Your Coat of Arms

Crack! The young soldier awoke with a start. Unwilling to sit up in fear that the noise he had heard signaled danger, he lay as still as possible, moving only his exhausted eyes as he scanned the dismal camp. Another loud crack sounded just behind his right ear. Before he could remind himself to stay still, his head swiveled around toward the source of the noise. He focused on the scene just in time to observe a thick branch on the oak tree at the corner of the camp snap under the weight of the snow it bore, and he sighed in relief—admiring the white wisps of his breath on the icy night air as he realized he was safe.

The weary soldier settled himself once again, pulling his worn red blanket up to his chin to shield his shivering frame from the cold night. He listened to the heavy breathing of his comrades, interrupted every now and then by a startled snore or the rustle of blankets as they moved in their sleep. Looking up at the star-filled sky, he allowed his mind to drift to the battle planned for the morning. Dawn would not bring hope for this group. Is it worth it? he dared to ask. What if we don't make it? Is it worth it then? He glanced at his brother, who slept soundly next to him, curled in a ball under an identical red blanket. He swallowed nervously and turned his head to the other side. His musket lie near his head, bearing a careful carving of the name of his country—his purpose in being here. Is it worth it? he asked again. His thoughts were broken by a yawn. Knowing that he couldn't afford to keep himself awake much longer, he faded off to sleep again.

*****

"Here is your sword, my lord." The king looked at his wide-eyed servant, answering him by staring soberly at the shining weapon he offered. He accepted it in silence, slowly lifting it from the servant's calloused hands into the warm light which shone through the tiny window on his left. As he ran his eyes over the detailed metalwork on the handle of his most prized possession, the rays of light which had forced their way through the window reflected off the polished blade, dancing about the room in an airy happiness that the king longed to share. Sighing slowly, the king slipped the sword into its scabbard. Without taking his eyes off the weapon as it swung gently at his side, the king dismissed his servant.

Turning to face the small window, he placed his hands on his hips. He squinted at the bright sunlight for a moment before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He could feel the weight of the breastplate he wore as his chest lifted to take in the sweet air of his bedroom. He opened his eyes again, fixing his gaze on the bold image which stretched across his shining armor—his purpose in being here. Raising his eyes to the window again, his brow furrowed as he wondered what the day would hold. Is it worth it? he wondered. Can I lead my people into battle again? Is the emblem on my chest enough reason to push on?

*****

Tick, tick, tick, tick. With burning eyes, the young woman watched as the slender hand of the old clock advanced all too quickly toward its peak. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Midnight was coming. Clutching the glass of sparkling cider in her right hand as if it alone could stall the hurried clock, she wiped her forehead with the back of her other hand. The excited chattering of her friends, the clinking of the toasting glasses, and the vibrant beat of the music seemed to choke her. Every sound grew relentlessly louder, appearing to match the merciless tick of the clock.

The woman peeled her eyes from this enemy for a moment to examine the party around her. Is everybody laughing? she wondered. Am I the only one who wishes this new year would not come? Her gaze flickered back to the clock, though she disdained to watch it this time. Looking down at her cider, she rubbed the delicate glass with her thumb. She raised her left hand, intending to wipe her forehead again, but paused with her arm suspended in front of her face as her eyes rested on the tiny bracelet that shimmered on her wrist—her purpose in being here. Or was it? Did I live by that this year? she mused. I said I would. Did I do it? Frowning, she turned her wrist slowly, examining the full length of the delicate jewelry. Is it worth it to live this? Is it worth it?

*****

"What do I stand for? Am I left? Am I right? Am I up and down? Am I east? Am I west? Do I wear the crown? Is my creed worth dying for?

"What do I live for? Can you tell on my face what my heart beats for? Do the words that I speak show it to the core? Does my glow outshine the stars? Can you see my coat of arms?"¹

*****

December 31, 2013: the last day of the year. It's a time of reflection for many, a time of repression for others. I suppose you all know me well enough to guess which path I choose—which path I'm begging you to choose. I disdain to write too much on this topic, but I do hope that you take a few minutes today—right now, in fact—to consider the questions posed here.

What did you live for this year? What name is written on your gun? What image do you bear on your breastplate? What do you find on the bracelet on your arm?

Is it worth it?

Are you living like it's worth it?

Can they see your coat of arms?

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¹ Jonathan Thulin, “Coat of Arms” (2012).