The Voice

I woke up this morning feeling sorry for myself.

See, I had a late night of travel last night, followed by what seemed to be a very short night’s sleep, and this morning my 2 year old daughter woke me with some very loud 2 year old noises. In my foggy state, I had one of those “…this is the one morning in the past blah blah days I’m trying to sleep in…” thoughts. I staggered around the corner into the kitchen to make sure nobody was injured, as the noises supported the notion that someone was being hung by their heels and used as a punching bag. What I found instead was my wonderful wife making breakfast for us with a 5 year old “helping”, and a toddler clinging to her leg tearfully petitioning for increased responsibility and/or attention.

I was still in a haze, so I turned around and headed back to the bedroom to wean myself into a waking state by making the bed. As I put pillows in their place, I listened to my family. So much noise, coming from such small bodies. Noise. Voices. Folding the blanket back on itself, I was struck with the thought of how many men and women have voluntarily suspended the luxury of hearing their children’s voices in the morning in order to protect me and my family. This thought quickly brings me to one where I think of the many children, spouses and parents who will never again hear the voice of a father, husband, wife, mother, son, daughter… the list goes on. All for my freedom.

Something brings me back to the moment, and I now listen to my daughter’s voice with new ears. I go from one far away place to another, and picture her years from now… expressing herself with a voice all her own. A voice that has an audience. A message that isn’t subdued, an opinion shared without fear of reprise. What privilege. When I think it through and follow the thread of her freedom back to its source, I find myself in the same place as before: with a family who’s given up a loved one, a patriot who has paid the ultimate sacrifice. There are those fortunate enough to come home, and those who never do. I listen for the voice of those who have fought and died, strain to capture something, and all I hear is … Nothing. They are silent. Or are they?

I hear something. A small voice, almost imperceptible… weak, but growing stronger. My knees go weak as I realize that I am truly listening to the voice of those who have sacrificed themselves for the rest of us. It dawns on me that it was always here, and will go on long after I am gone.

 It is the voice of my daughter.

To those who have dedicated their lives so that I might raise my children in a free world… I say thank you.

And to those who traded in their voice so that my daughter may have hers for years to come, I say this: You above all of us have earned the right to be heard. And so you will. You will not be forgotten. I will not take my freedom for granted, and will do my best to raise her in a manner that honors your memory. She will know why she has a voice, and will be raised to use it. Her voice will have an audience; her message will not be subdued; her opinion shared without fear of reprise.

You will be heard.

© Joshua Dufek, 2012