Milkshakes and Courage A Point Man in War, a Point Man in Life—Remembering Harry Woodworth
Today is Veterans Day, and I’m thinking about my brother-in-law, PFC Harry Woodworth of the 101st Airborne Division.
Harry served as a point man on the front lines during the Korean Conflict. If you know anything about military roles, you know that being a point man means you’re the first one in. The one scanning for danger. The one most exposed. The one who sees everything first—including things no one should have to see.
Harry saw harsh combat. He experienced the atrocities that war brings. He carried those memories with him for the rest of his life.
But that’s not the Harry I knew growing up.
I was about two years old when Harry married my sister Vivian. Some of my earliest and favorite memories are of spending the night at their house. Harry worked the late shift, and if I was still awake when he got home, he’d lift me up onto the kitchen counter, pull out the family’s first blender—a marvel of modern technology back then—and make us the most incredible milkshakes.
This was a time when milkshakes were a rare treat. Something you bought if you were lucky. But Harry would make a whole production out of it—carefully measuring, blending, making sure it was exactly right. He had this way of making a simple moment feel like the most important thing in the world.
He was an excellent cook. Over the years, he taught me several recipes I still use today. But more than the food, more than the treats, Harry gave me something I didn’t even know I needed: he made me feel safe.
There are certain people in life who just carry that presence. You feel it when they’re in the room. Harry was one of those men. When he was around, I knew—without question—that everything was going to be okay.
Years later, when I was older, I asked him if he ever regretted going to war.
“No,” he said simply. “I was never really afraid again after that.”
I’ve thought about that answer a lot over the years. I think what he meant was that he’d already faced the worst. He’d walked point through hell and come out the other side. What else was there to fear?
Harry left the war behind when he came home, but he never stopped being a soldier at heart. He never stopped being a point man.
He was always watching out for others. Always seeing what needed to be done. Always taking action when someone needed help—whether they asked for it or not.
As a church Elder, he served with that same quiet vigilance. As a friend, as family, as a neighbor—he showed up. Not for recognition. Not for thanks. Just because that’s who he was.
It’s been 21 years since he passed. At his funeral, we were overwhelmed by how many people came—people we’d never met, people whose lives Harry had touched in ways we never knew about. Story after story of kindness, of help offered, of a man who saw a need and filled it without fanfare.
That was Harry. A point man to the end.
Today, on Veterans Day, I’m grateful.
Grateful for his service to this country. Grateful for his willingness to walk into danger so others wouldn’t have to. Grateful for his sacrifice—not just during the war, but in all the ways he continued to serve long after the uniform came off.
But I’m also grateful for the small things. For milkshakes on the kitchen counter. For recipes passed down. For the feeling of being completely safe in the presence of someone who’d seen the worst the world could offer and chose kindness anyway.
Veterans Day reminds me that courage isn’t just what happens on the battlefield. It’s what you do with the rest of your life after you’ve seen the worst. Harry showed me that.
Thank you, Harry. For your service. For your sacrifice. For the man you were.
We’re still grateful. We always will be.
