Visits With War By Dan Lundquist War visited me last weekend. The first visits were at the College of Saint Catherine in Saint Paul. War said, "Look at me -- see me. Touch me -- feel me. Hear me -- know me." On this visit War came with almost 2,000 pairs of combat boots, one pair for each person in the U.S. military killed to date in Iraq since March of 2003. I joined other volunteers as we strung the plum line so the boots would be displayed in straight lines. From boxes, we gently gathered each pair and placed them evenly on the lines, organized by state, row after row in the dew dampened meadow. A tag identified state of residence, name, and age at death for each person (age at death ranged from nineteen to the mid-fifties). Many boots were attached to pictures and notes from family and loved ones. I looked at two and dared not look at more. There would be time for that later. "Ain't got time to cry," I said to myself, as if War would not hear. Then War said, "Where are the fearless five? I need five volunteers over here." A labyrinth had been started by students who had returned to their classes. I joined four others and we opened bags of shoes collected from Iraq. The shoes represented the more than 128,000 Iraqi civilian war dead since March of 2003. Two volunteers handed me pairs of shoes. I laid each pair toe to toe and heel to heel against the previous pair. One volunteer kept the measuring tape positioned at 26 inches, guiding us as we completed each leaf of the labyrinth. Brown shoes, black shoes, white shoes. Walking shoes, dress shoes, hi-heel shoes. Colorful shoes, casual shoes, sandals and slippers. Children's shoes, babies' shoes. I held in my hands the same model of Rockport shoes I wear for my morning walks. I laid down the same type of shoes in which our mother unsteadily stood at the nursing home. A tag identified most shoes with the name and age at death for each person. Many were marked "Name Unknown." Again I reached for another pair of shoes and bent down as I laid them with deliberate speed in the labyrinth. We were running out of time before the opening ceremonies. "Ain't got time to cry," I said to myself, as if War would not hear. With the labyrinth complete we laid out more shoes, forming a path. The path led to the labyrinth from a series of concentric circles made with boots of dead soldiers from Minnesota and other Upper Midwest states. It was near noon -- five hours of work and I was near exhaustion. Other volunteers had arrived and the dedication was about to begin. I stood straight and stretched long. Slowly I walked down the cobbled drive, passing the gathering visitors. The shoes and boots were ready -- some in tree shade, some in brilliant autumn sun. Right-angle lines of boots shifted by row and column as I passed in review. I returned on Saturday, the last day of the three-day exhibit. We arrived in time to hear War's accounting. Since Thursday, War said, there were seven more pairs of boots for display; sixty more Iraqis represented by the labyrinth of shoes. Judith and our young ten-year-old friend Kishor walked the labyrinth. War read from the podium, speaking names of dead U.S. military personnel and Iraqis. In Minnesota's concentric circle we found visitors adorning boots of loved ones with pictures and messages and fresh flowers in vases. A young man of about thirty years crouched down up against a tree -- not so quietly sobbing. We passed by quietly so as not to intrude. Across the sea of boots a Quaker seminarian drifted unobtrusively, cradling a box of facial tissue, her empathetic shoulder at the ready. At day's end, War asked for more volunteers to pack-up and load the exhibit. After an hour I took a break from the sweltering heat in the bowels of the truck. While I walked and stretched in the cool evening air, a woman in a minivan drove up to the entrance and asked if the exhibit was still open. With disappointment in her voice she quickly glanced at her son and said she had noticed the exhibit earlier in the day. Where is it going next, she asked. Ithaca, New York, I replied. As the woman and her son drove away I stifled a scream as I realized what I had just seen. How many other parents had brought their thirteen and fourteen-year-old sons and daughters? Then War paid me another visit. War came to our comfortable Edina home in an envelope marked Official Business. War said, "Feed me -- nurture me." I need you, the letter from the IRS. said. I need your past due annual contributions. See here? The required contributions, penalties and interest are all displayed in straight rows and columns. Without you .... Just a moment, War, I interrupted. Please listen to a story a friend once shared with me. A Native American grandfather was talking to his grandson about how he felt about the tragedy of September 11th. Grandfather said, "I feel as if I have two wolves fighting in my heart. One wolf is vengeful, angry, violent. The other is loving, compassionate -- relentlessly seeking nonviolent action." Grandson asked, "Which wolf will win the fight in your heart, grandfather?" "The one I feed," grandfather said. I turned to War and said, I know you, War. You are in me -- in my heart, where all our battles should be fought. War? Are you listening, War? Dan Lundquist and Judith Felker are members of Minneapolis Friends Meeting, a Quaker faith community. (c) 2005 Dan R. Lundquist, info@NonviolentCitizen.US The exhibit of boots was created by the American Friends Service Committee. Please see the "Eyes Wide Open" site for photos and more information. Click here for more information about refusing to pay for war.