At this time of each year (the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month), we remember once again those who died in conflict, whether it be in the World Wars, Northern Ireland, The Falklands or more recently in Iraq and Afghanistan. These are just the British involvements; there will be many families world-wide who are remembering their loved ones with pride and giving thanks for what they did. We think of those men and women, some barely out of their teens, who paid the ultimate price. They died that we might live; not just to live, but to live in peace, in a better environment, in a better world. We also think of those who carry physical scars, for those for whom life won't be as straight-forward again.

That is what Jesus did for each and every one of us. He died in conflict between good and evil that we might live. He came that we could have life in all its fullness, and suffered and died that we might live, live for eternity with Him.

Also at this time, I think of those who, although they didn't give their all, their lives were changed forever by some of the sights they saw and are continuing to see. I had a happy childhood to a certain extent but my Dad was always quite a hard person, not always able to show his emotions. He showed his love for us as a family by the way he provided for Mum, my sister and brother and me. He always had one or two jobs to enable him to do this. He really did do his best for us in the only way he knew how.

He was the eldest child in a family of one son and five daughters, and, as he grew older, was expected to help provide for the family. When the time came, he went off to war to fight for King and Country and to make a better place for his family to live in. Dad, along with many others, saw many things most of us can only imagine - and even then with difficulty. He relayed some stories of his time in the army. He told us of the time when he was a guard at a prisoner-of-war camp and how the German prisoners metered out their own punishment on those of their number who had been members of the SS. What I didn't know was that in the D-Day Landings the tanks simply ploughed over the foot soldiers who got in the way, and Dad was there to witness it. He was also amongst the first to go into the concentration camps after liberation. The sights he saw, the things he experienced, he didn't, couldn't, speak of at the time. It was too soon after the war, too raw.

I have only learned of these things in recent times. Dad had mellowed with the years and had shared some of his experiences with my sister. For nearly 50 years, Dad had kept it all inside him. It wasn't the done thing in his day to speak to a counsellor and work through emotions. If I had known, maybe I might have understood but I was too young to comprehend such things. As time went on I simply concluded that, although Dad loved us, he was hard. I realise now that the way Dad acted was due in part to his strict upbringing and the things he experienced during the war.

When we were on holiday abroad I happened to drop on the 'God Channel'. It was in 'American' English with foreign sub-titles. The words which caught my attention were 'a mountain-range of forgiveness'. It seemed a very strange expression until I looked out of the window and saw the mountain ranges stretching away in the distance, forever. Then I realised that is what God's forgiveness is for us, a mountain range, stretching into the distance, forever - no strings attached.

If he was here now, I would say, "Dad, I understand and I forgive you". What I wish I could have said is, "Dad, I don't understand but I forgive you".

So at this time, when we remember those who have given their lives for us, may we also remember those who are carrying the mental scars.