Memorial Day Remembrance

President John F. Kennedy said, “A nation reveals itself not only by the men (and women) it produces, but also by the men (and women) … it remembers.” Memorial Day led many of us to cemeteries, memorials, and flag poles in remembrance of Americans who died in service of their country. President Kennedy reminded us that Memorial Day doesn’t just hearken the memory of the fallen, but it serves also to alert adversaries of the very soul of our republic.

Little did I know that my assignment to Arlington National Cemetery as a young chaplain would be the pinnacle of my career. Chaplain, Col. Joe Matthews paved the way for my transfer from (now) JB Anacostia-Bolling Air Force Base, D.C., to Arlington, and in so doing crafted the apex of my career. For at Arlington, every day is Memorial Day. At Arlington, every day is a day that we honor America’s finest and proclaim to the world the stuff American is made of. 

I remember the glorious fall day my spotless shoes sank into ripples of dirt as I stood inches from the walnut casket that held the remains of a WWII veteran. I sensed that my committal prayers were already a fading memory. Raising my right hand, gloved in white, I offered to a gathering of 40 mourners my favorite benediction:

“Day is done,” I said, “gone the sun. From the lake, from the hills, from the sky. All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.”

My eyes surveyed the 50 or 60 mourners standing with me at graveside.

My benediction continued …

“Go now in the name of the One who promises never to leave us nor forsake us; go now in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

            My right hand returned sharply to my side. My steel-plated heels clinked together as I snapped to attention. My salute signaled the Honor Guard to begin military honors.

            A noncommissioned officer snapped to attention barking orders from his distant post. Seven riflemen aimed their weapons high over the casket. The sound of M-1s pierced both the cloud-studded sky and the souls of mourners.

            Crack….

            Crack….

            Crack….

            Even the most stubborn of tears were liberated.

            Following three rifle volleys, a lone bugler sounded the haunting melody of “Taps.”

            Six Guardsmen in tailored ceremonial blues began to fold the flag that had draped the casket of our honored veteran. Snaps and slaps sounded as gloved hands forged a lifeless cotton flag into a sturdy reminder of Revolutionary War headgear and the core of American patriotism.

            With eerie silence, the folded flag rolled methodically through the hands of Honor Guardsmen to mine. With my right hand on top and left hand beneath, the blue and white flag froze in my grasp as the senior pallbearer offered a slow and dignified salute.

            I studied the flag, looking for evidence of red stripes bleeding through. A properly folded flag must show only nine stars set in a field of blue.

            The flag was now mine.

            My mission was to use that flag to help fill a barren heart and empty hands with meaning and hope.