thedrifter
12-23-07, 07:37 AM
Families of war victims somehow find hope at holidays
Web Posted: 12/23/2007 12:12 AM CST
Scott Huddleston
Express-News
José Galvan's headstone shines like tinsel when the sun is out.
It's adorned with a red wreath and a small tree bearing angels, bells and bows. His photo is perched on top.
Christmas colors fill part of Section 25 at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery. Relatives have left candy canes and holiday trinkets by the newest headstones. Dozens of San Antonio families who have lost a son, brother, husband or father in Iraq or Afghanistan seek comfort in the colors of the season.
Holiday memories are both an inspiration and a cold reminder that Christmas isn't what it used to be. Some families operate on autopilot. Others struggle to revive the joy and hope they know the holiday is supposed to bring.
Galvan's family members have been at both extremes in the past year. They plan to visit his grave on Christmas Eve. They'll talk to him, pray, maybe even turn on the battery-powered lights on his tree. His mother, Leticia Vega, said she feels she's keeping his spirit alive by decorating his headstone.
"It comforts me somehow, somewhat," she said.
Last year the family members went through the motions at Christmas.
They still were in shock six weeks after burying their son and brother, a 22-year-old Marine corporal who was killed in Iraq.
This year, they'll try to spend less time reminiscing about Galvan, who went by the name Joey, and rejoice a bit more. They'll observe Christmas in a different house, where they've lived for six months, in a rear den filled with his photos. By their tree is a portrait of Galvan, then 3, sitting in a wagon he got for Christmas.
His brother, Julian Vega, 17, now is in the same Junior ROTC corps Joey was in. Julian plans to marry and join the Air Force after he graduates, following somewhat in his late brother's footsteps, but in a safer form of military service. Galvan's sister, Valerie Vega, 11, puts candy and toy hotrods in his stocking and talks about her brother in heaven.
"We'll always keep the memories," said Jesse Vega, the stepdad who raised Galvan and now wears his dog tags.
The Vegas have reason to celebrate the life of their departed warrior, who as a member of an award-winning JROTC precision drill team at Holmes High School talked about joining the Marines. He was consumed with his passions: faith, duty, cars, rock music, wrestling, Hulk Hogan, Chuck Norris and carne guisada —his favorite dish.
Military officials have told the family that in activating the bomb that killed him in a sweep for explosives in Anbar province, he saved the lives of others. More stories
Spc. Lauro DeLeon III
With her daughter's help, Grace Lopez put poinsettias at her son's grave at Fort Sam and covered the back of his headstone with wrapping paper.
"To us, he was a gift given to us," she said.
It's been more than three years since a roadside bomb in Iraq killed her 20-year-old son, Spc. Lauro DeLeon III of Floresville. Things haven't gotten easier, she said.
For the past year, Lopez has been the pastor at Lakeview Baptist Church, a small West Side congregation that ministers to teens and parents, with a skateboard course in back. The church will serve dinner to neighbors on Christmas Day.
As part of her ministry, Lopez shares stories about her son.
"If I keep quiet, I'm holding it in," she said. "I praise God that he got the opportunity to do what he wanted."
Staff Sgt. Ray Rangel
On the holiest of days, others who have lost family members to the war in the Middle East have learned to rely on their faith to get through the Christmas season.
Federico Rangel is a Christian Pentecostal minister whose son, Air Force Staff Sgt. Ray Rangel, died in 2005 at 29, trying to save troops from a Humvee that overturned in a canal in Iraq.
The elder Rangel likes to remember their last Christmas together in 2003. The sergeant, a firefighter, wore a "big ol' smile" as his four young children opened gifts.
"It was like he was a kid again," Rangel said.
He and his wife have their daughters and grandchildren over for presents and lunch on Christmas Day. But it's not the same.
"We just pray more and ask God for strength," he said. "We enjoy each other, but we know mijo's not there."
He draws on faith that he'll see his son again someday. He remembers how proud he is of his son's sacrifice, and he encourages other grieving families to focus on happier days.
"He's up in heaven with my mom and dad. If it wasn't for God's love, and his mercy, we would've lost it a long time ago," Rangel said.
"Just think about the good times, and be thankful that God let us know our loved one," he said. "If you have children in your family, hug 'em, love 'em, let them know you're glad they're here."
Capt. Ernesto Manuel Blanco-Caldas
Having children helps but doesn't take away the pain, said Carmen Blanco-Pendergraff, younger sister of Capt. Ernesto Manuel Blanco-Caldas, killed in Iraq on Dec. 28, 2003, at age 28. Using the "E" from Ernesto and "ma" from Manuel, she named her newborn daughter Ema Grace Pendergraff-Blanco eight months ago.
If her brother were alive, there would be a huge family blowout at Christmas, with tequila shots, Shiner Bock beer and Ernie singing and playing guitar, she said. Everyone would watch "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation."
Instead, their Christmas gathering is small and subdued. Decorating her brother's grave is a higher priority than putting up a tree at home, she said. If not for their two boys, ages 6 and 9, she and her husband might not have one.
"If we could sleep from the day before Thanksgiving to January, we would," said Blanco-Pendergraff, 30.
She remembers the last photos of her brother, wearing a Santa hat in a mess hall in Fallujah on Christmas Day. She believes her brother, who once taught Bible lessons to teens at a local car wash, is preparing a spiritual home for her family.
"I hope that when we go to heaven, he'll be there to welcome us," she said. "For us, it is a source of comfort. But we're selfish, and we want him here. This year, we're looking for just something peaceful."
Lance Cpl. Jonathan Flores
At the grave of Marine Lance Cpl. Jonathan Flores, there's a small cherub on his headstone, miniature U.S. and Marine Corps flags, candy canes, Christmas trees and figurines from his favorite movie, "The Nightmare Before Christmas."
Dee Flores and her family have had to deal with the loss of their Marine, who at 18 was the youngest San Antonian killed in Iraq. More than two years after his death, they're nearly finished with a room devoted to his memory.
Flores and her husband painted "Jonathan's Room" in red, a color of the Marine Corps, and have their son's picture over the fireplace. They're putting gifts for their younger sons, both 18, and a 6-year-old nephew they're raising, under a Christmas tree in the room.
"They still get a gift 'from Jonathan,'" typically the first thing on their list, Flores said.
If given a choice of having him back, she said, she'd rather let him stay in heaven, "because I know he's safe."
"That's what gets me through," she said. "I don't have to worry. I know he's fine, and that I'll see him again."
Since 2001, 38 service members from San Antonio, 388 from Texas and more than 4,300 nationwide have died in the Middle East. For their families, Christmas can be daunting.
"The anxiety that leads you to the holiday is worse than the holiday itself," said Kim Smith, who heads a support group for families of the fallen.
Next month, her group members will share how they got through the holiday. This is Smith's fifth Christmas since a grenade killed her son, Army Pvt. Robby Frantz, in Iraq in 2003. She suggests families try new traditions if old ones are too depressing.
Leticia Vega has taken off work since the first anniversary of her son's death on Nov. 4, to cope with depression. She's had flashbacks: the midnight visit at her door by two Marines; her son's tearful goodbye in August 2006, when he boarded a Continental Airlines flight, promising to return from a third and final tour of Iraq; and the wait at the airport for his casket, flown home by the same airline.
Vega has asked God why he didn't take care of her son. The answer she's heard, through a voice inside, is, "I did take care of your son. He is OK. He's home with me."
Her therapist encourages her to talk to other families of the fallen "because they're going through the same thing," she said. She also prays for strength to help others.
"It's what my son would want," Vega said. "He'd want me to go on living, being in the community, around people who need me. He'd say, 'Do this in memory of me.'"
Jesse Vega misses hearing his son coming through the front door. But he said he's not angry. He used to pray that if anything happened, his son wouldn't suffer. The bomb that took Galvan's life tossed him 100 feet and killed him instantly.
The last time José Galvan was home for Christmas, in 2004, he came with his girlfriend — they later were engaged — and was deeply in love. But he had changed. He asked Jesse to tell relatives not to ask him if he had killed anyone in Iraq.
During his stay, the family went to see the lights on the River Walk. Galvan was mesmerized by a bagpiper playing "Amazing Grace." Tears came to his eyes.
"Do you mind if we just stand here for a minute?" he asked.
That song, and the Marine Corps Hymn, were performed on the bagpipes at his burial.
But his family says the good times in José Galvan's life far outweigh the bad. Like the playful backyard wrestling matches he had with his dad and brother. Or the time he played a trick on his family, wearing a Lucha Libre mask at the airport when they went to pick him up on his last visit in '06.
Even the day he died, in a final entry on his MySpace page, Galvan wrote about feeling connected to others. As he headed out on what he called a lengthy counterinsurgent mission, he said he looked forward to returning and reading messages from family and friends:
"I like to logon and see that I have msgs (messages) or comments; it really makes my day out here ... its (sic) what gives me that extra push, that extra bit of strenght (sic) to pull through."
Part of the strength that gets his family through is a vague sense of his presence. The Marine Corps Hymn says the streets of heaven are guarded by Marines. After visiting his grave, they plan a large family Christmas Eve gathering at home, then a small celebration Christmas Day.
There's also a new source of joy at home. Julian's infant son, José Christopher Vega, is 3 months old, and named for his late uncle. Leticia calls him José, Joey, J.C. or Baby José.
"He has a beautiful smile when he laughs," and sleeps soundly at night, she said.
So with their new addition, the family will sing carols this Christmas. "Silent Night" and "Feliz Navidad" were Galvan's favorites. If they're up to the task, they may even make their traditional holiday treat, Puerto Rican tamales, with grated bananas and pork.
They'll talk about their fallen Marine like he's there in spirit.
And as the holiday draws to an end, Baby José will drift off into peaceful sleep.
shuddleston@express-news.net
Ellie
Web Posted: 12/23/2007 12:12 AM CST
Scott Huddleston
Express-News
José Galvan's headstone shines like tinsel when the sun is out.
It's adorned with a red wreath and a small tree bearing angels, bells and bows. His photo is perched on top.
Christmas colors fill part of Section 25 at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery. Relatives have left candy canes and holiday trinkets by the newest headstones. Dozens of San Antonio families who have lost a son, brother, husband or father in Iraq or Afghanistan seek comfort in the colors of the season.
Holiday memories are both an inspiration and a cold reminder that Christmas isn't what it used to be. Some families operate on autopilot. Others struggle to revive the joy and hope they know the holiday is supposed to bring.
Galvan's family members have been at both extremes in the past year. They plan to visit his grave on Christmas Eve. They'll talk to him, pray, maybe even turn on the battery-powered lights on his tree. His mother, Leticia Vega, said she feels she's keeping his spirit alive by decorating his headstone.
"It comforts me somehow, somewhat," she said.
Last year the family members went through the motions at Christmas.
They still were in shock six weeks after burying their son and brother, a 22-year-old Marine corporal who was killed in Iraq.
This year, they'll try to spend less time reminiscing about Galvan, who went by the name Joey, and rejoice a bit more. They'll observe Christmas in a different house, where they've lived for six months, in a rear den filled with his photos. By their tree is a portrait of Galvan, then 3, sitting in a wagon he got for Christmas.
His brother, Julian Vega, 17, now is in the same Junior ROTC corps Joey was in. Julian plans to marry and join the Air Force after he graduates, following somewhat in his late brother's footsteps, but in a safer form of military service. Galvan's sister, Valerie Vega, 11, puts candy and toy hotrods in his stocking and talks about her brother in heaven.
"We'll always keep the memories," said Jesse Vega, the stepdad who raised Galvan and now wears his dog tags.
The Vegas have reason to celebrate the life of their departed warrior, who as a member of an award-winning JROTC precision drill team at Holmes High School talked about joining the Marines. He was consumed with his passions: faith, duty, cars, rock music, wrestling, Hulk Hogan, Chuck Norris and carne guisada —his favorite dish.
Military officials have told the family that in activating the bomb that killed him in a sweep for explosives in Anbar province, he saved the lives of others. More stories
Spc. Lauro DeLeon III
With her daughter's help, Grace Lopez put poinsettias at her son's grave at Fort Sam and covered the back of his headstone with wrapping paper.
"To us, he was a gift given to us," she said.
It's been more than three years since a roadside bomb in Iraq killed her 20-year-old son, Spc. Lauro DeLeon III of Floresville. Things haven't gotten easier, she said.
For the past year, Lopez has been the pastor at Lakeview Baptist Church, a small West Side congregation that ministers to teens and parents, with a skateboard course in back. The church will serve dinner to neighbors on Christmas Day.
As part of her ministry, Lopez shares stories about her son.
"If I keep quiet, I'm holding it in," she said. "I praise God that he got the opportunity to do what he wanted."
Staff Sgt. Ray Rangel
On the holiest of days, others who have lost family members to the war in the Middle East have learned to rely on their faith to get through the Christmas season.
Federico Rangel is a Christian Pentecostal minister whose son, Air Force Staff Sgt. Ray Rangel, died in 2005 at 29, trying to save troops from a Humvee that overturned in a canal in Iraq.
The elder Rangel likes to remember their last Christmas together in 2003. The sergeant, a firefighter, wore a "big ol' smile" as his four young children opened gifts.
"It was like he was a kid again," Rangel said.
He and his wife have their daughters and grandchildren over for presents and lunch on Christmas Day. But it's not the same.
"We just pray more and ask God for strength," he said. "We enjoy each other, but we know mijo's not there."
He draws on faith that he'll see his son again someday. He remembers how proud he is of his son's sacrifice, and he encourages other grieving families to focus on happier days.
"He's up in heaven with my mom and dad. If it wasn't for God's love, and his mercy, we would've lost it a long time ago," Rangel said.
"Just think about the good times, and be thankful that God let us know our loved one," he said. "If you have children in your family, hug 'em, love 'em, let them know you're glad they're here."
Capt. Ernesto Manuel Blanco-Caldas
Having children helps but doesn't take away the pain, said Carmen Blanco-Pendergraff, younger sister of Capt. Ernesto Manuel Blanco-Caldas, killed in Iraq on Dec. 28, 2003, at age 28. Using the "E" from Ernesto and "ma" from Manuel, she named her newborn daughter Ema Grace Pendergraff-Blanco eight months ago.
If her brother were alive, there would be a huge family blowout at Christmas, with tequila shots, Shiner Bock beer and Ernie singing and playing guitar, she said. Everyone would watch "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation."
Instead, their Christmas gathering is small and subdued. Decorating her brother's grave is a higher priority than putting up a tree at home, she said. If not for their two boys, ages 6 and 9, she and her husband might not have one.
"If we could sleep from the day before Thanksgiving to January, we would," said Blanco-Pendergraff, 30.
She remembers the last photos of her brother, wearing a Santa hat in a mess hall in Fallujah on Christmas Day. She believes her brother, who once taught Bible lessons to teens at a local car wash, is preparing a spiritual home for her family.
"I hope that when we go to heaven, he'll be there to welcome us," she said. "For us, it is a source of comfort. But we're selfish, and we want him here. This year, we're looking for just something peaceful."
Lance Cpl. Jonathan Flores
At the grave of Marine Lance Cpl. Jonathan Flores, there's a small cherub on his headstone, miniature U.S. and Marine Corps flags, candy canes, Christmas trees and figurines from his favorite movie, "The Nightmare Before Christmas."
Dee Flores and her family have had to deal with the loss of their Marine, who at 18 was the youngest San Antonian killed in Iraq. More than two years after his death, they're nearly finished with a room devoted to his memory.
Flores and her husband painted "Jonathan's Room" in red, a color of the Marine Corps, and have their son's picture over the fireplace. They're putting gifts for their younger sons, both 18, and a 6-year-old nephew they're raising, under a Christmas tree in the room.
"They still get a gift 'from Jonathan,'" typically the first thing on their list, Flores said.
If given a choice of having him back, she said, she'd rather let him stay in heaven, "because I know he's safe."
"That's what gets me through," she said. "I don't have to worry. I know he's fine, and that I'll see him again."
Since 2001, 38 service members from San Antonio, 388 from Texas and more than 4,300 nationwide have died in the Middle East. For their families, Christmas can be daunting.
"The anxiety that leads you to the holiday is worse than the holiday itself," said Kim Smith, who heads a support group for families of the fallen.
Next month, her group members will share how they got through the holiday. This is Smith's fifth Christmas since a grenade killed her son, Army Pvt. Robby Frantz, in Iraq in 2003. She suggests families try new traditions if old ones are too depressing.
Leticia Vega has taken off work since the first anniversary of her son's death on Nov. 4, to cope with depression. She's had flashbacks: the midnight visit at her door by two Marines; her son's tearful goodbye in August 2006, when he boarded a Continental Airlines flight, promising to return from a third and final tour of Iraq; and the wait at the airport for his casket, flown home by the same airline.
Vega has asked God why he didn't take care of her son. The answer she's heard, through a voice inside, is, "I did take care of your son. He is OK. He's home with me."
Her therapist encourages her to talk to other families of the fallen "because they're going through the same thing," she said. She also prays for strength to help others.
"It's what my son would want," Vega said. "He'd want me to go on living, being in the community, around people who need me. He'd say, 'Do this in memory of me.'"
Jesse Vega misses hearing his son coming through the front door. But he said he's not angry. He used to pray that if anything happened, his son wouldn't suffer. The bomb that took Galvan's life tossed him 100 feet and killed him instantly.
The last time José Galvan was home for Christmas, in 2004, he came with his girlfriend — they later were engaged — and was deeply in love. But he had changed. He asked Jesse to tell relatives not to ask him if he had killed anyone in Iraq.
During his stay, the family went to see the lights on the River Walk. Galvan was mesmerized by a bagpiper playing "Amazing Grace." Tears came to his eyes.
"Do you mind if we just stand here for a minute?" he asked.
That song, and the Marine Corps Hymn, were performed on the bagpipes at his burial.
But his family says the good times in José Galvan's life far outweigh the bad. Like the playful backyard wrestling matches he had with his dad and brother. Or the time he played a trick on his family, wearing a Lucha Libre mask at the airport when they went to pick him up on his last visit in '06.
Even the day he died, in a final entry on his MySpace page, Galvan wrote about feeling connected to others. As he headed out on what he called a lengthy counterinsurgent mission, he said he looked forward to returning and reading messages from family and friends:
"I like to logon and see that I have msgs (messages) or comments; it really makes my day out here ... its (sic) what gives me that extra push, that extra bit of strenght (sic) to pull through."
Part of the strength that gets his family through is a vague sense of his presence. The Marine Corps Hymn says the streets of heaven are guarded by Marines. After visiting his grave, they plan a large family Christmas Eve gathering at home, then a small celebration Christmas Day.
There's also a new source of joy at home. Julian's infant son, José Christopher Vega, is 3 months old, and named for his late uncle. Leticia calls him José, Joey, J.C. or Baby José.
"He has a beautiful smile when he laughs," and sleeps soundly at night, she said.
So with their new addition, the family will sing carols this Christmas. "Silent Night" and "Feliz Navidad" were Galvan's favorites. If they're up to the task, they may even make their traditional holiday treat, Puerto Rican tamales, with grated bananas and pork.
They'll talk about their fallen Marine like he's there in spirit.
And as the holiday draws to an end, Baby José will drift off into peaceful sleep.
shuddleston@express-news.net
Ellie