In my upbringing, I
was never told many stories which struck me as profound or changed me in any
major way. Most of the stories that I
was told involved my parents as kids or young adults getting into mischief or
having mischief thrown their way, unwittingly.
Often times these stories are short, possibly incorrectly remembered, and have no
real moral or lead one to think more deeply on the topic. However, there is one account which led me to
realize something profound.
I’d never met my great grandparents on either
side of the family. On my mom’s side, I
really have no idea who they might have been or what they were like and not a
word was spoken of them. On my dad’s side,
my great grandparents are very well documented.
I was shown pictures of them at an early age, and it was explained to me
that I had “great” grandparents. I
clearly didn’t understand this concept, since I bragged to my brother about how
cool I was for having an extra set of grandparents that he didn’t have. As always, he pointed out everything wrong
with what I had just said.
My great grandpa’s last name was Van
Bibber. I don’t recall his first name,
oddly enough. I know that he was tall,
and I know that he was my grandma’s father.
I hear that he was a really great guy.
Knowing how my grandma was, he must have had a strong personality. In fact, he most certainly had a strong mind
and spirit. He was a World War I
veteran. Even the love letters between
him and my great grandma when he was serving are still intact.
The only story I can remember being told about
him was that he had received a medal, and had been regarded as a war hero. The medal he had received was for a feat that
he had very little chance of surviving.
The story goes is that a group of soldiers was pinned down in a trench
and had exhausted their ammunition. In a
last effort to turn the tide, complete their task and walk away with their
lives, a request for ammunition was made.
My grandpa, specializing in communications, was the only person who was
available to bring them more. With as
much as he could physically carry without slowing him down to the brink of
being an easy target, he ran as fast as he could to the trench in which they
were pinned. He was fired upon by
riflemen, as well as a manned machine gun.
To further explain the significance, it’s nothing short of a miracle
that he made it to that trench at all, let alone back the way he came. I wish I knew the entire story, but this was
all that anyone could recount.
The entire point made here is that this person
who I know so little of is the only reason that I was even born. In that moment which the dirt around him
kicked up as he ran for his life, all it would have taken was one successful
shot. Mind you, this is not the only
instance. My own dad was in Vietnam, and
once again, war is probably the most dangerous place you can be. To expand upon the thought even further,
there are ancestors who I am directly descended from who have survived things
just like this. Of course, I’m not the
only one. If you are reading this, you
can guarantee that the same goes for you as well.
Everyone who is alive and well today is a
walking miracle when you think about things in this fashion. We aren’t talking centuries, here. We’re talking about millennia. From the beginning of time all the way up
until now, a single person missing from your family tree would have decisively
ended everything which came after them.
There are stories for each one of them, too. I’ve
always believed that everything happens for a reason, and that everything is
exactly as it was meant to be. While I
can’t speak for everyone, I can speak for myself. If I wasn’t intended to be here, I most
definitely wouldn’t be.
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