Our National Anthem

Last night I was privileged to lead the singing of our National Anthem before the final Lebanon Thanksgiving Tournament game of the evening. Though I have sung our National Anthem many times in similar circumstances and venues, something last night was very different . . . and to be honest, I find myself at a loss of words to explain it. Maybe it had to do with the nearness of the U.S. flag in the gymnasium, or maybe it was the number of folks who, indeed, sang along, or maybe, even as I was singing the words, I was hearing them for the first time all over again. I'm not sure. What I am sure of is that, as I was singing, I saw not only the stars and stripes, but also my brother, Larry, who served in the Army in Viet Nam, and my Uncle Del who flew as a gunner in B-17's in WWII and was shot down, surviving the Nazi death marches, and my friend, Dave Harrison, who is a retired AF 'boomer' in tankers, and Nancy's Uncle Ched, who served in the Army and lost his life in WWII in France, and our own son, Ched, as he now attends the AF Academy.
People close to my heart whose lives have included or, in some cases, have been eternally defined by their service to country, commitment to the flag, and a deep respect of our National Anthem are the very ones whose images I felt near, as the words and music filled the gym, uniting us all through the years. It wasn't spooky, it was emotion-filled, memory-comforting, even challenging - and when I sat down to continue the announcing I was shaking, my hands having a hard time holding the microphone. What is it about our National Anthem that it inspires and cajoles us so? What is it about the flag that tugs at the very fabric of our heart and soul? What is it about those who serve which demands our greatest of respect, our deepest of admiration?
Pondering on those who do not rise when a flag passes by in parade, on those who do not remove their hats when our National Anthem is sung, or who won't place their hand over their heart when the Pledge of Allegiance is spoken: it is their Constitutional right to do so. Yet, after last night's experience, I am coming to understand and believe that those who have little investment - have even less commitment. The deeper you are in the trenches, the more the battles mean, whether it regards our country or the church.
Make of this moment what you want but, now more than ever, I am coming to value and reverence the sacrifices of martyrs and saints of every generation who knew not only what their rights were, but gave of themselves to defend the rights and liberties of others. For faith, for country, for all who serve, I am grateful - and pray I never forget the cost they have paid, nor turn away from my responsibility to do the same that all might know life . . . much as the Christ of our faith has taught us.
Blessings on the journey, Pastor Don

Memorial Day

The first thing I noticed driving into my hometown yesterday were the flags. On every power pole, on every block, at about a forty-five degree angle beginning at about six feet off the ground, was stationed 'The Stars and Stripes' or, more appropriately stated, an American Flag. Approximately three feet by four feet in size, the flags along the mile of Main Street which is Marissa, Illinois, were an impressive reminder of the reason for the celebration, which was Memorial Day. Driving through town, hurrying to make it to the Memorial Day Service being held in the Marissa Cemetery at the Veteran's Memorial, all of the flags passing by my windows in rapid succession, first some on the left, then some on the right, got me to thinking about the lives, dreams, and visions they represented.

Are there enough American Flags flown in the United States of America on Memorial Day to signify every person who has died in defense of our country? Can there ever be enough? I was a History major in college, but never thought of it this way. If you began counting from the time the United States was being settled by the immigrants, not to mention the Native Americans whose lives were lost defending the land against the invasion and aggression of the immigrants, how many people's lives have been lost in defense of our country? Can we ever really know? How many lives are lost yearly in covert operations whose code names and assignments we can only imagine? And what of the lives lost in support of those who do battle, those whose places in the annals of history are in places like a coal mine in Marissa, a farm field in Darmstadt, or a factory in Belleville? Are there enough flags to go around?

Pulling into the cemetery, I quickly realize the service has begun early due to impending inclement weather, so I bring my car to a quiet stop not too far away, and walk up just in time to hear my father-in-law complete the Invocation. Following his prayer he introduced the keynote speaker, the Mayor of Marissa, Jerry Cross, who is an old friend of mine from my High School years. Jerry spoke on many of the 'traditional themes' of Memorial Day, but the one thing that most caught my attention was when he said, "I have never worn a uniform in defense of my country, but my son has served in the United States Marines." He then went on to detail how his appreciation of what is offered up for our liberties, what is suffered for our freedom, and what is endured for a lasting legacy of the pursuit of happiness, has greatly deepened because of what his son and his Marine comrades have taught him.

Hmmmmm. It is not the number of flags you fly, but that you fly the flag. It is not that every life is marked with a flag, but that every flag is marked with life.

As Jerry completed his comments and the Honor Guard fired their salute, the trumpet sounded 'Taps', allowing the notes to drift across the marble of the Veteran's Memorial then out and through the graves of the saints, the soldiers whose names are etched deeper in the hearts of those attending than any stone mason could etch into tombstones. Tears flowed without shame as my gratitude for deliverance by the hands of others could find no more fitting tribute for their sacrifice. Looking up from right in front of me with eyes also flowing with tears, our granddaughter, Mary Cailin, asked me for my handkerchief. A bit surprised, but not wanting her to feel awkward, I said to her, "It's all right, Cailin, Papa's crying, too. We have a lot for which to be thankful." To which she responded, "I remember."

I remember. Every flag is a beacon, every flag is a remembrance. Every flag is a person, every flag is a nation.

If our seven year old granddaughter is capable of such remembering, maybe there is hope for the rest of us. In counting the flags, in counting the cost, in counting the lives, remember the past and become part of the future. For in failing to remember we are condemned to the past, and in failing to become part of the future we give it over to others.

My deepest thanks to all the Veterans, living and dead, whose sacrifice allows such pondering and whose love of Nation inspires mine.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don