The Knock at the Door

by Ryan Manion

  First, if you expect to see the good or you expect to see the bad, you will.

  There’s a quote by Henry Ford that goes, “If you think you can or you think you can’t, you’re right.” Perspective is everything, and so much of life is subject to becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. I think the way we deal with grief works in much the same way.

  Not long ago, I was perusing items for sale at a small antiques shop near my home in Carlsbad, California, just north of San Diego. I stumbled on a bar set that consisted of two cocktail glasses, one that said YOURS and one that said MINE. The glasses were accompanied by a matching pitcher that said OURS. There was a time when I would have considered the set sweet, but these days I find it depressing.

  I was feeling pretty down about the turn my life had taken, and bitter that little reminders of my grief followed me everywhere I went. I turned a corner inside the shop, and as I did, the song that Rob and I considered our song—“Better Together” by Jack Johnson—began playing on a radio that was sitting on a shelf in a nearby booth. I like to think it was Rob’s way of reminding me that he was still with me, that he understood the pain I felt, and that, no matter what, I would never be alone.

  It’s true. Reminders of our difficulties and sadness are everywhere. We don’t usually have to look too hard to find them. But the fact is, reminders of happier times are everywhere, too. And we can feel reassured by them and take pleasure in the little gifts of joy they bring to us when we need them the most. Sometimes, however, we have to be much more intentional about seeking out these little signs.

  Last Memorial Day, for instance, I tried to embrace the sentiment of the day by taking a walk alone on a beach near my house. I wanted to reflect on my life with Rob, and call up feelings of gratitude for both the life he gave me and the life I built after his death.

  It was a conscious effort to not feel sorry for myself and to cultivate feelings of gratitude and hope in place of the bitterness I sometimes felt bubbling up. As I strolled, I thought about how I was on the West Coast because the Marines had moved us here. Southern California had been good to me. Just as I was thinking about how grateful I was for that move and the life I was beginning to create for myself, I noticed letters on the sidewalk in faded spray paint. Time had worn away their vibrancy, but the words were still clear: I WILL LOVE YOU ALWAYS.

  It may sound like a stretch to some, but I believe Rob sends little gifts like this when I am ready for them. His love for me was persistent, sweet, and simple, so it seems fitting that the messages he leaves behind are, too. I never would have guessed that a silly shopping trip to Target for a wooden spoon or a marathon of Mad Men episodes after cooking dinner at home could be some of the fondest memories I would have with Rob. In life, Rob taught me to appreciate the simple pleasures of the everyday. In death, he reminds me to look for signs of that same sweet simplicity. Can I say for sure that these are attempts from Rob to communicate with me? Unequivocally, I cannot. But I’m much happier when I view these little moments as gifts, rather than dumb coincidence.

  Second, have a sense of humor. Yes, even about your husband’s tragic and untimely death.

  That probably sounds morbid, maybe even grotesque, to most people, but a sense of humor is sometimes the only thing I have to rely on. When I’m too exhausted to be polite and too hurt to be dignified, somehow I find relief in being just a little sarcastic about my dismal situation.

  A few years ago, I went for drinks with a group of young military widows in the San Diego area. Yes, there are several of us, and yes, we hang out together. We even try to find a little lightheartedness in the rough patches we call our lives.

  One of my friends at the happy hour, Theresa, does black humor better than anyone I know—even better than Rob’s brother Johnny, with his outlandish funeral demands. Theresa’s husband was a Navy pilot. After he was killed, she was left alone to care for her two sons—a six-year-old and an infant whom her husband had never met.

  If anyone is allowed to voice inappropriate widow humor, it’s Theresa. She and I and a few other ladies went to a local brewery and decided to give the feature beer, aptly named “Black Widow,” a try. We ordered a round for the table, and the bartender informed us that it was no longer available.

  “I’m sorry, ladies,” he told us. “But the widow is tapped out.”

  “You’re damn right she is,” Theresa shot back without skipping a beat. The poor bartender had no idea how beautifully he’d teed that one up.

  Allow yourself to find humor in even the darkest and ugliest of situations. It’s a powerful lifeline when your regular coping resources, like patience and gratitude, are depleted. Also, laughing is far more fun than crying.

  Finally, choose your friends and your role models carefully. You’ll begin to see yourself reflected in them.

  I love that Rob always had role models. Like many young men, he idolized his dad, and it wasn’t much of a surprise when he chose to follow in his footsteps.

  But the Marine Corps opened Rob up to so many other role models; friends like Gavriel, who traded in his cushy Wall Street job and Ivy League education for a rifle and a deployment to Iraq. Rob idolized teachers whom he knew and admired, as well as police officers, whom he believed had the toughest jobs. It always made me laugh that, somehow, Rob didn’t notice that he was just like all these people himself. He saw them as so far above him. They were gritty and self-sacrificing, and—somehow—Rob’s humility prevented him from seeing that he was cut from the same cloth.

  I’ve tried to take that into account in my own life—by being very intentional about whom I select as friends, role models, and mentors, knowing that one day I may see myself in them, too. Women like my co-workers Amy and Ryan, and my friends Melissa and Theresa—they remind me of what strength looks like and how to maintain humor and grace in the face of adversity.

  I remember, when I first met Theresa, I was shocked to learn that she had lost her husband, Landon, only a few years before. There I was, several years out from my own loss, with no small children to care for, and I felt I was barely keeping it together. To me, Theresa was some sage who had this grief thing down pat. She was someone I wanted to emulate.

  Things are always much more complicated below the surface, of course, and Theresa later shared with me that she, too, felt she was hanging by a thread at times. I have been grateful to have her, as well as other Gold Star family members, as models of both strength and vulnerability these last several years.

  I would advise anyone to find a good role model. Think about the principles you value the most and identify people who live by them. Good mentors don’t tell you what to do, they show you. And we can all benefit from their example. And if you can’t find a good role model, then be one.

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  “If Not Me, Then Who…”

  Before my brother, Travis, left for his second deployment—the one from which he didn’t return—he spent time with us on the East Coast. During that time, he and my husband, Dave, both of whom were huge Philadelphia Eagles fans, decided to catch a game. They passed a few hours in the tailgate parking lot enjoying cigars and a few beers before heading into the stadium to watch an Eagles victory. It was exactly the relaxed kind of fun that Travis was looking for before he returned to Camp Pendleton and then on to Iraq.

  When my husband got home from the game that evening, I asked him how it went.

  “Oh, it was awesome,” he told me. “So good to spend that time with Trav.” Dave seemed to have genuinely enjoyed himself, but he had a quizzical look on his face, as if he was still piecing together some portion of the evening. I sensed there was more to the story.

  “Well, there was this one thing,” he added after a pause. “As we were leaving the stadium, Travis said something, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  This piqued my interest, so I asked Dave to tell me more. He went on to share with me what happened as he and Travis were making their way down a large stairwell tow
ard the parking lot with the rest of the crowd after the game.

  Travis’s imminent departure had been weighing on Dave all evening, and he couldn’t bear to ignore the elephant in the room any longer. He’d tried to put it aside to enjoy the night, but he just couldn’t let the entire evening go by and not make some mention of Travis’s upcoming deployment. In true Dave fashion, he turned it into a lighthearted joke.

  “Hey Trav, I got an idea,” my husband said as they stood at the top of the stairwell. “Why don’t I push you down these stairs? That way, you’ll break an ankle and you won’t have to go back to Iraq.”

  From what Dave told me, Travis stopped and looked at him very seriously. He was calm and focused, with no trace of a smile on his face.

  “Look, Dave,” he said. “I have to go back. I’ve trained for this, and I’m ready. If I don’t go back, the Marines will just send someone else in my place. Someone who doesn’t have my training or skill set; someone less prepared. I have to go. If not me, then who?”

  I think Dave was a little embarrassed at the turn the conversation had taken. He hadn’t expected Travis to respond with such intensity.

  “If not me, then who…”

  I knew exactly what Dave meant when he said he couldn’t get the words out of his head. There was a gravity to the phrase that we wouldn’t fully understand until Travis was gone. Looking back now, knowing what would happen on that final deployment, those words feel even more powerful. When we re-interred Travis at Arlington, and laid him to rest next to Brendan, we had those five words inscribed on his tombstone.

  A few years out from our loss gave my family the perspective to understand that those weren’t just words Travis spoke at an Eagles game shortly before deployment. They were words he lived by his entire life. He was always looking for opportunities to step up and do the right thing, stand up for a friend, work harder than the guy next to him, or take the harder right over the easier wrong.

  He knew he had something special to offer the world, and he wanted to offer it. He knew he was the only one who could. In the end, when he gave the last full measure of his devotion to his teammates and country, that’s exactly what he did. It was only fitting that his generous and selfless spirit be preserved with that epitaph.

  Several years after Travis’s death, I came across those same five words, “If not me, then who…” in an unexpected place: on another man’s tombstone.

  I received a note on social media from a young man named Tom Hixon, who had recently transitioned out of the Marine Corps. Tom shared a photo online of the grave site of his recently deceased father, Christopher Hixon, a Navy veteran. The image showed a white headstone similar to the one I’ve visited a hundred times at Arlington. It had a cross at the top, and an inscription that bore Hixon’s name, military service, birth and death dates. At the base of the headstone were those words: IF NOT ME, THEN WHO…

  I was intrigued that Tom had chosen this inscription for his father’s final resting place and wanted to know more. Christopher Hixon, I learned, was the athletic director at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, on a day when the United States experienced the deadliest school shooting in its history. On February 14, 2018, a nineteen-year-old former student tore through the school, killing seventeen teenagers and school staff members, and injuring seventeen more.

  When the first bullets were fired, Christopher Hixon was in a nearby building, outside of immediate danger. He heard panic-stricken voices over the radio referring to an active shooter and he left his office and ran toward the fray. He knew he could be of assistance to the victims and wanted to offer help. He didn’t think—he just acted. At a time when everyone else was running away from the danger, Christopher Hixon was running toward it.

  As soon as he reached the building where the shooter was located, Hixon identified students in need of help and did what he could to shield them from the shooter. In the end, he gave his own life to protect the people around him.

  When Chris’s wife, mother, and two sons, Corey and Tom, made arrangements for his burial, they wanted to find a way to honor his self-sacrificing spirit. Tom had served as a Marine and was familiar with my brother’s story. Tom remembered the five words, now the mantra of the organization we started in Travis’s honor, and he knew they captured his father’s character perfectly. Chris Hixon had always put the welfare of others above his own, and he died trying to protect those who needed him. If there’s a better example of what it means to live by the ethos of “If not me, then who…” then I don’t know what it is.

  I didn’t know the Hixons at the time of Christopher Hixon’s death or burial. In fact, it wasn’t until I saw the image of his tombstone online that I pieced things together and became familiar with the family’s story. I was floored that my brother’s words had inspired this family and given them a way to honor their father, husband, and son as he deserved. It was deeply humbling to know that Travis’s legacy of service and sacrifice resonated with others.

  I contacted Tom shortly after seeing the photo and asked him to share his story with me. He told me more about his father and what an amazing man and role model he was. His father, Tom told me, had a penchant for guiding the “bad kids.” He was drawn to the forgotten teens; the ones who were struggling to stay focused, who exhibited behavioral issues in class, or who acted out when they didn’t receive enough love and attention at home.

  Chris Hixon always took these students under his wing. At any given time, you’d find one or two students in particularly troubled situations living with him and his family in their home. He would support them until they could get back on their feet. “I just know that my dad could have helped that gunman if he were given the chance,” Tom told me.

  “If that kid ever reached out to my dad rather than go on this violent spree, I know my dad would have been there for him.” Chris Hixon was a protector and a caretaker. He had a heart for struggling youths and he offered support and kindness to see them through difficult situations.

  Talking with Tom about his father reminded me of the power of legacy. The legacy our loved one leaves behind—the lessons they taught us, the values they stood for, the contributions they made: All of these things are so much bigger than we can imagine. They are so much bigger than our grief and sadness, and they will far outlast whatever pain we have been forced to deal with during our loss. Had it not been for my brother’s death and sacrifice, I would never have met this incredible family. And I would have missed the opportunity to be inspired by the actions of an American hero.

  It’s a tragedy that men like Chris Hixon—or Travis, Brendan, and Rob, for that matter—should be taken from us at all. But if we must lose their physical presence, then let’s make sure we don’t lose their spirit. It’s incumbent upon us—the living—to keep alive their legacies of character. We have to remember the qualities that made our loved ones who they were—their tenacity, their kindness, their sense of humor—and bring those qualities to others. Because if not us, then who?

  Shortly after my brother died, my mother founded the Travis Manion Foundation, with the intent of preserving the legacies of all our fallen heroes, not just her son’s. In fact, I’m 100 percent confident that Travis would hate that he has an organization named after him. In his mind, when he saved his wounded teammates on that day in April 2007, he was doing his job. He was doing what any Marine has been trained to do and he would have insisted that the mission was so much bigger than his alone. And he’d have been right. Our mission is, in fact, so much bigger than Travis Manion.

  When my mom founded the organization in 2007, my dad and I thought of it as her coping mechanism. We knew she wanted to build something positive and powerful out of a grief that was deep and dark, and we were glad that she had that outlet. At the time, we didn’t think of it as much more than a distraction or a pet project. We didn’t think it had staying power. We should have known better.

  The year 2019 marks twelve years since we first opened the doors
of the Travis Manion Foundation. Since then, we’ve supported and empowered tens of thousands of veterans returning from war, and families of the fallen like Amy, Heather, and myself.

  Both groups—veterans and survivors—undergo a difficult transition after they separate from a military life during which they may have lost their identity, sense of purpose, and direction. Our goal is to be there as they navigate those difficult waters and to remind them that they, too, have something to contribute to their communities and country.

  And if they truly want to honor their loved one’s sacrifice, or their own military service, they will carry on the legacies of character of those who have gone before us. The Travis Manion Foundation provides veterans and survivors with the tools to rediscover their purpose. We help them identify the personal contribution they can make, through serving others, and we create a community of individuals to support that effort.

  In my opinion, there are two key ingredients to any successful organization. First: a strong mission. Without a clear objective and bright North Star to follow, it’s impossible to meet your goals. The success of our mission is due largely to my mom, who set us up with a strong foundation. From the outset, the mission of the Travis Manion Foundation has been to support and empower our nation’s veterans and the families of the fallen, and to leverage them as leaders to create stronger communities and a nation built on character. She felt confident that investing in our military community would pay dividends, and her theory has proved true over the past dozen years.

  The second critical ingredient: good people. You can do literally anything with a clear objective and good people to execute it. Have you heard the phrase, “The people make the party”? That’s not just advice for hosting a dinner. It’s advice for life. Surround yourself with people who inspire and challenge you, and I promise you, good things will happen.