Meant to do

“This is what you were meant to do.”

It was said to me this week, twice. I said it to someone, once. And meant it.

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I’ve written in this space quite a few times about the magic of the fallen hero project. Saying these names, researching these lives, watching kids make connections to the past; it charges the atmosphere. It electrifies particles. It brings things back for people, and brings people back for people. It heals.

Ever since the Blade article ran a couple weeks ago, and was reprinted in the Dayton paper, I’ve been getting a lot of calls. Some are vets. Some are vet’s kids. Some are interested members of the community. They send things; lots of books about the war, and from the war. One lady sent doll furniture a relative made in a POW camp. A flag. A uniform hat. Some medals.

Sometimes they send something less tangible, yet more real.

Thursday, Hazel in our main office put a call through to my classroom from a lady whose dad had attended Waite, but left early to join the Army in World War II. She was wondering if I could help him get his diploma.  As I talked with her, it didn’t sound promising. She could give me her dad’s name and birthday, but nothing as far as company, regiment, division, much less serial number.

I told her this wasn’t my first rodeo with diplomas, and that there’s a process we have to follow, and it takes a while. She was totally cool with that. I hung up with her, and promised to call back at the end of next week to get the ball rolling. On a whim, I decided to go over to our records office and pull his permanent file – yes, they exist. And one of the myriad awesome things about Waite is that they exist going back nine decades, and they exist in the building.

I’d post a pic of this transcript, but I’m afraid even 75 years on, that might be a FERPA violation. At the bottom of the transcript are notations in red that I’d never seen on a transcript before, “4 sem credits for basic trg,” “1 sem credit Investigator 301 under British supervision,” and then the gobstopper: “Graduated Oct. 1, 1945.”

So, I thought, story over. He got it. He forgot about it.

Except he didn’t. I’ll spare the details, but Hazel put me in touch with a lady at the Board, who put me in touch with a man at the BGSU archives, and he pulled the Board minutes from the fall of 1945. Sure as hell, there’s our guy listed with a bunch of other veterans, whose diplomas were granted… but not necessarily delivered. I went from my classroom to my principal’s office to see if maybe we could get the gentleman in our graduation ceremony on June 5, and he said, without a blink, let’s do it.

Just a half hour after I told this lady I’d be back in touch with her in a week to start the process, the process was essentially done, except for one small detail: He has to say yes. So Wednesday morning, we’re meeting with this man – this HERO – to ask him to do one more courageous act in a lifetime full of them. As I learned in records I scoured from NARA last night, he was taken prisoner by the Germans at Kasserine Pass, survived a grueling trek north to Stalag IIB in Prussia, endured two years in that work camp, and then pulled through a three MONTH forced march of 14 miles a day as the Germans tried to keep the prisoners ahead of the advancing Red Army. Will he take a 100-yard walk to accept a diploma, and send a more powerful message to our seniors than any speech could ever convey? That’s the one remaining question.

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When I called the daughter with the news we could make graduation happen this week, near the end of the call she told me “God’s telling me to tell you that you’re doing what you’re meant to do.”

Independent of that, in the main office this morning, Hazel told me, “You’re doing what you’re meant to do.”

Same words.

Same source.

Same magic.

Same tears.

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There is a spirit that moves through this project. I don’t mean this in an intangible way. I mean that the spirits of Paul Boyle, Willard Begel, John Kulp, Joey Vanasky, Budd Frazier are quite literally (and yes, I know what literally means) moving through this project, moving through us.  I’ve talked about this with a good friend. We both feel it. I know others feel it, too.

THEY are the ones doing what they’re meant to do, right now,right here, seven decades after death.  Is there an afterlife? You tell me.

THEY are moving me. THEY are moving these kids through the Fallen Hero projects. THEY drive a woman to call the school after she sees a piece on the 5:30 news. THEY spur a 70-year-old lady in Springfield, Ohio to send me a soldier’s French-English phrase dictionary.

I found myself wondering this week: If I were healthy, if I were cured, what would I do with this? Find a way to teach the WWII class all day? Go full time helping people find their relatives' stories - and fix their histories? Where are THEY leading me with this?

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This morning, a colleague and friend asked how, on the last day of regular classes, I liked my first year at Waite. I couldn’t help but to smile.

I thought I came over for my reasons. And on some level, I did. But I think I came over for THEIR reasons, too. I don't think I could do it anywhere but here.

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We are all called to something greater than ourselves, all of us, something big that we can’t even understand sometimes. Something that excites us. Moves us. Makes us part of something. Sometimes it's hard to hear that call.

This morning, one of the greatest men I know, who was a student my first couple years at Rogers, was sworn in as a Toledo Firefighter. He’s always had a passion for what they do, and the brotherhood of the firehouse, and the call to serve and save.

I got to see him for only a couple minutes before I had to get back to school. I told him the only thing I could think of. That THEY could think of.

You’re doing what you’re meant to do.