A Long Way To Run

July, 1:00 pm, High Tide 

The water is cold even though it is summer and the day is exceptionally warm. I realize this as I take off my shoes and allow them to sink into the sand and feel the crisp water rush over them. We are at high tide, and I only have to walk a few yards to feel the relief of the cool water on this steamy day. Like many visits to the beach, I study the water. Actually, I study the view. I scan the horizon for anything interesting or out of the ordinary such as cargo ships, fishing boats, yachts, or even dolphins. I enjoy the peaceful roar of waves that descend upon the beach and let the noise of the world wash away.  

Usually. 

But not today. 

Today I look straight out from the beach aligning my perspective with a NNW direction. I briefly wonder just how far I can see, if I can see land ahead or anything that makes this look different than any other view. But then I think, and calculate, and visualize. I mentally take the water away, pushing it back, and mentally measure the distance in feet, knowing that I can never really understand depth perception from this vantage point. Perhaps if I was looking back at land, back at myself, maybe then I could gauge distance when I have something tangible on which to focus. But not from here. And yet, I keep studying. And I wonder how far I could swim, if I had to. And I wonder how far I might make it if I was swimming alone. And I wonder if I could even attempt it, under stress, and with an 80 pound weight on my back. I imagine that I am in a competition, swimming toward shore in the chilled water, with 4 foot waves, struggling to keep my head above water, watching others slip below the surface and disappear,  knowing I can't do anything to save them. I feel slight panic as my mind changes the visual field ahead of me. Even if I know I'm a strong swimmer, there is no doubt. I never would've made it at all. 

June, 6:30 am, Low Tide

The sun has been up for awhile, two hours now. And the air feels cool. The water is chilled to the point that I dread getting wet. But I don't even think about that now. I can see the beach, roughly 700 yards straight ahead, looking SW. I'm a strong swimmer for the most part. But I've never been put to the test like I will be, 400 yards from now. The distance closes fast as I keep my eyes on the horizon line. I think through the next few minutes, then hours. I'll hit the water fast, swim as far as I can until my feet touch bottom. 

And when my feet hit sand, dead run. 

Seconds later I feel cold sweep up my body and over my chest. I drop like a rock into the water that is colder than I imagined. I feel like a lead weight, like someone has tied a cinder block to my feet and sentenced me to a fate at the ocean floor. But as water covers my head I feel the sand rush to my feet and I push off hard, heaving myself back to the surface. Adrenaline has dumped into my bloodstream and I gulp mouthfuls of salt water before recovering myself. I shove off again, launching myself forward a few feet. And suddenly, I am standing in water that is chest deep. Difficult, but doable. I trudge through the water, feeling the water level drop steadily as I approach the beach front and the first bullet buzzes past my helmet. Then another. Another two before the buzzing of ammunition becomes a steady hum around me. 35 men made the drop with me but I don't see any of them. I don't hear them. All I hear is the roar in my ears of adrenalin and the sound of the angry ocean. Chances are at least two never surfaced the water, and two more were shot. But we can't look back. We can't top. We won't stop. We won't retreat. Another bullet zips by. And I know that when I step out of the freezing water, it will be a relief, yet my clothes and my pack will feel much heavier.  And all I can think is that the beach is so long, and refuge is so far. I gauge my distance at 300 yards. But we are under fire in broad daylight, dodging landmines, and praying we make it beyond the water and past the beach. I cannot see the guns, or the bunkers. I cannot see the end in sight. Nor can I see how this all turns out or where I'll be at the end of it. All I know is that this is a long, long way to run and a lot of us won't make it that far. 

My students and I are silently watching aerial footage of Pointe du Hoc and Omaha Beach. And while they watch in mild interest of a place they've never seen and an era they can't imagine, I can't forget what it looked like standing on the beach and looking out into the cold water. We took a long drive from the Arc de Triomphe northwest out of the city and into the countryside full of farmland and small towns before taking our final left turn at Vierville-sur-Mer and ending at Pointe du Hoc. The four and half hour drive was long enough to relax, nap, and just enjoy the scenery - with no other place to be. Our driver, Adrian, was well studied in WWII history, but he was a master historian of the D-Day Landing on June 6, 1944. He knew exactly what happened, and why. And he knew how to relate his knowledge to a group of people who had no real idea what we were about to experience. 

We toured the area, the bunkers, and the small towns, learning about landing strategy and Eisenhour's plan to take the north coast of France by way of the English Channel. We visited the beach and took some time to walk the sand before Adrian suggested we take a short hike. By hike, what Adrian meant was for us to climb the valleys to the top of the landing, through the sand. "It'll give you a small glimpse..." he said. So we hiked. Adrian said little and left us to drive to the top where he would wait for us to make the climb. We were not scaling the cliffs as many of our troops did that day. But we took the route of the valleys, deep sand that provided downhill beach access from the top. We walked the sand traps in good weather, with no threats, and no weight - and that alone was a challenge to reach the place where Adrian was waiting. But the exercise was a humbling realization of what was possible on that fateful day in June of 1944. Back in class, my students continue to watch in quiet observance. And I watch in emotional silence of what I remember, and what I imagine. Finally, as the aerial footage draws back and zooms out, one small voice whispers,  "That's a long way to run." 

I press pause on the video of aerial footage and we move on to the lesson at hand. We open our books and turn to the lesson questions, and question #3 stands out. "Predict what might have happened if Germany had defeated Britain." Student after student comes to my desk to ask for help with this particular question because they aren't sure how to create a prediction about a war they know so little about. So I play out the scenarios for them, painting a picture of what might've happened globally if the Allies had lost the war. I use erasers and paper clips to symbolize the Allies and the Axis powers so students can visualize in a small way, just how terrible it might have been if the outcome had been different. And if the Allies had lost, where would that leave the United States?

Of the 73,000+ troops who landed on the beaches of Normandy, 11% of them were causalities, either by death, injury, or disappearance. If that 11% extended to every landing craft then of the 36 men that arrived on a boat together, approximately 4 from each boat would be injured, missing, or dead. 

In truth, this is not about D-Day. It is more about the willingness to do whatever was needed to achieve a goal that would benefit humanity and protect our country, and serve a greater purpose, at any cost. It is about sacrifice. It is about selflessness. Is it about "We won't surrender. We won't back down." And it is certainly about more than just D-Day. 

June 6, 1944, English Channel

Even if I can swim, I know my legs will want to collapse, but my adrenalin will keep me upright for a while longer. I look ahead, 300 yards to go. I wait for footing, until the weight of my pack is not lightened the buoyancy of surging water. Waves push me forward, and then draw me back. I am off balanced and water logged and each wave that pushes over my head tries to drown me and wash me back out to sea. I slosh through the water, gaining ground, knowing that the threat only intensifies from here. My boots grab sand and I push my legs harder, determined. I know what my goal is. I know the plan and the execution. What I don't know is what happens to me in the next 300 yards as we engage in a full scale assault on body - mind - and soul. Many will make the run across the beach front to the cliffs and meet the Germans head on. 

Many will not. 

July 15, 2022 - Normandy

We finished our day in Normandy with grateful hearts. We made one last stop at the American Cemetery, the national cemetery that sits behind the rocky cliff above Omaha Beach. It was quiet, beautiful, peaceful. While there, we learned that the American Cemetery was granted to the United States in perpetuity. It belongs to the American people even though it is not American soil. But Omaha Beach, it belongs to the French. And the French have given it life again, allowing families to visit and play and swim and spend their days making beautiful memories once again. Our tour was complete and our hearts were full of humble thoughts. We loaded the tour van up and exited the cemetery parking area. And Adrian speaks up, "I think we'll take one last drive past the beach... so you can see the tide going out." I was sitting in the front passenger seat opposite of Adrian at this point. And we make the silent drive down the paved road parallel to the beach front. Adrian didn't need to tell us what we were looking at. We were looking at mid tide, not low tide. The expanse of beach that stretched before us and out into the English Channel was enormous. It was shocking. It left us speechless, mouths suspended in mid-thought as we all visualized our troops making the run across that open land under enemy fire. They ran in wet clothes, through hip deep water, with packs that weighed almost as much as each of those young men. They did it as the enemy shot at each and every one of them. They ran until they reached the cliff, or until they fell. 

The day we saw the beach changed us. And as I think about it, I think in awe of the capacity of a human being to take on that challenge and that commitment, to place oneself in harm's way, to commit their life to the cause knowing the odds were never in their favor. And I believe that it must have taken a measure of faith that many people do not understand, until they do. Those men had to have known incredible faith. To look at 700 yards of beach, face relentless waves and gun fire and to run for the purpose that lay ahead. There was no staying on the boat. There was no retreat. There was only victory. And it was there - up ahead - on the far side of the beach, up the cliff and beyond the gunfire. It didn't come before then. It didn't appear mid wave or in the shallow water of a peaceful day. 

Victory was there, behind the enemy line. 

It would be easy to look at everyone's situation and attempt to match it for equality comparison. But that wouldn't be fair, or right. Each of has our own understanding or experience that lends collateral to what challenges we can and will face. We simply cannot compare our circumstances to another's or fault them because they don't have the same trials ahead of them. Comparison robs us of walking in our calling because we are occupied with weighing ourselves against others. And fault does not exist because others have not had to endure the same hardship. 

However, we must allow ourselves to be pushed, to be challenged, to find our victory that lies on the other side of the most difficult trials. We must be willing to face the enemy and the challenges head on. Because a certain type of victory exists once we conquer them - and a certain type of anointing rests upon us when we do. 

Victory is never mediocre. It is the evidence of relentless perseverance and committed pursuit. It is the reward for the endurance, the purpose for the suffering. It is the triumph over what has tried to defeat us and the faith that good will win over evil, but not without one hell of a fight. 

At times, it will be about war. 

But often, it will be about healing - physical, mental, or emotional. It will be about the freedom from poverty, the liberation of trauma, or the escape from bondage. 

You will have a calling on your life that will crush you at times. It will require a sacrifice that feels like an undoing. It will push you and at times - it might break you. It will require a level of dedication and devotion that you will have to renew over and over again. At the least, it will cost you. 

Whatever victory you pursue will come with a battle you must win. No victory worth pursuing came easily. It will be a long way to run - but worth every step, for you, and generations to come.