"Cry. Forgive. Learn. Let your tears water the seeds of your future happiness."
~Steve Maraboli, Life, the Truth, and Being FreeToday I spoke at a very special event that included some very special individuals. The Neil Legacy Society recognizes Planner Givers to The Ohio State University whose gifts will only be realized upon the donor's passing. Essentially, these donors entrust all, or part, of their estate to the university without being able to witness for themselves the full impact of their contribution on future generations of students.
Today's luncheon event was designed to thank this generous group of donors. Many of the men in attendance served in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam, and many of the women were (or still are) spouses of former service members. When the event coordinator reached out to me several months ago to ask if I'd be willing to attend as the guest speaker, I was, of course, more than happy to accept the invitation.
Although some of the content of today's speech mirrored the things I've talked about at prior events, there was one very important difference. In the past, I've often felt a sense of pressure to end my story on a happy note because I think that's generally what people want to hear. They don't always want to confront the reality of the sad and lonely nights I spent wondering how I'd make it through to the next day, but, rather, would prefer some assurance that despite what I've been through, I'm still "ok." I always worried that despite my best efforts, the happy ending would come across as contrived because, deep down, I doubted my ability to experience true joy again. Now, however, I can end on a happy note. No matter what happens, I know will be ok. I've been through the worst of the worst, and I survived, albeit with some emotional scars. And, as was very evident to me after I spoke this afternoon, people could not be happier to hear I have been lucky enough to find love again. Ironically, ending on a happy note is now an effortless task because I am happy. It's taken seven years, but gratitude and peace have finally conquered grief and loss.
Neil Legacy Society Speech
At some point in each of our lives, there is, or will be, at least one event of such magnitude that no matter what we might do in the future, we will always look back and say, “I remember where I was at that moment, and I remember exactly how I felt. I couldn’t forget it if I tried.” And afterwards, nothing is ever quite the same.
In my life, there are two events like this. The first occurred when I was a senior in high school, and that event will be relatively familiar to many of you here today. It was early September of 2001, and I was sitting in Environmental Science class when a teacher opened the door and interrupted our lecture to tell us that “something” was going on in New York City. That was a Tuesday. Later that same week, our nation’s leaders designated Friday, September 14th, as a National Day of Prayer and Remembrance. That evening, I vividly recall standing outside on my parents’ porch, lighting a candle for those who had died, and feeling so affected by those tragic events, despite not knowing anyone personally who had been involved in what transpired on 9/11.
I didn’t understand my feelings at the time, but joining the Army ROTC program when I began college a few months later seemed like the least I could do. At the time, I was not yet a citizen of this country, having moved to the United States from Scotland when I was ten years old. Also, in September of 2002, we had not yet contemplated the invasion of Iraq, but I barely thought twice about my decision to serve. It was the right thing to do. It also led to more wonderful things than I could have imagined, to include meeting the man I would later marry. His name was Jonathan Grassbaugh, and we began dating when I was just eighteen years old. Some thought we were too young to settle down together when we did, but as many of you here know, the military forces you to grow up fast. And as they say, when you know, you know. I knew, and I could not have been happier. Jon and I were married on June 9th, 2006, just a few short weeks after I became a commissioned officer in the United States Army. It was a proud and hopeful time, and Jon and I shared many beautiful dreams for our future life together.
The second event of considerable magnitude occurred seven years ago yesterday. At that time, I was a twenty-two year-old student at William & Mary Law School. I deferred my active duty service time to earn my law degree and become a military attorney, but in April of 2007, I’d been having a hard time – law school is stressful, and Jon was deployed to Iraq in an area that had recently erupted in a spate of violence. I’d received numerous casualty notification letters from his unit’s leadership informing me of the deaths of friends and fellow Soldiers, and to say that I was worried doesn’t even come close. To make matters worse, my husband and I were still, by all accounts, newlyweds. Whenever he got the chance, Jon would call me from a pay phone in Iraq to assure me that everything was fine and to remind me that as difficult as it was to spend our first months of marriage separated by thousands of miles, all that really mattered in the end was that we had each other. I smiled with this knowledge but still couldn’t shake that nagging feeling that kept me awake at night, and, on April 7th, 2007, my worst nightmares became a reality. On that day, at approximately 5:30 in the evening, two uniformed officers showed up at my door and informed me that my twenty-five year-old husband had been killed in action. The truck he was riding in along a supply route in Zaganiyah, Iraq, had been hit by a massive improvised explosive device. Of the five men in the vehicle, four did not survive.
The bomb that ended Jon’s life came very close to shattering, if not completely destroying, mine. It’s rather disconcerting to go from planning the details of your wedding one minute to planning the details of your husband’s funeral only ten months later. I tried many different things to overcome this tragedy, though I don't think you ever truly “get over” the loss of someone who made this world a better and brighter place. After withdrawing from my first year of law school at William & Mary, I threw myself into my Army career. Although some people disagreed with my decision, it just seemed like the right thing to do. I deployed to Iraq in 2008 as a Military Police Platoon Leader. I ran races to raise money for organizations that help the families of fallen soldiers. Eventually, I realized I still wanted to serve in the Judge Advocate General’s Corps, and I applied to the Army’s Funded Legal Education Program. I began law school again – this time here at Ohio State. It wasn’t until the fall of 2012, however, that I realized there might still be more I could do to turn my worst nightmare into a positive good. I realized I had the power to ensure that Jon’s personal motto of non sibi—not for one’s self—would live on into perpetuity and that I could help others in need in the process.
Here in the state of Ohio, we have a population of more than 900,000 veterans. As I’ve discovered, few can appreciate the kind of unique legal issues these veterans often face after returning home from what might be their first, second, or even fifth deployment. The more research I did, the more the problems facing veterans caused me serious concern. The Legal Aid Society of Columbus is overwhelmed by a caseload that requires specialized knowledge and expertise, and, at the time of my research, there was no central location to which Ohio's veterans could go for help.
With this knowledge, I started brainstorming ideas for how to go about providing free legal services for veterans. I quickly realized that Ohio State did not have a clinic dedicated to tackling veterans’ issues, and I decided it was time to change that reality. I'd also reached a rough point personally in dealing with some of the issues associated with Jon's death, many of which I think I'd more or less suppressed up until that point. My own hopelessness at how to deal with things beyond my control gave me the motivation I needed to do something more tangible with the time and resources I had at my disposal.
On October 26, 2012, I attended a Veterans Wraparound Summit hosted by former Ohio Supreme Court Justice Evelyn Stratton. This eye-opening experience provided me with the tools I needed to understand the complexities of veterans’ legal issues. From there, I used the models of pro bono clinics at other law schools around the country to approach the faculty at Ohio State with a proposal for a similar project. After much discussion and compromise, we agreed on a basic structure for the program: the Captain Jonathan Grassbaugh Veterans Project would pair veterans with law students to help them sort through their legal issues and find solutions. Practicing attorneys – many current JAG lawyers in the Ohio National Guard – would volunteer to supervise the student work.
I donated the seed money, endowing the project with $250,000 of the insurance funds I received upon Jon's death, and the law school is currently engaged in a fundraising drive to match that amount. Over this past year, we’ve raised almost $100,000, which means we’re now well on our way towards achieving our ultimate goal. This money will enable us to provide a total of 2,000 hours of free legal services to veterans annually. The Captain Jonathan Grassbaugh Veterans Project was officially launched on April 5, 2013, just two days before the sixth anniversary of Jon's death. Four law students were selected to serve the veteran population during the project’s pilot year, and those students continue to assist veterans with landlord tenant disputes, debt crises, and default judgment issues as we speak. Suzanne Van Horn is one of those students, and she’s here with me today. With proactive people like her taking the lead on these cases, I know I’m leaving the project in more than capable hands, especially as we continue to pursue the goal of taking on veterans’ disability claims and appeals.
Quite frankly, I never second-guessed my decision to pursue this vision or doubted the need see it through to completion. I was touched by the university’s support for the concept once I was able to demonstrate how we might make it happen. And once we got the ball in motion, it didn’t stop. I would have been happy to see this project become a reality by the time I graduate next month. Instead, when I walk across the stage at graduation, something I once doubted would ever be possible, I will do so with the knowledge that we’ve already started to help those who deserve it most. We still have a lot of work to do, but the important thing is that we now have a way to ensure it will happen. Much like my decision to join the Army well over a decade ago now, creating this project was undoubtedly the right to do.
So, despite being cautioned against doing anything too drastic or giving away too much money, my determination to make the Grassbaugh Veterans Project a reality will, I hope, make a meaningful difference in the lives of others – others who have already given so much and sacrificed time away from their families to fight for our freedom. This project is my attempt to identify and address veterans’ legal issues at a time when we can still prevent nightmare realities from befalling our nation’s heroes. This is also Jon’s legacy and it’s one that will go on long after I’m gone too. It means that my other worst nightmare will not come true – that being that, in time, he’ll be forgotten.
I’ll be honest, after I lost Jon, I thought my life was over and that I’d never be happy again. Bad things would happen, some of which had nothing to do with Jon, and I crumbled because I thought I had been through enough and couldn't take any more heartache or adversity. I sometimes used what happened to Jon and I as an excuse to fall apart in situations where I probably could have been stronger or made better decisions because everything just seemed so inherently unfair. Even when things finally started to get a little better, I was still, at best, treading water. I fought just to keep my head above the surface, and I'd resigned myself to getting by for the rest of my days without true love in my life.
But that was then. This is now. Finally, there is something to live for, something greater than myself. My friends and family were right - I can be happy again, and it doesn't have to look the same as it did before for it to be just as good. In fact, it might even be better now that I have a far deeper and more informed appreciation for what matters most in this life. It's not as simple as "I'm a good person and, therefore, only good things happen to me." It's taken me seven years to realize that, but I think I finally understand that it's true.
I mentioned earlier that Jon was one of four men who died on April 7th, 2007. In that same truck, however, was one man who, by some miracle, lived to see another day. His name is Staff Sergeant Bobby Henline, and despite being in a comma for two weeks, undergoing over fifty surgeries to treat his injuries, and sustaining countless scars from third-degree burns, Bobby’s approach to life since that terrible day has served to remind me that it’s never too late to take the plunge and do the right thing. I am proud to call him a good friend, and I’d be remiss if I failed to emphasize today how much Bobby gave me hope at those times when I felt incredibly sad and defeated. As the sole survivor of such a horrific event, Bobby could have given up and accepted his lot in life, but he didn’t. He could have resigned himself to a life of being different, and he could have withdrawn from the stares of the rest of the world, but he didn’t. Instead, he puts himself out there in front of people every day, and he makes them laugh. He’s now part of a small and very special group of veterans who tour the county and perform in comedy shows that use humor to tackle the complex issues survivors face. For veterans like Bobby, it’s like a unique form of therapy. What’s more, Bobby does it with such grace and humility. When I ask him why he fights so hard to remain positive, he says he does it for the men who didn’t make it that day, including Jon. In moments of weakness, I often tell myself that if he can do it, I can do it too.
Today I take my lead from inspiring individuals like Bobby Henline. I take comfort in the fact that I live in a great country with people who believe in things like freedom and equality. I'm healthy, and I have a promising career as a Judge Advocate with the 82nd Airborne Division ahead of me. I have a supportive family and wonderful friends who put up with me, even when I feel like I'm too busy to breathe. I'm almost done with the law degree that's now taken nearly eight years to complete from start to finish. The Grassbaugh Veterans Project officially has clients. People seem to want to hear the story of how I got to this point, and when I tell them that story, I feel a kind of peace that I once doubted I’d ever feel again.
Also, on a more personal note, I’m happy to say that I’m in love with a wonderful man who treats me like the most important person in the world. We met, of all places, in Afghanistan. It’s funny, last year when we officially launched the Grassbaugh Veterans Project, I gave a speech much like this one, and in it I said that I did hope at some point, albeit selfishly, to find love again. I said I think we all deserve to be with someone who would happily move heaven and earth just to see us smile. And I also said I doubted it would ever happen again for me. Luckily, however, I was wrong about that. I literally get chills when I think about how fortunate I am. I've never been so happy to say that I'm glad I was wrong - happiness after heartache is possible. In fact, this kind of happiness is perhaps the best kind because it's the result of slogging through a lot of bad to get back to what's good.
Last week, I was in Washington, D.C. for a national conference on law schools serving veterans. I met many wonderful people, all of whom are, in many ways, just like me – they believe it helping those individuals who have put everything on the line to serve us. While I was in DC, I visited Arlington National Cemetery where those who paid the ultimate sacrifice are laid to rest – including Jon. At Arlington, Jon rests among many heroes who believed in the importance of selfless service and gave their lives to that end. Each of these heroes represents just one person, but one person who meant the whole world to their loved ones and left a lasting impact during their short lifetime. President Abraham Lincoln said that it’s not the years in a life – it’s the life in the years. Jon didn’t have the luxury of many years, but he was one person who managed to achieve so much and represented so many wonderful things: he was an Army Ranger. A Patriot. Leader. Friend. A loving husband and brother. He made me a better person – and he still does.
I won’t ever forget those two events of great magnitude that brought me here today, and I won’t ever stop fighting the good fight for those deserve it most. I thank each and every one of you for helping me in that fight, because I cannot go at it alone. This is something that requires all of us. To all of you who have committed yourself to answering our nation’s call, thank you – these are uncertain times, and we all owe you a debt of gratitude for your willingness to bear the burden of that uncertainty. To be a part of that group – here at this great university, in the state of Ohio, and beyond – is a privilege for which I will be always be grateful. Thank you.
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