I remember playing on the rug as Walter Cronkite or some other newscaster droned through the daily casualty report: 13 killed and 35 wounded today…9 killed…17 killed. When U.S. servicemen started dying in Vietnam, I was too young to comprehend. But memories of the trappings of war are as etched in my memory as that Fisher- Price garage I loved to play with each day. There were news reports, film footage, draft lotteries and draft dodgers, talk of so-and-so going over there, or of so-and-so’s relative never coming back. There were the protests and even the riots, the sense even to my pre-adolescent mind that my world would be very different from that of my parents.

I assumed I would be drafted. Though the Vietnam War ended when I was 13, I extrapolated from history that another war would be along in several years. Soon after I registered for the draft at 17, war was brewing again in the Far East, and there was talk of the U.S. sending troops. I remember watching The Deer Hunter, a film about a group of young men from a Western Pennsylvania steel town who went to fight in Vietnam, with my knees knocking in trepidation.

But those memories are a small matter. The fact is that many men actually did go to war; and every veteran I’ve ever known well seemed forever changed by the experience. Those who did go are often slow to talk about it, probably because they know the rest of us will never really understand. I know one vet who saw particularly heavy and deadly combat who seldom even talks with other vets about his experiences, because he rarely finds someone who can understand what he went through.

The effects of war, one of the ugliest products of our fallen condition—a condition we have brought upon ourselves—can scar people forever. How many Vietnam veterans do you know who are alcoholics, or abusers, or antisocial? Where do you begin to minister to someone who simultaneously is coping with post-traumatic stress, nightly violent dreams and sleeplessness, pain from war injuries, as well as effects of drugs or alcohol used in an unsatisfying attempt to numb the pain and forget the past?

There is a rich opportunity to come alongside brave but broken men and minister Christ’s mercy to them. A couple years ago, I was invited to open and close in prayer at a Memorial Day service. Though the prayers—offered in Jesus’ name were brief—they struck a chord. I’ve seldom been made more welcome by strangers than I was in that place on that day. Several vets told me how meaningful the prayers were for them, and how much they needed to be prayed for.

Christian veterans who have a close walk with the Lord, while no doubt having plenty of struggles to cope with, seem much better able to put in perspective the horrors of past experiences; and even to see, in a muted, earthly way, a sense of purpose and meaning in them. They know that God was in Vietnam, that God was with them, that God is here today, and here in power. They don’t know all the answers about why things happen as they do, but they know enough to live confidently and move forward. They know what real suffering is, and take advantage of opportunities to help others who are truly suffering.