The Soldier
The Survivor
There’s a story I kept hearing about last week… one that people can’t seem to stop talking about. It’s the story of a United States airman who ejected from his plane over enemy territory in Iran.
From what I’ve heard, he landed miles away, something like 40 miles, from the other pilot, who was rescued quickly. But this man… his story is different.
He hit the ground injured. A sprained ankle, maybe worse. Still, he climbed, thousands of feet up into the mountains. Alone. Hurt. Hunted. And when he found a place to hide, he wedged himself between two rocks, making himself as invisible as possible.
And there he stayed. For days.
I can’t even begin to imagine the fear he must have felt.
Yes, he was trained. Yes, he was prepared. But no amount of training erases the reality of that moment. He knew the stakes. He knew that if he were found by Iranian forces, it would not end quickly or mercifully. He would be tortured. He would suffer. And eventually, he would be killed.
So there he was, injured, alone, hiding in silence, knowing that while his country was searching for him, so was the enemy.
I imagine his thoughts drifted to his family… his friends… the people he loves. I imagine he prayed. I imagine he had long, quiet conversations with God, the kind you only have when everything else has been stripped away and all that’s left is faith and survival.
And then came the part of the story that truly stayed with me.
They came for him.
Not just one team, many. Soldiers risking their lives, going into dangerous territory, doing everything necessary to bring one man home.
Leave no man behind.
When I heard that, I felt something deep in my chest, something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Pride.
Real, overwhelming pride in my country.
And I couldn’t help but think back to other moments in recent history, moments that felt very different. I remembered the withdrawal from Afghanistan. I remembered the reports of billions of dollars in equipment left behind. I remembered the people, Americans and allies, who were left behind, too. I remember hearing about nonprofit groups working tirelessly, long after the headlines faded, trying to get those people out.
And I found myself comparing those moments to this one.
This felt different.
This felt like the America I grew up believing in, the America that does everything it can to bring its people home. The America that fights for each other. The America that doesn’t give up.
Now, I know we’re not perfect. Far from it. We’re still divided. Still healing. Still arguing about things that sometimes feel impossible to untangle. There are cultural battles, political battles, questions about identity, values, and truth itself.
But even with all of that… something feels like it’s shifting.
Something feels like we’re trying again.
Trying to return to something stronger. Something rooted. Something that says we take care of our own, not just in words, but in action.
And yes, I’ve noticed something else too. There’s more openness about faith. About prayer. About seeking guidance before making decisions. And while I’ll be the first to admit, I’m not a Bible-thumper, I’m not a holy roller, there’s something grounding about it. Something steadying. Something that feels like a breath of fresh air.
Because at the end of the day, this country isn’t just policies and politics.
It’s people.
It’s that airman, wedged between two rocks, holding onto hope.
It’s the soldiers who went in after him, knowing the risks and going anyway.
It’s the idea that no matter how lost things may feel sometimes… we are still capable of showing up for each other in the moments that matter most.
We are still capable of courage.
We are still capable of faith.
And we are still capable of becoming the country we believe we can be.
So to that man who survived… and to every soldier who risked everything to bring him home, thank you.
Because your story didn’t just save a life.
It reminded a nation of who we are.
And maybe, just maybe… who we’re becoming again.
God bless you and God bless America.