My friend Susan, who lives in Arizona, sent me an email recently about sending my dad’s army patches back to me.  I got them two days ago.

I pretty much had forgotten about them, about how they came into her possession, but they must have re-surfaced among her things and returning them to me was something she wanted to do.

Some years ago, I was scraping to make ends meet.  All too familiar with that situation, my friend had created several ways to generate extra money.  She performed typing from cassette tapes for wannabe authors and she sold things on EBay.

I thought she might be able to turn these WWII relics into cash by auctioning them off to a collector.  I’m not exactly sure how I ended up with them, how they didn’t end up in one my sisters’ basements.

I don’t know much about the years of my father’s service.  Not unusual for the time, I hear. He didn’t talk about his experience.

From what I understand, my father was drafted, cutting short his plans to pursue a career in law.

He was trained to be a medic and shipped off to serve in the Philippines.  He saw awful things that I can’t even imagine. He saw too many young men torn apart. Being charged with trying to put them back together took a toll on him.

He was awarded the purple heart.  I don’t know the details about a specific incident or battle.

It became a joke, of sorts, in our household.  Whenever me or one of my sisters was unhappy about something or felt cheated by the institutions or authorities that imposed rules on our lives, my dad would offer to fetch his medal from his top bureau drawer.

He’d feign sympathy and say…

Oh, that’s too bad.  Do you want my purple heart?

They were referred to as the greatest generation.  I don’t know if they had much choice.  They did their best in the situations they found themselves in.

I got wistful looking at my father’s army patches after slipping them out of the small bubble wrap reinforced envelope in which they crossed the country.

He achieved the rank of tech sergeant and returned to Chicago after his tour of duty.  He lived with his parents, got into his father’s business, then met my mother.  He didn’t go on to law school.

His acts of bravery were not over once he came back to Illinois.  He had job disappointments and health issues.  He lost a child in a car accident.  He had money and legal issues to deal with, based on associations, not because of personal failings.

In other words, he had to endure all sort of challenges – like people often do.  He did his best.

I had to think about where my mind was at when I packaged these family keepsakes to see if my friend could sell them for me.  I didn’t have much cash and the thought of asking my mother for financial help, which I had done many times, was painful.

I don’t think Susan could figure out a way to package these mementos for sale, or maybe she didn’t want to sell them.  I’m not sure why, but they stayed in Arizona for years.  And what would they have been worth to someone?

I realized how difficult some choices are when you’re strapped for money.  I have given a lot of thought lately to the hundreds of thousands of federal employees who are living without paychecks now.

Many family members are taking on part-time jobs.  Many, who have been self-sufficient most of their lives, have felt forced to ask their parents or neighbors or children for help.

People have had to choose between food and medicine or have had to postpone mortgage payments or paying off a school expense.

Others are looking through their possessions and deciding what they can part with that would be of value to someone else.

All these people – everyone who has had to make a hard choice, everyone who wants to work but finds limited opportunities, everyone who tries to take care of his needs and advocate for himself and others, everyone who tries do his best — touch me.  I’m grateful for the examples of their lives.

They all deserve purple hearts.

Knowing that life is a gift but living takes courage is no small thing.