Every Day is Memorial Day

War is hell. 

I have no firsthand experience with war; nor do I know anyone personally who served in any of the wars in my lifetime.  I have seen many movies about war:  the Civil War (what an oxymoron!), the World Wars, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, and some of the newer films that are set at various fronts in the Middle East.  I have difficulty sitting through war movies, not finding the realism of battle to be “entertainment.”

If I cannot endure a movie about war, I can hardly imagine the reality of war. I greatly admire those men and women who are brave enough to serve their country.  We owe a tremendous debt to soldiers who heed the call to defend our homeland—those who believe that they will make the difference against the unforgiving cruelty of the political military apparatus.  Every so often, when the death of a young local soldier is presented on the evening news, I feel a pain in my heart for the families who suffer their private loss in the name of a greater good.  It is a debt that can never be repaid and a wound that never heals. 

I remember the surreal evening back in January, 1991 when Operation Desert Storm began combat in Iraq, introducing us to military "shock and awe."  We sat in silence watching the attacks on primetime television, amazed that we could watch our young men and women engage the “enemy” while we were safely tucked away in our comfy chairs.   The news media worked fiercely to update us on the latest military capabilities, dazzling us with our technological prowess.  In all, the cease-fire was accepted within three months; our government bragged that this was accomplished with “only” 148 casualties.

One-hundred forty-eight casualties!  This is not a triumph.  This is 133 men and 15 women who will not come home to their families, who will not live to raise their children or to have them.  It is lives cut short well before their expiration dates.  It is 148 human tragedies of epic proportion.

For my son’s graduation from high school, he asked to visit Normandy.  The American cemetery there leaves an indelible impression on the heart, the human eye barely able to take in the endless grave markers that span out in every direction with military precision.  Each marker represents not only a fallen soldier but also the many parents, children, lovers, and friends whose trajectories are forever changed by loss.

 

Memorial Day used to be called Decoration Day—a day to visit the gravesites of our fallen soldiers, decorating them with flowers and flags in honor of their sacrifice.  Today it is a Monday work holiday that we celebrate with a barbeque, watermelon, and flag-festooned cakes.  If we really want to honor our fallen heroes we should carry the burden of their service every day, cherishing our freedom for the hard-fought treasure that it is.

Tomorrow's blog:  It's Not Easy Seeing Green