Always Remember

Today is Memorial Day. A day our country sets aside to honor those who have served our country in the military who are no longer with us. Grave sites across the US have been decorated with the flag to recognize the final resting places of servicemen and women.

My father is buried in the national cemetery at Fort Leavenworth. I remember the interment like it was yesterday. In honor of him and all those who have served our nation, I am repeating a tribute that I wrote after his burial. This is for all who served our nation, and for loved ones who rest in the Lord:


I buried my father today.

It was a long silent drive to the Fort Leavenworth National Cemetery. I had hoped the weather would cooperate, and it did, though there is something unsettling about placing a loved one in cold ground while the sun beams on.

An Air Force Honor Guard stood in formation as we took our places. With much solemnity they carefully unfolded and refolded a flag over the small wooden box that held the ashes of a man who had lived eighty-four years, twenty-five of which were in uniform. Those ashes were the only physical remains of a man who kept covenant with one woman for fifty-seven years, reared three children, and delighted in the exploits and successes of nine grandchildren. It was hard to imagine his 5’10” two hundred pound frame in a box that was smaller than most laptops.

Each motion of the flag ceremony was executed with precision. When the final fold was neatly tucked into place, the guard marched in line to a row of rifles. I knew what was coming, but I could not help the involuntary jerk that came with each report. The twenty-one gun salute: An honor reserved for those who have served with distinction. Slowly, the head of the Honor Guard approached my mother with the flag and spoke quiet words no one wants to hear: “On behalf of a grateful nation…”

I don’t know what the Airmen in the Honor Guard thought. They do this routinely. It’s their job. Another World War II veteran dies, another ceremony. Maybe they think it’s just another old codger to bury. I don’t know. I only know that afterwards, when I went to thank them, and told them, with tears, how much it meant to our family that they had come to honor my father, one of them reached out and shook my hand. It was a simple offer of sympathy and regard for our loss. I walked away hoping they understood that what they do matters very much.

A small box doesn’t require a large hole. The hole for my father was much like the hole one would dig for a fence post, only rectangular. An attendant of the cemetery placed the box gently in the grave. My mother laid a single rose, my father’s favorite flower, atop the box. She then tossed in some dirt. My sister and I chose to do the same. As the hole was filled, my mother, sister, brother, and I stood together watching the last of a lifelong relationship being buried. My father’s resting place is under a tree. As I lifted my eyes, I could see he was not alone. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of markers surround him, each representing a soldier, sailor, or airman. It was at once breath-taking and grieving.

The pain will come and go in waves. That’s the professional stance on the grief process. Gradually, it will get better. I believe that. But even with the intellectual foreknowledge we had of his impending death, the heart is still shocked to believe he is never coming home from the hospital. In my heart, I thought my parents would always be there. That childish hope has been shattered by the blunt reality of a marker in a cemetery.

As I write this, I feel the loss deeply, and it makes me want to shut out the world. I can’t begin to fathom what my mother must feel. Yet, I know, as does she, that this is how it must be. God said to Adam, “From dust you were taken and to dust you shall return.” Those words would instill utter hopelessness, were it not for the hope of the resurrection; were it not for the Cross and the Blood of the Lamb that was poured out for my father, my mother, my family, for me—for everyone who trusts in the gift of the Lord’s salvation.

The pain goes with the territory of life in a fallen world. Perhaps that is one of the motivators for seeking meaning and a Something greater outside ourselves and this world. For now, in the pain of loss, I can rejoice because I know the sum of one man’s life does not reside in a small box of ashes buried in the ground. The sum of my father’s life is in the countless people he touched, the lives he enriched. The Lord has kept an account, and I know he heard the words everyone wants to hear: “Well done, good and faithful servant…”

Milestones

My son is graduating from high school tomorrow. It is a huge milestone, but there have been milestones all along. There was kindergarten, when I first had to learn to let him go and trust that others would treat him well, knowing that he would have to learn how manage and to make friends in a strange place where he knew no one. I had to trust that God would take care of him in my absence. We survived that together.

Then there was grade school graduation, when all we had known for the past eight years was about to change radically. We had lived in a safe comfortable cocoon and now we were facing high school where, once again, my son would have to learn how to manage in a new and different setting and make friends where he knew no one. I had to learn to trust again that others would treat him well, and I had to trust God would take care of him in my absence.

Then came the driver’s license. That meant trusting him to make good and safe decisions, to not speed and drive recklessly. And to trust that those he rode with would also be good drivers. The overnights, the dates, the road trips—I had to trust God would take of him in my absence.

Four years have flown by and now my son is leaving the familiar halls of high school. He is leaving behind good friends, great teachers and experiences that have shaped his teenaged years. He will soon be heading off to West Point where all he has known will change dramatically. Once again, he will have to learn how to manage in a strange place and make friends where he knows no one. He will be challenged in ways he has never experienced, and no matter how much he has tried to prepare, it will be difficult.

To say I have mixed emotions is to understate how I feel. I have pride in his achievements throughout his elementary and secondary schooling. He has worked hard and reached goals that reflect his God given gifts. But like at every milestone in his life, I harbor a mother’s anxious thoughts. Will he be safe? Will he find good and godly friends? Will those who exercise authority over him be mindful of his well being? To put it in basic mother terms: who will take care of my little boy, the one I hugged and kissed; the one who I held when he cried from a skinned knee; the one I applauded at school plays and at every Christmas program, every concert; the one I prayed with, and played with.

He is a man now, but although I understand that, there is the part of me that says he will always be my baby, the one I labored to bring into this world, the one who was and is a gift from God.

Throughout his formative years, his father and I have done our best to teach him faith, to lead him to the relationship with Jesus he needs for salvation. I know he has faith and that is a source of comfort and assurance. But my mother’s heart aches knowing he will soon be beyond my care and protection. People talk about the benefits of an empty nest, but right now it rings hollow.

The day will be here faster than I want it to when we watch him board the plane that will take him to West Point leaving us for longer than he has ever been gone, even adding up all his time away from home up to this point. It will be through tears that I hug him before he goes, tears mixed with pride for who he is and hope for who he will become. I will encourage him in his effort to follow where God is leading, even as I ache for his leaving home. And, once again I will have to trust God to take care of him in my absence. It will be a milestone for me as well.

Words That Wound

“You always hurt the one you love, the one you shouldn’t hurt at all” so an old song goes. How true those words are. I can be kind and patient with total strangers but sharp and irritable with loved ones. I can choose words carefully with my customers, yet be careless and thoughtless with the ones closest to me. It’s frustrating for me, and too often hurtful to the ones I love most.

Scripture makes it clear that God is love and those who love him will love others. The bible also says that if we cannot love the person we see, how can we love God whom we do not see? God wants me to love consistently, to behave in loving ways consistently. It’s not that I don’t love those I sometimes hurt, it’s that my actions and words do not always reflect God’s way of loving. So what do I do about that?

I can start with prayer. Taking my short fuse and hasty tendency with words to God in prayer can help me recognize the problem and allow the Holy Spirit to work in me. God’s grace leads to gracious words even when I am tired or stressed. Just becoming aware that I am acting less than loving with those closest to me will help me stop before I go too far.

The Book of Proverbs is filled with wisdom and warnings about our words and their impact on others. We reap what we speak. That is serious stuff. Yet I still too often fall short of living by that. I doubt that I am alone. James in his letter said the tongue was like a fire out of control and that the one who can master it is truly mature as a believer.

Words have power to wound or heal. To have that kind of power at my disposal is an awesome thing and not to be taken lightly. My hope is to learn to master my words and to own my speech as one who is mature in the faith, to respect and have grace in my language given freely to the ones I love most. To always keep a reserve of kind words for the people God has given me as family and friends. I don’t want to hurt the ones I love, the ones I shouldn’t hurt at all. If I live by that goal then God will make it happen in spite of my weaknesses.