Morning. Our town's USS Indianapolis survivor, sat on the stage, waiting to lead us in the pledge. I watched his shoulders shake and his face pucker during the National Anthem. What memories he must harbor, which flow unbidden on days such as these.
It was standing room only this year. The kids and I, among the standees. We could only catch a fraction of the stage from our vantage point in the balcony. But on a day when you remember the blood, sweat, and tears of soldiers; how can you complain about that?
I watched my snippet of the stage and thought of soldiers in fox holes. Doing their duty in one small part of a teaming battlefield. Not knowing what was happening elsewhere. Just doing their jobs. Following orders. Painfully aware of their little snippet of the world. Trying to stay warm. Stay alive.
Evening. I brought in James's flag. It was quiet. No cars going by. No dogs barking. No words uttered. Just fabric gently cracking in the breeze. I looked up at those Stars and Stripes bathed in moonlight and prayed for him. For his parents. They, passing another Veteran's Day in America's heartland. Wishing their son had been sitting on the stage in their auditorium. Leading his family and friends in the pledge. And crying when the National Anthem was sung. Thankful he was home.
Instead, a dream lost. Hopes shattered. On a dusty road in Afghanistan, four long years ago.
Thank you James for your sacrifice. Thank you, Jim and Theresa, for yours. May God bless and comfort you. May you feel His arms around you when it seems like a million years ago. When it seems like only yesterday.
(photo of James's flag, taken by me at noon, and cropped by my son)
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