My father was a young man when nationalism infected the people of Germany. At age eighteen, he volunteered for the military. My siblings and I always assumed that the large, knotty scars on the side of his body were from the war, but our dad said very little about World War II. Having met many veterans at Room in the Inn who are dealing with addiction issues, I have sometimes wondered if my father’s alcoholism was in any way affected by his experiences on the European front. One thing my siblings and I did know about Dad - when he was age twenty, he was in the Battle of the Bulge. Years later, my sister, eyeing his ample stomach, would tease Dad about winning the Battle of the Bulge in the war, but loosing it on the home front. Dad did admit that, after that bloody battle, he never wanted to be that cold or that hungry ever again. So our home was always set on a very comfortable temperature, our refrigerator was always well stocked. In fact, we used to tease Dad when he made breakfast for us. As he tossed the last breakfast pancake into our dog’s dish, he would ask us children what we wanted for lunch. Each Sunday, as we pray “for peace, again and again for peace,” I think of my father. I wonder what his life, what my life, might have been like if he had not witnessed the violence of war. And I pray, again and again, for peace.