When the idea of participating in “Rolling Thunder” was first given to me, I knew it was something I wanted to participate in.  An event that I belonged at, but there were doubts.  Two weeks before I would be driving to Washington, D. C. to pick my daughter up from school.  Then there was the cost issue, and vacation time I would use to make the run.  So I let the pro and cons roll though my mind to see what the Holy Spirit would have me do.  The answer came at a secular club fundraiser.  While chatting with some fellow riders, a couple walked past me making their way to a table.  She was wearing a black satin baseball jacket with a map of Vietnam and an inscription on each side that read: “He left to fight in Vietnam.”  Then on the other side it read, “My fight is with the Vietnam left in him.”  As I read the words I sensed the Holy Spirit focusing my thoughts on “Rolling Thunder” again.  I knew I was to make the run to the Wall.  So I stepped out on faith that the negatives would be taken care of and prepared to ride.

 Two other bikes, a couple from my CMA Chapter and the President from a local secular club and I rode the 700 mile trip to Washington.  On the morning of the event we prayed and asked God to guide us to those He would have us share with and give us the words He had for them.  We arrived at the north parking lot of the Pentagon and took our place in what was a massive gathering of bikes and riders that would culminate in more than 250,000 motorcycles.  As we pulled out, the procession went past the large white CMA backdrop with the drawing “One on One” of the CMAer embracing a tearful biker and the inscription “WE’RE HERE IF YOU NEED US.” I had no way of knowing that in just a few short hours that illustration would take on a whole new meaning to me.  The procession moved across the Memorial Bridge riding straight at the Lincoln Memorial, up Independence Ave with its view of the Jefferson Memorial.  We crossed in front of the Capital Building, and on down Constitution Ave to find a parking place on the grass across the street from the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial.  We walked to the Memorial and began working our way down the pathway in front of the black granite panels bearing the names of over 58,200 of my generation, one my cousin, one a former classmate, others I had served with. 

 I had been to the Wall many times before and each visit was an emotional experience.  I knew what it was to be a veteran of that war and visit the Wall, so I watched for others who were experiencing the same kind of emotions.  I looked in the eyes of my fellow veterans and bikers as we moved with the sea of humanity.  A man was finishing his rubbing of the name of a fallen comrade or perhaps a brother or other family member.  I looked in his eyes and saw his struggle holding his tears back and placed my hand on his shoulders, “Lord Bless you brother” I told him.  His eyes smiled through the tears, a nod of thank you to replace the words that would not come out.

 I found my cousin’s name, and touched it as I do every trip.  We reached the center of the black V and moved up the East Side of the Wall.  I saw a woman making a rubbing and stopped to watch her.  Then I noticed a rider every bit of 6’2” and 250 lbs standing next to her starring down the line of people moving along the inclined pathway.   I looked at his vest and a shinny brass pin he was wearing jumped out at me, “K9,” indicating he had been a military dog handler.  I touched his pin and said, “K9 ah?”

 “Ya.”

“Me too,” I responded.

 He put out his and as did I and grasped it in a firm handshake of brotherhood.  As our hands gripped one another he threw his arms around me in a firm embrace and all the emotions he had been trying to control and hold back broke lose and poured out of him like water through an open floodgate.  He began sobbing.

“It’s okay brother,” I reassured him.  “God loves you, Jesus loves you.”  “Let it go,” I told him.  “It’s okay, it happens to me every time I come here,” I continued saying to comfort him as tears rolled from my own eyes.  “God loves you,” I told him one more time. 

When he exhausted what he had been holding up inside, he released his hold looked at me, nodded as he could not say anything, and moved on up the line to his waiting friends. 

 There amid hundreds of people God miraculously brought two men together who had never met before, one wearing a denim vest with a brass pin, and a red and white bandana, the other a leather vest with CMA colors, and provided a healing release of emotions.  Two men, whose bond was a common experience in a war.  Both had known what it was to stand guard at the outer perimeter of a military base or walk point on a patrol through the jungle.  Both served teamed with a dog as the first point of defense, the first contact with the enemy.  Both had known what it was to stand in harms way putting greater trust in their dog, than in their own instincts for their survival.  Two simple words instantly identified one with the other, “Me too.”

As I spent the remainder of the day viewing the monuments and memorials, a sculpture of nurses dedicated to women who served, and the three soldiers facing the wall in search of their comrades I continued looking for other opportunities to reach out to others, but I also kept thinking of my “one on one” experience.  I thought of the illustration on the backdrop and marveled at how I had now experienced it.  The enemy tried to defeat the moment telling me I failed because I did not share Jesus with him, I did not ask him if he wanted to ask Jesus in to his heart, but I refused to allow the enemy to steal the blessing God had granted me.  I knew the fellow veteran the had received the words and support God wanted for him at that moment in time for they flowed from me without thought as though they were coming through me not from me.  God had used me to carry that singular important message, that God loves him.