Do Good Things

At a breakfast gathering recently, a group of local veterans and supporters gathered to plan an app that would connect veterans and communities. It was an exciting venture. I was happily surprised to see Ron—an old friend and a Vietnam veteran.

I’d first met Ron years ago when he joined a group of mostly Vietnam-era veterans going through my Ladder UPP program. Ron had been to hell and back, losing many friends in the war. With little hope of making it out alive, he’d made a promise to God: if he survived, he’d spend his life doing good.

Ron did survive, but coming home wasn’t easy. Promises made in foxholes don’t erase the scars of war. The demons of Vietnam stayed with him, and he tried drowning them in alcohol. It only made things worse.

As he wrestled with despair, life threw him a lifeline. He got married and soon had a son. Both were blessings, though he admitted, smiling, “It was so easy with my boy. He’d go to bed, sleep through the night, and never wake up crying.”

But even with his family, the darkness lingered. One night, the weight became too much. Alone in his truck, he drove to a quiet spot by the reservoir. It was late, the kind of place where no one would hear a thing. On the seat beside him was a handgun. In his hand, a can of Schlitz.

With the windows down, he drank, wept, and let the pain wash over him. The war, the loss, the guilt—it all boiled to the surface. When he finally reached for the gun, he took one last swig and prepared to end it.

Then he was startled by a voice in the darkness—a baby crying. Loud, insistent, and echoing through the dark. He couldn’t see a house, couldn’t find the source, but the sound was undeniable. It reminded him of his son. Of his boy who slept so peacefully.

He couldn’t kill that boy’s father.

The cry jolted him sober. He threw the gun aside, started the truck, and drove home. It was late—well past midnight—but as he pulled into the driveway, he noticed the kitchen lights were on. He knew he’d turned them off before he left. His wife must be waiting up for him, he thought.

She was.

“Ron, where have you been?” she asked, her tone concerned. “The strangest thing happened. The baby woke up crying. He never does that. Just before you drove up, he stopped. Where were you?”

“Just out for a drive,” Ron said, brushing her off. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

She watched him, puzzled. “Can you believe it? He woke me up. That never happens.”

Ron muttered something under his breath and went to bed. He was better, but still alone with his secret.

For forty years, Ron carried that night with him, telling no one. Until the day he shared it during our Ladder UPP meeting. His voice cracked as he spoke about the mysterious cry that saved him. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. That night at the reservoir became a story of salvation, a moment of redemption.

Since then, I’ve carried Ron’s story with me. In moments of doubt, when I’ve felt the weight of life’s battles, I’ve remembered the cry of that unseen baby. I’ve thought of Ron’s promise, his words simple but profound:

“Just do good.”

Miracles happen. Keep hope alive. Your struggle is worth it.