Coming Home

While out running errands with the kids today, I passed a church we pass several times a week.

But this time, it looked different.

This time, there were what appeared to be hundreds of small flags, surrounding the perimeter of the parking lot.

And many more larger flags outside the church.

And  police cars.

And fire trucks.

And an honor guard.

This time, I realized as I recalled recent news reports, they were saying good-bye to a twenty-two year-old soldier.  He was killed on Memorial Day, and was being laid to rest on the forty-eighth anniversary of D-Day.

I wanted to stop the car.

I wanted to tell his family that I'm sorry.

And thank them.

And tell them that we won't forget.

I also wanted to somehow show my children what an honorable moment this was, while shielding them from what a heartbreaking and devastating moment it was.

Of course, it was the family's moment to grieve their horrendous loss, and I don't know them.

And there is no way to show what an honorable moment this was without also showing what a heartbreaking and devastating moment it was.

So I said a prayer, and I kept driving.

I was going to include his name here, but I'm not sure it's my place.

And while his family's pain is theirs alone, in some ways, he is every soldier.

He is every one who's left too soon.

And every one who's sacrificed.

He is every soldier whose homecoming was supposed to be met with cheers, and hugs, and tears of happiness. But has been met instead with quiet respect, and flags at half mast.

His mother is every soldier's mother.

His father every soldier's father.

And so, to all of them:

I'm sorry.

Thank you.

And, no, we won't forget.