was (they weren’t in uniform) or where they might be holed up. Your nerves never rested.
In May 2004, two weeks before my tour of duty was due to end, we were clearing a village said to be an insurgent stronghold. One of my guys went down, hit by a sniper. I ran out to pull him to cover. A mortar bomb knocked me off my feet. Shrapnel ripped into my legs and head.
I lay in the dirt, helpless, bombs exploding around me, my men returning fire. All I could think of was Michele, my family and how desperately I wanted to see them again. Lord, can you see me? If you get me home, I promise I’ll make my life worth saving. Then I passed out.
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I came to in a military hospital in Iraq. Surgeons couldn’t remove all the shrapnel. Back in the States, I was in and out of hospitals for months. The diagnosis: traumatic brain injury and PTSD.
I had blinding headaches, memory and other cognitive problems and balance issues so I needed a cane to walk. My military career was done.
The hyper-vigilance that kept me alive in the war zone didn’t translate well to civilian life. My anxiety was intense. Being around even a few people made me jittery. I woke up sweat-drenched from nightmares. It seemed like everything I used to count on—strength, discipline, toughness—had been stripped away.
Except for Michele and her love for me, her patience. She encouraged me to go back to school. It was slow going because of my TBI-related cognitive impairments, but I got a business degree. I found work with a healthcare staffing firm.
It didn’t take long to see an office job wasn’t for me. I was still riddled with anxiety. Sometimes I’d think about that promise I’d made to the Lord lying in the street in Iraq. Would I ever be able to make good on it? Would it have been better if I had not made it back? No, no, I couldn’t think like that!
When my family offered me a small plot of land on the old farm in Webster, my first instinct was to say no. The tedium, the isolation, the labor in the fields...hadn’t I spent all these years trying to get away from the farm? Michele convinced me to give it a try. “Farming’s in your blood,” she said. “Maybe this is what you need.”