He’s changed since he got back from Iraq,” the
girlfriend cried when the sheriff had the car towed and impounded until
after Memorial Day for a host of violations.
My cousin, the tow-truck operator, called me and said: “You’re an Army Reserve chaplain. You’ve been there. Could you help him?”
They found me, the cousin and soldier, folding the flags lining our little church’s cemetery. I inherited this job from my father, a combat veteran of two wars who had died a few weeks earlier. My wounded emotions were barely under control—how could I help anyone else?
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