Vietnam was once an ugly, never-to-be-forgotten war zone where young Americans died at a much-too-rapid pace. Soldiers trudged through steamy jungles where ugliness was up close and personal, while a different kind of torture plagued their friends and families back home.
Devastating news reports triggered fear. Actual war footage was shown in living rooms across America. An unexpected knock on the door brought agony to the next of kin. Would our soldier come home in a body bag? Would men in uniform show up at our front door? Hearts were shattered inside those homes as the all-too-familiar script was shared: “We regret to inform you of the death of…”
During that era, I was a teenager attending high school in Iowa City, Iowa. This university town was a cesspool of young people vehemently opposed to the war…and who wasn’t? Even staunch supporters of our military and our country weren’t fans of the war…but protests never bring peace.
My eyes were opened to the ugliness of war and to the ugliness of those who oppose war. I saw downtown businesses destroyed by explosives thrown through windows. Draft dodgers swiftly left our country rather than stepping up to serve. Protestors defiantly sat on asphalt streets in front of buses filled with draftees headed to Des Moines to be sworn in. Somber goodbyes were only made more heart-wrenching by those who blocked the buses. So much hatred was spewed across our great nation, while protestors screamed “Peace!”
On the other side of the world, exhaustion of weary soldiers was exacerbated as they heard reports of riots and chaos. Those serving on the front lines were betrayed daily by those they fought so hard to protect.
Returning vets – those fortunate enough to survive the battlefield – were met back home with hostility rather than accolades; protests rather than parades. Maybe they weren’t the fortunate ones. Which is worse? To be met with blatant disrespect or to be draped in an American flag? I really don’t know.
It was indeed an ugly era and the atrocities of war devastated so many families – my own included. Let me introduce you.
My mother was the oldest of eight kids, all born and raised in rural Iowa. Mama was married before her youngest sibling was out of diapers. By the time he outgrew the crib, my brother needed it. Then, I did. Grandma died much too soon leaving Grandpa to raise their youngest four, alone – Reva, David, Jim, and Jack. The older four were on their own. Mama helped with her young siblings while raising her own kids. The six of us were quite a menagerie. Stairsteps, just two years apart. My aunt and I are ten years apart, with my brother and our three uncles in between. We were (and still are) close, almost like siblings.
But, then there were only five when an unwanted knock came on Grandpa’s door.
In February 1969, James Dale Camp was mortally wounded by shrapnel when his unit came under heavy enemy fire in a nighttime ambush. Soldiers dove into their bunkers. For Jim, it was too late. My uncle bled out in the arms of a fellow soldier. [That is actually another story I need to tell because fifty years later I met that soldier. We talked and remembered and cried together. I think each of us healed a little that day.]
But, back to 1969. In September, David was drafted. Surely, he wouldn’t have to serve on the front lines, we thought, with an engineering degree from the University of Iowa. But, his orders stung. David was to serve in the infantry in that steamy war zone in six short weeks.
The U.S. Army had spoken. An overwhelming sense of helplessness blanketed our family, along with fear, anger, grief…and a tiny spark of faith.
My mom and her youngest sister believed all things were possible with God (Luke 1:37). They knew the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man (or woman) is powerful (James 5:16). So, they prayed in earnest. Continually. Separately. They prayed the same seemingly impossible prayer:
Please, God, don’t send David to Vietnam!
Two sisters, miles apart, were crying out to the Lord, in unison. God prompted them to write letters. Never before had either one written to a congressman or president, but they obeyed that divine nudge in 1969 (still unaware the other was doing likewise). God knew the plans He had for David (Jeremiah 29:11) and was working behind the scenes on his behalf even before those prayers were spoken and letters were written.
I’ll never forget the day God answered those prayers…by phone. Remember when phones were firmly attached to the walls of nearly every home in America? Big, colorful, clunky phones with ridiculously-tangled cords.
It was mid-afternoon when our phone rang. Ring! Ring! Ring! Mama listened intently as the caller talked. I stood nearby trying to figure out who was calling and what was being said. My mom began to lean heavily on the countertop. Her voice quivered and her hands shook. When the call was over, her tears flowed. That call originated in the White House in Washington, D.C. and was an answer to prayer.
Because of a new law passed in June 1969 and because Jim was killed in action in Vietnam, David would NOT be sent there. David’s superior officers were unaware his brother was a Vietnam casualty and David was completely unaware of this law, but his orders were changed as soon as the paperwork was done. Praise God!
David did serve overseas during the Vietnam era but was NOT assigned to a combat zone. He returned safely when his tour was over.
Is there anything too hard for God? No! (Jeremiah 32:17) Nothing! Not even a last-minute deployment change.
That law wasn’t passed simply because of the prayers of my mom and my aunt, however without their prayers, without God’s promptings, and without their obedience, this family story could have ended much differently. And, we are forever grateful!

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