I love my church. With true, honest, open hearts, the clergy
set an amazing example, always striving to live as Christ did. And they make no
fuss over it; they simply do it, much as thousands of men and women, selflessly
and without fuss, serve America in our armed forces.
Our church always has a bulletin board outside the sanctuary
displaying pictures of any service men and women connected to the parish; we
always pray for our troops. And on the Fourth of July we proudly listen to a
roll call of all the signers of the Declaration of Independence—men who risked
everything for freedom.
Yet the Memorial Day service is always special.
This year, the cantor sang Eternal Father, Strong to Save as a prelude. A gentleman in his
eighties made his way to the handicapped seat in front of me and sang along,
clearly and beautifully. I knew he would stand up when the time came to
recognize all those who have served.
My mind drifted to Rilla
of Ingleside, L.M. Montgomery’s book about life on the home front in Canada
during World War I. I remembered how, when her brother’s unit sailed for
Europe, Rilla couldn’t sing the words “hear us when we cry to thee for those in
peril on the sea” until they heard her brother had made it safely past the U-boats.
I thought about how many generations of families have had those feelings.
I thought about how many families feel that way today, as
their sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, grandchildren,
lovers, spouses all serve in a conflict that seems so distant to those of us
not involved.
I remember my pride in my brother’s service, but also the
never-ending anxiety we all lived with when he was in harm’s way, when every
phone call might herald the end of our world as we knew it. My heart used to stop
every time the phone rang. For a split second I wondered if it would be my
parents with the worst possible news…and then I picked it up.
This was in 2003, so troops had no established communication
with home—for the most part, there were no emails, no letters, no phone calls
from the troops themselves. I remember avidly following the reporter
embedded with his unit, and sharing every precious scrap of information with
family members. I remember my joy when his picture was in the paper, then my
pause as I realized it must have been taken days ago, and who knew what had
happened since then.
And I remember burying all that, and getting on with my
life, because that’s what you need to do. That’s what thousands of families
still do today. Sure, communications are more regular now. Think for a moment,
though, what it must be like when there’s a death in your loved one’s unit.
There’s a communications blackout and you wait, wondering if your world has
changed forever—or your neighbor’s or your best friend’s or the family you know
from school, the ones with the new baby. Then the chaplain visits,
communications resume, and everyone moves on in a new reality, a new reality
that includes grief and heartbreak and sorrow and emptiness for one family.
I thought of all that in church yesterday, and prayed that
those who serve today will always be honored and never be forgotten. I prayed
for those who were forgotten and worse, the soldiers of my parents’ generation
who dared not wear their uniforms in their own country. I prayed that our
country has learned to value the men and women who lay down their lives for us.
When the time came, our priest asked that all those who had served
stand and be recognized. Sure enough, among all the others—mostly men and
mostly in their eighties, but not all—the gentleman in front of us managed to stand,
straight and tall.
My tired four-year-old son rested in my arms with his head
on my shoulder. I clung to him as we sang, “In the beauty of the lilies Christ
was born across the sea…as He died to make men holy, let us die to make men
free.”
As we sang that song from 150 years ago—a century and a half
in which nearly every generation has been called to defend freedom—I prayed
that there would be no more need for such honor, such courage, such sacrifice.
And I gave thanks for all who have embodied those virtues, and given their all
for us.
We remember. We thank you.
