World War II, the Korean War, Vietnam – my father has been there, done that. I’ve sat around during family reunions and listened to the stories my father and uncles recount – some funny, some sad, some horrible.

You can debate the politics, you can debate the morality, you can debate the debate.

I remember, in the aftermath of 9/11, waking one morning and realizing I had never thanked my father for his service to this country and to me personally as his son and a citizen of this country. What I thought would be a simple thank you turned into one of the most difficult efforts at verbalization I have ever experienced. The upwelling of emotion left me sobbing.

I was aware that what I was feeling for my dad, I was feeling toward those firefighters, policemen and everyday Joes that sacrifice themselves to rescue and protect others from events and situations none of us really want to find ourselves in.

I think the word hero is overused in the media, but not in the hearts of those near and dear.

When I think of the word hero, I recall a story in USA Today – A woman recounted how she was fleeing the first collapsing Twin Tower, she was in danger of being injured by falling debris. A fireman threw her into a alcove and covered her with his body for protection. She could feel his heartbeat. When the immediate danger to her passed, he was gone – into the maelstrom, into the danger. She never saw his face, never was able to say thank you, doesn’t know if he lived through it all.

My father is a hero to this child – he went back and back and back. Some of his friends didn’t come back. Some of my high school friends didn’t either.

I’m just sitting here writing this, thinking about all of it and all of them. No glamor, no Hollywood – a lot of appreciation and still wishing that people could get along and none of us would ever have to pick up a gun.

Thanks Dad – and thank you to all who serve and those who have fallen.