The Gift of Choice

One of the greatest gifts many of us enjoy in life is our ability to choose our own path — the gift of choice. Each Memorial Day reminds me that the gift of choice was not afforded to everyone who came before us. Some people had those choices interrupted, redirected, or sacrificed entirely so that later generations could live with freedoms they themselves did not fully get to enjoy.

This is the story of my paternal grandfather, Morris Harris, and the deep sense of gratitude I feel because of his story, especially each Memorial Day. My grandfather was valedictorian of his class. He was sharp, energetic, and seemed to have a bright future with a wide range of possibilities ahead of him. But on December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and he quickly found himself thrust into intense combat in World War II.

Morris was a bazooka man in Patton’s Third Army, the 95th Infantry Division, better known as the “Iron Men of Metz,” for their fierce, tenacious house-to-house fighting to liberate and defend the heavily fortified French city of Metz. The Germans held the city and were under strict orders from Adolf Hitler to hold it “at all costs,” making it one of the most grueling and costly engagements for the U.S. Army during the war. The 95th Infantry Division spearheaded the final push, and after intense resistance, they successfully liberated the city.

Shortly thereafter, my grandfather was badly wounded in combat by mortar shrapnel, and he was medically discharged from the Army. I still remember stealing looks at his wound as a young child, three and a half decades later, under the breakfast table while he read the newspaper. His lower leg was heavily grafted, scarred, and permanently deformed. I later learned he had undergone 13 different surgeries to repair his leg, and even though my uncles would often say he could outrun most people while still on his crutches, the physical pain and lasting wound could never compare to the leg he once had.

But the physical wounds of the war paled in comparison to the mental ones. I learned that shortly after returning home, he had to enter a mental health facility for an extended period. My dad, as a young child himself, remembers the family going there on weekends to see him, not fully understanding his absence from their home.

Many years later, when I pieced together the various parts of his story, I felt overwhelmed by the unforeseen circumstances that changed the very trajectory of his life, with so little choice on his part. He represents a generation impacted by the war, where sacrifices were made not only on the battlefield, but also at home. Sacrifices that would endure for years, even after the successful conclusion of the war.

Each time I feel moved by my grandfather’s story, I work hard to channel that emotion into both gratitude for my choices and intention as it relates to those choices. How can I be more present for my family and friends? How can I ensure my choices reflect my intentions? How can I be more generous with those who have not been afforded as much choice as I have?

As I think about my grandfather’s story each Memorial Day, I know there are countless other stories, many of which involved someone never making it back home. And for those who did, many returned carrying wounds, some visible and some invisible. Many had their futures permanently altered by circumstances well beyond their control, affecting their plans, their families, and the choices available to them.

That is what makes Memorial Day so moving to me. It is about remembering that the freedoms, routines, and choices many of us take for granted were made possible by people who were not afforded the same gift of choice.

As I reflect, I feel both sadness and gratitude. Sadness for what my grandfather endured and for the life he might have chosen under different circumstances. Gratitude for what his sacrifice, and the sacrifices of so many others, made possible for the generations that followed.

Memorial Day reminds me that choice is not something to take lightly. It is a gift. And one of the best ways I can honor those who sacrificed so much is to live my own life with deeper gratitude, greater intention, and a stronger respect for the freedoms that gave me the gift of choice.