Our family grew up in extreme poverty in a home so small and cramped on an alley in the inner city, that we could open the window of our mother’s house, stick out your arm, and physically touch the tiny house next door.
My Baba (Grandmother) and Dido (Grandfather) lived in the “front house” as we called it. Ours was right behind in the alley. I could open our door, walk five seconds, and be at my Baba’s door in no time.
Iwan (also my middle name, translated to John in English) and Anna lived on a farm in Ukraine, which back then was controlled by Communist Russia. Life was hell for them. They were fortunate to have survived the horrific Holodomor wheat famine Stalin used to kill millions of Ukrainians.
The brutal dictator confiscated all the wheat produced in Ukraine, which led to mass starvation and death. Estimates have the death toll as high as seven to ten million Ukrainians.
My grandparents, Iwan and Anna, survived.
Living under the Iron Fist of Communism, they could not openly worship and practice our Catholic faith and could not vote, basic principles of freedom that many here in our constitutional republic. They longed for and risked their lives to escape for a better life in the United States.
It was 1965 when they finally saved enough to begin life anew in America. My grandfather labored as a handyman at a local hospital, while my grandmother worked as a janitor.
They sacrificed so much to give me the benefits and opportunities of living here. They fled a Communist regime with nothing but the clothes on their backs, knowing their grandchildren would live in a nation where you can succeed and thrive through God’s grace and hard work.
While we were poor from a purely financial perspective, my Ukrainian grandparents gave me the greatest gift anyone could ever give: the opportunity to live in America where you can enjoy numerous freedoms they never experienced.
Only in America, they knew, could you raise a family, keep your earnings, attend Mass, and as long as you played by the rules, kept your nose clean, and stayed out of trouble, there would be no fear of getting arrested by Communists (President Trump would justifiably disagree on that last point, but that’s another column for another day).
These incredible freedoms I enjoy, and you do as well, only exist because of the brave men and women who died defending freedom here and around the world.
According to data compiled by “Statista,” approximately 1,304,705 heroic men and women died in wars and conflicts dating back to the Revolutionary War.
Freedom is most certainly not free. If it weren’t for the “Greatest Generation,” we’d all be speaking German right now.
As a Catholic, I love living by the faith-based words found in 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18: “Be prayerful, be joyful, and be thankful.”
I pray every day for the continuation of peace and prosperity for the United States of America.
My heart explodes with joy when I reflect on how loving my Dido and Baba were, and the sacrifices they made for a grandson they loved deeply.
Not just on Memorial Day, but every single day of the year, we should give thanks to those souls who never made it home, so that we can reap the beautiful blessings and benefits of living and raising our respective families in the greatest nation on earth: the United States of America.