With that in mind, my wife and I finally summoned the courage to watch Saving
Private Ryan, Steven Spielberg's haunting window on the days surrounding the
Allied invasion at Omaha Beach. When the film was first released, war veterans
broke down in theaters, many unable to process the memories invoked by the
soldier's-eye view of the horrors of battle. I don't blame them. I sat with my
trigger finger on the remote control's "fast-forward" button during the first 30
minutes. And I must confess to covering my eyes with a pillow on two occasions.
When the scene finally switches from the bloody beaches to a peaceful America,
we see a mother glancing up from her sink as a U.S. army car creeps up the dusty
driveway and stops before her farmhouse. Ever since her four sons had enlisted,
in hopes of halting Hitler's bloody advance, she has been praying this moment
would never come. One of her boys is gone, she realizes in horror. Which one
could it be? But the news is worse than she could have imagined.
That day she is handed not one, but three telegrams. Three of her four boys are
dead. And the fourth is missing. Sinking to her knees on the porch, she watches
the dishtowel slip from her trembling hands.
Stirred by the grief-stricken woman's plight, the U.S. Army chief of staff,
General George C. Marshall, resorts to unusual measures. He orders Captain John
Miller (Tom Hanks), a hero of the Omaha Beach battle, to lead eight men across
the picturesque French countryside to find the fourth son, paratrooper Private
James Ryan. His mission: Bring Ryan home alive. Together they strike out,
heading in the general direction of Cherbourg. Though their mission is
eventually accomplished, the cost is high. Most of the eight lose their lives,
and in an act of the ultimate sacrifice, Captain Miller gives his own life to
save Private Ryan.
The film concludes in modern-day France as an aging war veteran shuffles up to a
grave in the sea of white crosses memorializing those who died liberating the
country. His family stands back, giving space to his memories. Five decades have
passed since he was rescued and returned home. Five decades since the men gave
their lives that he might live. Overcome by gratitude, Private James Ryan kneels
before the tomb of Captain John Miller and breaks down in tears, like his mother
on that porch so many years before.
Turning to his wife at last, he cries, "Tell me...tell me that I've lived a good
life." She walks forward and wraps her arms around him as they weep together.
The tears come for me too, as I write. You see, I too have knelt before a cross.
A cross that reminds me of the monumental sacrifice of the One who gave His life
that I might live. And like Private Ryan, I feel a sense of unworthiness. Such
love, such sacrifice, makes me want to do something. It seems to demand that I
repay the Giver, that I sacrifice something in return. "Tell me," I want to say,
"that I'm worthy, that I've lived up to this, that I've done enough, that I've
run fast enough."
Then comes the gentle reminder: "You haven't, Phil. There is nothing you can do
to deserve this. Just accept it, it's all been done."
God's finished work in Christ Jesus has brought us salvation, redemption,
reconciliation, resurrection, and eternity with Him. His death has brought us
life. His grace has brought us Home. Nothing we do will ever make us worthy of
such grace. Nothing we do will ever repay the debt. What can we do but accept
the gift and live the rest of our lives with thanksgiving, reflecting that
grace, mirroring for all around us the reality of the greatest reversal in all
of history? God loves the unlovely, forgives the unforgivable, offers grace to
the graceless, and provides a resting place to the busy and the burdened.
Callaway, Phil. Who Put My Life on Fast-Forward? Eugene: Harvest House
Publishers, 2002, p. 258-259.
www.philcallaway.com
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