Thursdays with John
Each Thursday, I sit next to John Englund. He’s 101 years old! A Marine from World War II and Korea. I meet him at Richard’s Coffee Shop in downtown Mooresville, where veterans gather each week to drink coffee, tell stories, and remember. I have the honor of volunteering as the chaplain there, which mostly just means I get to listen, pray when asked, and sit in the company of giants. (If you’re in this part of NC, come visit!)
His name is spelled with a U, not an A. Englund. He told me is a Scandinavian spelling. Funny enough, that’s where some of my own family roots trace back. My grandmother on my father’s side was born there.
John told me he was in the Marianas campaign during WWII and he was about 20 years old at the time. That’s where Marines landed on Saipan on June 15, 1944. D-Day in the Pacific. The goal was to secure islands close enough to Japan so B-29 bombers could reach the mainland. Saipan fell by July 9. Guam followed in August. Those victories turned the tide of the war.
Picture it. Over 125,000 Marines and soldiers. Six hundred ships steaming toward shore. Naval and aerial bombardments. Then boots on sand, climbing coral ridges and fighting through dense jungle and caves. Tens of thousands died. On Saipan alone, more than 3,000 Americans and nearly 8,000 civilians lost their lives. Guam wasn’t much different.
I’ve been reading The Mosquito Bowl, a book about a group of young Marines who were also college football players. They played one final game on Guadalcanal before heading to Okinawa. Many of them never made it home. I asked John if he’d ever heard of it. He hadn’t. But he was familiar with the exploits of those Marine units. He lived through the same war, just on a different island, in a different chapter of the same brutal story.
That book stirred something in me. Not because of the football, but because it helped me see John more clearly. While those young men were finding a few hours of escape before heading into the fire, John was already there. Landing on Saipan. Advancing through Guam. Carrying the same burden they would soon face.
Yet here he is today. Standing to salute the flag every Thursday. He asks me to lock his rollator so he can stand up straight and he does it on his own. He remembers dates and places with stunning clarity. He remembers his wife of 78 years, that’s right, 78 years! He met her after the war at a card game. She didn’t know how to play, so he taught her. They were married in 1947.
He stayed in the reserves and got called up to go to Korea a few years later. Imagine that?
John told me he has a still too. Told me he and a family member make fortified wine at home. “Purple in, clear out, about 80 proof,” he said with a grin. “I like to mix a little bourbon with it.” I nearly spit out my coffee. He even showed me a picture of it on his phone. Yes, an iPhone that he knows how to use.
He doesn’t talk much about Korea or the hard days in the Pacific. I don’t push. He did tell that he spent some time in Japan after the war and in peacetime he met a Japanese soldier at a local store who had served in China. They actually became friends. Isn’t that something we could learn from today. Two men once ordered to kill each other, sharing stories of their lives. A stunning contrast and an allusion of what might be.
Some stories sit heavy, even after all these years. But he shows up. Every Thursday. Loves baked sweets! He also loves it when my wife Tammy comes and sits beside him too. He noticed today that she wasn’t wearing her glasses, he’s very observant!
He talks about the Methodist church he attends and one of his pastors stopped by to see him at Richard’s one week. John is a man of faith and it leaks out of him in joy and kindness.
When we leave Richard’s each week, I shake his hand look him square in the eye and say, “John, I’ll look forward to seeing you next week.” And every week he replies, “Well, if I’m lucky enough to make it another week, I’ll be here.”
He says it with a smile, he always says “One day at a time!” He’s right isn’t he.
Each time I do this I know it might be the last time I get to say it and see him, it’s meaningful. I wish I’d remember to do that with everyone every time.
We’re almost out of time with this generation. The ones who stood in the mud, fought in jungles, buried friends, set others free, came home, built our country, and kept showing up. They don’t ask for attention. They don’t post about it. They just live with quiet dignity.
And if we’re not paying attention, we’re going to miss something sacred.
If you’ve got a veteran in your life, take the time. Listen close. Let them talk if they want to talk. Sit beside them. You don’t need to ask for a story. Just be present.
Sometimes that’s more than enough.
And mercy don’t we need more folks who’ll actually listen to one another these days. If we do that we might actually make it as a country.
Thank you John for being my friend!
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