The Crosses at Pendleton

It has been almost two years since I left active duty in the Marine Corps. There are a very few things that shake me to my core. One of them is the day we hiked to the crosses at Camp Pendleton.

I didn’t expect an experience. I raced to the top, and there were offerings beneath the crosses; for the fallen. I haven’t lost anyone close to me, or even seen combat. It was the overwhelming loss that was there. It wasn’t the perfect tribute to God, it was brokenness of a culture that knows no limits except death. And that is all that they were dealt. Death, and more death. This warrior culture, broken for their brothers and sisters, with no recourse. I wasn’t the only one in tears.

You can say we joined to serve. They didn’t join to die in vain. The willingness to face an untimely death is a fear that must be stared down, that is courage.

So it is times like this where I think of how little my life, my brothers’ lives, our servicemembers’ lives mean to those in Washington DC. It is shameful. I’m not an emotional person, but this is inhumanity.


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