(no subject)
In Charing Cross Station today, a man stood. He rattled a tin for charity, and his eyes pleaded with passers-by to donate. He even offered them a token, a symbol in return. Nothing much. But enough.
There are charities worldwide who need support, volunteers city wide, campaigning and collecting tirelessly on their behalf. What was it that made me stop today for this man?
It was not a pressing need to talk. Nor an abundance of time. Maybe it was the beret he wore proudly; its cloth showing the signs of care needed for something that has seen better days. Perhaps it was the blazer and tie he wore; the gold of the embroidery sparkling in the reflections of the lights.
But I think it was his demeanour. His eyes, hoping for change, that had seen so much. His shoulders, that had borne the load of many, still held back with pride. And yet, his humble asking, to help a cause worth fighting for.
You may not like the services, and think that overt militarism is bad and glorifies conflict. You might be disgusted by stories of training and brutality. You may not agree with war. You may argue that they are arranged by men who never see their horror, and that they are unjust. You may castigate the powers-that-be for sending troops in to harms' way, and weep over the results. You may not understand those who serve for not being able to stand up for the courage of their own convictions and say what they think. You may dislike or even hate those who serve. You may simply not understand.
But this week and next, perhaps you can find it within you to honour their sacrifice. Perhaps you can honour the men and women who take post and defend that freedom you cherish. Perhaps you can even find it within you to acknowledge your debt to those who serve and have served before. Perhaps you can spare a thought for those who died in that service, and remember that we honour them, no more.
This great man, a soldier and artilleryman in many wars, stood out on a cold concourse today to remind you what it is you are donating for. To protect the protectors of old. To help those who once served, and to cherish the memories for whom all help is lost.
This man asks for some change.
He gave of his life. His comrades gave all of theirs.
It's funny. Sometimes your life is touched by these people, and you remember them for the day, the week, or more. I explained to him I didn't have any change. I pushed the note I had in to his collection tin, and he smiled at me.
It was then he said something I cherished.
"Served, have you, sir?"
This old solider saw in me something of what I hoped I could be. He saw in me, perhaps, a glimmer of something that I respect. He paid me an honour beyond what I could hope for: put me on a par with those he respected and served with.
For him. For them all. I wear the poppy with pride.
There are charities worldwide who need support, volunteers city wide, campaigning and collecting tirelessly on their behalf. What was it that made me stop today for this man?
It was not a pressing need to talk. Nor an abundance of time. Maybe it was the beret he wore proudly; its cloth showing the signs of care needed for something that has seen better days. Perhaps it was the blazer and tie he wore; the gold of the embroidery sparkling in the reflections of the lights.
But I think it was his demeanour. His eyes, hoping for change, that had seen so much. His shoulders, that had borne the load of many, still held back with pride. And yet, his humble asking, to help a cause worth fighting for.
You may not like the services, and think that overt militarism is bad and glorifies conflict. You might be disgusted by stories of training and brutality. You may not agree with war. You may argue that they are arranged by men who never see their horror, and that they are unjust. You may castigate the powers-that-be for sending troops in to harms' way, and weep over the results. You may not understand those who serve for not being able to stand up for the courage of their own convictions and say what they think. You may dislike or even hate those who serve. You may simply not understand.
But this week and next, perhaps you can find it within you to honour their sacrifice. Perhaps you can honour the men and women who take post and defend that freedom you cherish. Perhaps you can even find it within you to acknowledge your debt to those who serve and have served before. Perhaps you can spare a thought for those who died in that service, and remember that we honour them, no more.
This great man, a soldier and artilleryman in many wars, stood out on a cold concourse today to remind you what it is you are donating for. To protect the protectors of old. To help those who once served, and to cherish the memories for whom all help is lost.
This man asks for some change.
He gave of his life. His comrades gave all of theirs.
It's funny. Sometimes your life is touched by these people, and you remember them for the day, the week, or more. I explained to him I didn't have any change. I pushed the note I had in to his collection tin, and he smiled at me.
It was then he said something I cherished.
"Served, have you, sir?"
This old solider saw in me something of what I hoped I could be. He saw in me, perhaps, a glimmer of something that I respect. He paid me an honour beyond what I could hope for: put me on a par with those he respected and served with.
For him. For them all. I wear the poppy with pride.