Dutifully following my new husband, we slid into our circa 1960 Japanese right-hand drive automobile. It was the tiniest car I had ever ridden in besides Autotopia at Disneyland. Maneuvering through the streets of Seoul, S. Korea, felt like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. As we crossed various bridges, Mark shared with me that posted guards and explosive charges were set to blow if North Korea invaded. Seoul was three air minutes from the contentious border. Looking to my right as he drove, I searched for some sign that he was joking. The dazed look on my face registered bewilderment and shock.

Where had he brought me? He didn’t mention this fact or what living under Martial Law entailed in all those letters we wrote. Later, he admitted that he didn’t want to scare me away, so he only wrote about shopping bargains. Talk about bait and switch. We continued south until we reached our destination, Osan Air Base.

We parked by the building where his “Q” room was located. This nondescript structure, presumably built before the Korean War, was where our new life would begin. As the months passed, I was educated in:

1. How to take cover during base exercises to avoid being declared dead and locked up,

2. The essentials of packing a go-bag if evacuated,

3. And where to shop to pass the time while he was away on alert.

South Korea is friendly. Communist North Korea is not. I used to have nightmares about racing toward safety as enemy planes dropped bombs around me. Gratefully, I don’t have those nightmares in this country.

I flew Military Air Command fights in the belly of a C-130 bound for the Philippines. The hotel I stayed at was safe because the man on the roof with the machine gun, made it so.

That is not an amenity we search for when booking hotels in the United States.

A short year later, England was our new assignment, during the Cold War. My husband again sat alert, was scrambled occasionally, and frequently away on TDY (temporary duty) outside the country. While Britain is a free country, the base was habitually protested, and the signage defiled to read RAF Deathcamp. Annoying but not life-threatening.

An opportunity presented itself to travel on a NATO sponsored trip to West Berlin. The men received briefings to prepare for this trip. Wives did not. The organizers called Berlin “an island in a sea of red.” I didn’t understand until we approached East German airspace (the Sea of Red). Our plane was immediately required to conform to the air corridors set up after WWII. As a passenger, this feels like your stomach lurches into your throat due to the repeated descent and leveling out to adjust to minimal altitudes. Peeking out the small window, I observed Russian Mig Fighters maneuvering alongside to prevent deviation from the prescribed corridor. It’s like the sensation you get at the top of the rollercoaster as it crests and rapidly descends, and your mortal enemy is riding in the car behind you.

None of the flights I have flown since then, including overseas, came with an enemy escort on my wing. Thank you, Jesus.

The intimidating Berlin Wall loomed before us. West Berlin resembled any busy metropolitan city, and we were free to come and go as we pleased. I climbed one of the observation posts and peered over the wall into the dead zone. Armed East German guards with dogs walked back and forth. The guard in the tower on the East side pulled up a camera with a telescopic lens and aimed at us. White crosses dotted the areas in and around the wall, immortalizing those who tried but failed to escape.

The reality of this place was strained and unpredictable. Life here was no game or gimmick; they fired live rounds and shot to kill.

We received critical instructions on what not to do as we boarded the bus to East Berlin through Check Point Charlie. Command ordered our guys to dress in formal uniforms but not wear their nametags. They sat at attention when the East German Police boarded us. No one screwed around, laughed or made light of the situation. Entering East Berlin is likened to stepping back to the war’s end. Everything seemed black and white. Scant were the cars and even more the lack of human activity. We were followed everywhere we went. The atmosphere was depressing, and no one smiled. Just lots of razor-wire, guard dogs, and disgruntled citizens of the Eastern Block.

Departing East Berlin, we collectively let out a deep breath. It was abundantly evident that freedom did not exist there. They were exiled to life in the Eastern Block with no hope.

We don’t know how sweet something tastes, until we have tasted something bitter.

I am grateful for these hard lessons; we fully realize how incredibly blessed we are in this country. We have lived and traveled all over this planet, there is no place like America. With that said, a divided country cannot stand.

Freedom isn’t free. It’s not cliché, it’s truth. America is not just a bunch of famous landmarks, but filled with men and women who continue to sacrifice for the greater good. “You do you,” is selfish and incompatible with American values. We must realize that every person we encounter reflects God’s Image and likeness.

At every opportunity, we help one another become holy or unholy.

Each time we are kind, generous and share the common load, we contribute to the greater good and we all win.

It will not be politicians, celebrities, or oligarchs that fix America, but every heroic citizen who works to unify this great country one person at a time. It begins with loving our neighbor and praying every day for this nation.

Happy Fourth of July, America. Together, we can reclaim this great nation.

Our Lady of Guadalupe, Patroness of the Americas- Pray for us.