My Heart Hurts

“It is good that war is so terrible, lest we grow too fond of it.”    – Robert E. Lee (perhaps apocryphal)

We think General Lee said that, or something like it, at the Battle of Fredericksburg (Virginia), in December of 1862.

The battle raged for four days, and on December 13th, the Federals charged up an incline known as Marye’s Heights, where the Rebels were entrenched behind a four-foot stone wall, looking down on a mostly open field. To further make matters even more dire for the Federals, Confederate artillery had targeted the field the day before.

The Federal Army was shot to pieces as they attempted to climb the hill. Estimated Federal casualties (killed, wounded, or missing) on that single afternoon were estimated to be about 8500 boys in blue, with Confederate losses 1/10th of that amount.

If General Lee did not comment on the terrible cost of war that day, I am confident that there were plenty of privates and corporals who did. Half a year later, following the ill-advised “Pickett’s Charge” at Gettysburg, as General George Pickett’s command lay dead and dying on the field, the Union soldiers behind their own stone wall atop Cemetery Ridge shouted, “Fredericksburg, Fredericksburg, Fredericksburg …” War leaves scars deep and long to heal.

Now follow me carefully. I am about to go on one of my winding roads to get to the point. Today’s point is very important to me. Perhaps it will be to you as well.

A Daughter’s Words Stay With You

As you might have noticed, I took a month or so off from blog writing. This was due mostly to my inability to follow my lead’s simple schedule, as opposed to the effort required to write to you.

My most recent blog was my rumination on growing up the grandson and son of citrus growers, and the changes I’ve seen in Florida during my lifetime. It was well received and grabbed many of my treasured readers emotionally, including my daughter Kaitlyn.

That blog, along with many others, plus my sister’s annual Christmas letters for almost 30 years, inspired Kaitlyn to start writing to her own friends and family. She began with a Christmas/New Year’s letter. For reference, Kaitlyn is 34 and married Robert Edwards last December.

A Father’s Best Investment

In her letter, she reflected on the newness of marriage and the changes it will, and may bring, as well as some thoughts on her past. In one paragraph, she wrote, “I am honored to be my father’s daughter. He taught me many things. He taught me how to think and how to study. How to work and how to provide. He taught me how not to be completely useless in a predicament. He taught me how to work with my hands and shoot a gun. For my dad, I will be forever grateful.”

Gulp. That brought tears to my eyes and shortness of breath. We, you and I, talk a lot about investing. Clearly, in at least one area of my life, I have invested wisely.

My Friend Was Killed in Kuwait

She wrote to me again recently. This time, it was to me alone, and via text. It was Tuesday, March 3, 2026.

“My friend was killed in Kuwait.”

I felt a sharp pain in my chest, and tears rolled down my face. As an adult, I did my own growing up alongside countless kids from Winter Haven as my daughters went through the school system. So many young people were a part of my household for a decade or more. Kaitlyn met Cody when they were teens, then they worked together at Publix and have been friends for almost 20 years now.

She texted me several more times that night. We couldn’t talk; we were both too sad to get the words out. Here are her messages to me:

“His name was Cody. And he was in the reserves. He loved to deploy at any chance he could. He loved the Army. He wore the coolest ’70s-style glasses. He used to come stay in the three-bedroom apartment I shared with my friend AR when he (Cody) had to be at MacDill AFB for training. He was hit in a drone strike in Kuwait in the war we are involved in. Meaning he was already there. And my heart hurts for him.”

“He deployed like six times.”

“I just keep asking why he was there.”

“He was a good man.”

The Price We Pay for Being Close

Years ago, I had a business contact in England who became my friend. I was over there one time eating lunch in a pub courtyard, and he was telling me about his recently deceased father. As I was grieving with him and expressing my sorrow over his pain, he said, “Lorin, it’s the price we pay for being close.”

I told this story to my good friend Jeff this week, and asked him, “Jeff, looking back on life, would you still make the trade? Would you take on the pain to come for being close to someone?”

“Every time. Every [darn] time”, said Jeff.

Behind Every Headline Is One Loved One

When our country is at war, I am a voracious newshound. It’s tempting for me to fall into the trap of hearing the news and thinking about it like a chess match or sporting event. What is the number of missile strikes and jet sorties?  Whose ships are where?  What damage is inflicted?

But no, it’s not simply a numbers game. It’s personal, and it’s life or death for the people who fight the war, or live in its vicinity, and their families spread across the globe. For them, the number they follow is one. One loved one.

Honoring Captain Cody Khork

On Saturday, March 7th, Cody’s remains and those of his fellow soldiers came home to Dover Airport. Wherever we were, a collection of those who loved and respected him stopped what we were doing at 10 o’clock that morning, faced north with hands over hearts, and stood silently for five minutes, and offered our respect and remembrances.

For those of you who pray, I ask you to spare a moment and a prayer for Captain Cody Khork and his family. For those of you who don’t pray, but ought, please take a moment and consider the implications of giving what some call “the last full measure”.

Captain Cody Khork, thank you for your service. You are gone from us too soon. We miss you so much. When it’s our time to cross the river, we joyfully anticipate a grand reunion and celebration in the life to come.

April 2026