Veteran's Day

As he stood with eyes down cast, I sat watching the drizzle fall waiting for the light to change. As I read his cardboard plea for help, I started looking for money. His shoulders sagged in the worn clean yellow plaid shirt. The years lined his face, and I am sure a story or two could have been told for each line, though I doubted he told stories often, as he seemed like a gentle, listening man, rather quiet with the hurt of living evident in the way he stood, almost ashamed of where he was…and then I felt a wave of shame wash over me…it is Memorial Day weekend and this veteran is asking me for work so he can return home to a state far away. How often do I choose to look the other way? How often do I wonder if these strangers are really in need? What makes me so quick to judge without compassion? What do I know of suffering? As he received our donation, I knew he would have been happier doing so if he had completed a labor in exchange for the money. As we pulled away, my heart flooded with sorrow to watch someone struggle—it didn’t matter that he was a stranger to me, as I realized he is a fellow American—part of a greater family we don’t think about much anymore. Nonetheless, his shame became my shame as I thought about how circumstances in life are unpredictable and how important it is to lend a helping hand, and my mind flashed back through the years, as I embraced this reality.

My first stop was with my grandfather who remembered Memorial Day not only on Memorial Day, but throughout the year. As a young girl, I remember going to parades and activities at the local legion in our small community. My grandfather was a vivacious man who loved his country, and his pride flowed strong in his blood. He was the only son, so when his friends and neighbors went off to war, he stayed behind to milk the cows and plant the crops—though I didn’t know this until I was older. He always had such respect for our service people and never failed to remind us of the sacrifice of the men and women in the armed forces. In retrospect, I recognize he made it a priority to be knowledgeable about his country and fellow Americans. As a result, I had great admiration for these men and women I did not know, for in his passion I felt the cost of my freedom and opportunities.

Then I recall, a few years ago, though my children were young, I once again attended a local Memorial Day service at the cemetery. As the kids and I walked down the road beneath all the red, white, and blue I blinked back the tears and remembered my journeys with my grandfather as a child. My grandfather liked to talk, but this day was always silent. It was a comfortable silence filled with a reverent tone that seemed to last all day, and I noticed that my children also seemed to sense this. Afterwards, the kids asked me why we did this and I began walking through the headstones quietly pointing out the men and women who didn’t come home and tried to explain the significance of remembering—wondering why I hadn’t listened closer to my grandfather’s stories as I struggled for words. I realize though it may be years before they fully understand the significance of the holiday, but I desperately hope they too will understand someday.

You see, now I wish I had offered to take this man to the bus station and purchased his ticket home. It was so simple and I didn’t even think of it until it was too late because when I returned he was gone. Once again I feel shame, but next time I will know what I will do—though I wish there would never be a next time. What a powerful lesson,one that will remain in my heart. One that will remind me to be grateful. One that will remind me of the struggle of human existence. One that reminds me that freedom is not cheap. One that needs to be kept in my heart and felt each time I look at the American flag… Now, I understand why my grandfather faithfully raised and lowered the American flag each day.

For each veteran and for every family surrounding him/her, I thank God for you today and every day. I acknowledge that I have no idea what your sacrifice required from you. I know you may be hurt or wounded or proud or quiet, but tell the stories you can so your children and grandchildren will appreciate this day. One can tell a lot about a culture from the stories they tell, and frankly we don’t have time for stories much anymore. Perhaps as children when we grew weary of the same stories, we vowed not to tell stories, but maybe it is time to dust off the stories so the lessons won’t be forgotten.

So we can see the young man in a sharp clean uniform with shoulders back and head held high in sharp salute…