Encouragement

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The Young Vet
© 2009

by

Stephen A. Peterson


It was a cold winters day in Oklahoma City during the final week of January, 2009. Gary England, the most respected weatherman in Central Oklahoma, predicted severe, snowy storms for the area. As Oklahomans nervously recalled the ice storms of 2007, many seemed prepared to go home the minute any form of moisture appeared. Just shortly after 1:00 PM in the afternoon, very light particles of ice or snow began falling.

“It’s started,” announced a woman’s voice. “I’m going home. I live in Spencer. I’m not taking any chances. It’s only twenty or twenty-five miles away but I want get home before the nuts hit the road.” So she put on her hat, then her coat and was out the door as she had said she would do. I did the same within a matter of minutes when more snow like particles began falling.

As I drove south on Classen Boulevard trying beat an ever growing number of cars, I noticed a Native American looking, short bearded man standing on the street between 10th and Classen holding up a sign. On his sign was written: “Need Ride To Rescue Mission”. Although the stop light at the intersection had turned green, traffic, for some very strange reason, had come to a complete stop. Replacing the powdery mist was freezing rain.

“Oh, brother!” I thought. I was nearly forty-five miles from home with the worst weather of the season about to start. As the rain continue to fall, the man’s efforts to get a ride seemed to intensify. Shortly, the man’s short beard was glazed by the precipitation of the winter storm. The wait for me and him seemed endless—he suffering the winter elements; I, the fear of having to drive on slick, hazardous streets and roads to get home. Still after ten minutes, there was no movement. Then finally movement—a couple of feet! Traffic was still tied up. The man was now moving from car to car north on Classen Boulevard he was now putting his homemade, cardboard box card in front of car windshields in a desperate attempt to get a ride.

Car, after car, after car began moving slowly across the intersection leaving him behind. Now shaking, he watched as another car turned east on Tenth Street without stopping to see if the intersection had cleared. He came up to my car putting his sign over the windshield. At first, I was angry that this brash person should do such an act. But then I came to understand his desperation. He signaled for me to roll down my window. I did so more to give him a piece of my mind then to hear what he had to say.

“Mister, can I please have a ride to the Rescue Mission, please! I don’t think I can make it. I’m not feeling too well either!”

I wasn’t sure about this. The first thought in my mind was the possible dangers of picking up a complete stranger on this side of Oklahoma City. It is known for vagrants, substance abuse users, and criminals in general even though St. Anthony Hospital was two blocks away. Seeing the man was very cold, shivering and wearing a very thin jacket, I replied; “Get in, but let me move my stuff to the back seat.”

“Thanks,” he responded once again. “Can you take me to the Rescue Mission? Its downtown. Straight ahead. I’ll show you. Do you know where it is?”

“Yep,” I said. “If this traffic will just move along.”

“You’re a Native American vet? So am I! Dessert Storm. I finished my enlistment four month ago and I can’t find work. It seems they don’t want to hire vets. Ain’t that odd!”

“You, bet!” I responded half heartedly.

“I’m Cheyenne-Arapaho. What tribe?”

“Seminole.” I responded. “You’re mighty young. How old are you anyway.”

“I’m 23. I thought I would leave the Army and get a job outside the Army real easy but that ain’t so. For the last four months I’ve been to the employment office on Walker everyday but I still can’t get myself a long term job. I’ve gotten some one day jobs that give me a few dollars but, shoot; I spend that money on food. At times, I eat pretty good. Other days its cheese and crackers or just bread and lunchmeat.”

“Did you every consider getting back into the Army or maybe going back home?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m thinking of going back into the Army but I can’t go home. I don’t have any home to go to. I was a foster kid. When I turned 18, they just opened the door and let me fend for myself. I took odd jobs until I decided to join the Army. I did okay. I stayed out of trouble. I made it to E-4, a Specialist, before I left. I just want to get a civilian job. Get some money. Maybe someday own my own business. I got plans.”

“You’re mighty ambitious,” I said response.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve got enough desire to get what I want. I’ll get there too. In one of the foster homes I was in taught me to pray, with, hope and be patient. God is out there and, I believe, putting me to the test.”

I thought to myself: “Wow, this is a remarkable young man! Something is wrong with this picture. If this kid is this enthusiastic someone could see this kid’s potential and give him the opportunity to obtain a job.”

Finally, the intersection was cleared and the traffic light changed to green permitting me to head south towards the Rescue Mission. Normally, an under two mile drive that would take twelve to fifteen minutes, this drive nearly took forty minutes to accomplish with all of the tie ups.

As we neared the Rescue Mission, I had to ask this remarkable young man a final question: “Why didn’t you throw your sign against the windshields of the cars in front of me? Why me?”

“Well, when I saw your cap with the words ‘Native Veteran” on it, I figured you wouldn’t let a brother down. I felt you see a soldier just like me. I also saw compassion in your eyes. The other drivers weren’t Native American, or a vet, or friendly looking. You were. I knew you wouldn’t say ‘no’.”

The young vet’s comments were surprising but graciously and humbly accepted. As he left the car to enter the Rescue Mission and a warm bed for the evening, I handed him the remaining change I had in my black coin holder. The amount of money really didn’t amount to much—probably no more than $4.73. “This isn’t much. I hope and pray your fortunes change. And here’s one of my cards. Call me if things don’t change for you. I can talk to someone who might be able to help you.”

“Thanks, I will. But I’m thinkin’ things will get better. I’m just going through a test. I believe God is goin’ take care of me. I’m gonna be okay. And just so you know, it’s gonna take you five hours to get home. You’ll be okay, too! Thanks for everything.” With that statement, he disappeared behind the door of the Rescue Mission.

As I struggled up the entrance ramp to I-40, I had to laugh at the young vet’s prediction of a five hour trip to Shawnee. I eventually made it home after sliding down the highway, being ditched momentarily near the Harrah exit and nearly spinning out of control at a stop light down Harrison Street in Shawnee only 3 ½ miles from home. When I unlocked the door of my house, it had taken me exactly five hours to make it home—not one minute under, not one minute over. The young vet was correct!

Although I gave him one of my business cards, I have yet to hear from him after nearly five months. I suspect he got a well deserved job or returned to the military. Either way, I believe, someone got a remarkable young man as an employee or the military as a service personnel who will serve this great nation with honor and distinction.

Before we parted ways, I learned two very important lesson from the young vet. First, not every person on the streets and without is a potential threat to society. Some are just down on their luck and need a helping hand. Second, that this nation, the United States of America, needs to view our military men and women as the heroes and heroines that they are. There is absolutely no reason why the men and women who have put their lives, families and honor for the protection of the freedoms and liberties of this nation should be treated so abhorrently!

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