Maj. Jim Lively steps out of Rep. Vic Snyder’s (D-Ark.) office, his shoulders filling out his black suit like pillars, his broad chest a mantle for his black-and-white striped tie. Yet it is like seeing a congressman in a tracksuit. You don’t doubt his comfort, but you know that Lively is more at home in his Marine fatigues.

Watch the way he periodically readjusts the arms of his characteristic Capitol Hill suit or the misstep that causes him to trip slightly over his clunky black dress shoes. What does not show is that Lively has proven himself to be a survivor, and a brave one at that, having completed two tours of duty in Iraq. He is one of 11 Marines serving in the Congressional Fellowship Program.

The program is run through the Department of Defense and coordinated through the Marine Corps Liaison Office and the Government Affairs Institute at Georgetown University. Members of the military are placed in a lawmaker’s office for one year to get a hands-on look at the nation’s legislative process.

On Thursday, Lively will be awarded the Bronze Star Medal with the distinguishing device in the shape of the letter “V” for his valor while serving in Iraq. But unless you served with Lively or are a member of his Dallas-based family, chances are you would never know he will be honored.

“To the extent that my actions were valorous, I did what I was asked to do,” said the 33-year-old Marine. “At some point, somebody who submitted me for the award felt my actions were at times valorous and so they recommended me for it. It’s awkward for me.”

Awkward?

Despite his 5-foot-9, solidly built frame and lobster-claw handshake, Lively is humble to a fault and will not say why he is being recognized. Of course, the thing about modest individuals is that they will not say they are modest. Instead, Lively directs credit to his team, all of whom made it back alive, for their commitment to help the Iraqi army gain the confidence to stand on its own.

This is what he will say about the reason for his award: There was a four-day period in Ramadi where they were clearing a volatile section of town, going from one house to the next. He was among six Marines and 100 Iraqi soldiers who experienced extended enemy fire.

While Lively will not admit to any signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, he says that everyone deals with it in his or her own way and that he does think about it.

“I don’t think you can ever really divorce yourself from that,” he said. “It just affects people differently.”

On the topic of war movies, he does not watch them often, but thinks that Hollywood melodrama does not exist in the day-to-day life of Marines in Iraq. While the combat scenes are realistic, there is not the sense of constant drama, he explains.  

Lively was paired with Snyder, himself a Vietnam veteran and member of the House Armed Services Committee, to help with constituent mail and work with legislative aides on hearing material and background research. He will complete one year in Snyder’s office, after which he will serve two years at the Pentagon or the Marine Corps Liaison Office.

Most recently, Lively served as part of a Military Transition Team, which advised an Iraqi army infantry battalion in conducting military operations, expanding reconstruction efforts and dealing with Iraqi police to increase security and stability in Ramadi.

His wife of a year and a half, Ariel, knows how shy he can be. For six weeks, they had been trading glances at the First Baptist Church in Clarendon, Va., while he was stationed in Arlington before going to Iraq. But they never spoke. He didn’t even know her name.

Then one November day, as he was flying home to Dallas for Thanksgiving, she stopped him in Reagan Airport and asked, “Hey, don’t you go to my church?” It turned out they were on the same flight to Dallas, Ariel being on her way to California. Just over a year later, he found himself standing in front of the White House, the site of their first kiss, proposing marriage.

As Lively walks back to Snyder’s office from the Longworth Cafeteria, he stops and pauses at the poster boards on A-frame stands that display the pictures and names of the fallen in Iraq and Afghanistan. They stretch on for at least 20 feet, one atop the next. Once chronologically arranged, the boards have gotten shuffled and Lively’s eyes bounce from one board to the next, and back to the previous, checking dates.

He pauses.

“I knew him — we started our careers together back in 1997,” he says as he points to Capt. Michael Martino, killed on Nov. 2, 2005.