2025 HONOREE

U.S. NAVY SENIOR CHIEF PETTY OFFICER (RETIRED) KENTON STACY

In a Legoland hotel parking lot, Lindsey Stacy's phone vibrated. She saw the area code and smiled—Kenton. Her husband, a 34-year-old Navy EOD master technician, was deployed in Syria, due home in three weeks.

Married for 13 years, the high school sweethearts from Ohio had four children. Kenton had served four combat tours, disarming IEDs in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria. This deployment meant missing their son Mason’s sixth birthday. At the hotel, Mason blew out his candles and wished for his dad to come home.

The next morning, Lindsey’s phone rang. It wasn’t Kenton—it was his commanding officer. There’d been an explosion.

Nineteen months later, Lindsey still remembers the moment her heart sank. She wasn't prepared for the extent of Kenton's injuries, the hospital stays, or the outpouring of support from loved ones and strangers alike.

Kenton and Lindsey met in homeroom in sixth grade. By their junior year, they were inseparable. He wanted to be a firefighter; she pursued a career in travel. When Greenville had a hiring freeze, Lindsey saw a newspaper ad for firefighting jobs. Kenton called—only to find it was a Navy recruiter. No fire jobs, but there were openings in Explosive Ordnance Disposal.

He thrived in EOD, jumping from planes, diving, and deploying with Navy SEALs. His career flourished while Lindsey put hers on hold to raise their family. When he deployed to Syria in 2017, he aimed to prove himself as a master technician.

On Nov. 9, 2017, in Raqqah, Kenton was training local soldiers to clear ISIS bombs. His team defused several IEDs in a hospital before an explosion rocked the building. Staff Sgt. Justin Peck, an Army medic, found Kenton unconscious, bleeding from his throat, chest, and leg. Kenton's heart stopped four times before surgeons revived him. He endured over a dozen surgeries and 42 pints of blood transfusions before being flown to Texas for treatment—arriving on Veterans Day.

Lindsey had always feared losing him—but not this. Not a coma, paralysis, blindness in one eye, and damaged vocal cords. Yet, as doctors played heavy metal music in his hospital room, nurses noticed him lip-syncing. His brain was intact. He was still Kenton.

Their faith kept them going. Lindsey, who had endured past traumas—including losing two of her triplets at birth—set one goal: Bring Kenton home. Kenton battled infections and surgeries, moving from hospitals in Texas to San Diego.

The EOD community rallied, providing round-the-clock hospital visits, and family support.

Kenton struggles, sometimes wishing Lindsey would move on. She refuses. On their 15th anniversary, she vowed, “I will be your arms, I will be your legs, I will be your voice.”​​​​​​​