The hardest day of my life.
I was standing still next to a small set of bleachers with my hands behind my back, watching a crowd of people, in the cool clear Colorado morning, approach in anguish, stone slabs that are engraved with simple names.
Through the crowd, a grief stricken mother doing everything in her power to maintain her composure just until she can be alone again, pushed her small daughter forward. The little girl slightly confused about what is going on, having just a limited understanding of the of the elaborate ceremony and its importance, yet even in the small child’s eyes there is the glimmer of understanding that this is solemn occasion. She is basking in the glow of the attention given by all that see her, for they see the star in the greatest tragedy they know. Playing with the golden curls of hair that her mother had spent hours working on in the morning, she smiles and wonders why every one else is smiling with just their mouths and not their eyes. With her mother’s hand on her back and a yellow rose in her right hand she breaks free of the crowd and stares at a rock slab jutting out the grass, she knows this is not natural and that someone must have placed it there. Then seeing the names on the polished stone she attempts to read what is written, however the sounds do not make sense and the abbreviations that are laid out in front of the confusing sounds are unreadable at best. In a confused look back at her mother, who is remaining strong and impassive, she is told to lay the rose at the base of the stone. When she turns back to the slab and bends over to put the rose down as only a child can do, by bending the knees, squatting and looking up all at once, she notices one word that she can read. Her name. Right there with all the other confusing words close to the bottom is her name. Then terror comes across her face as the rising storm of grief washes over her, she knows that it is not her name but the name of her Dad that someone has etched into the slab of rock before her. Breaking the rose, she spins back to her mother screaming. Even to this child with no more than five years behind her she knows that she is looking at the lasting tribute to her dead father. And the understanding that he is never coming home sinks in for the second time in her young life. With barely shedding a tear and sucking in a deep breath she forces her daughter to complete the task and lay the rose at the base of the stone with everyone else’s.
Standing next to the mother is a smartly dressed Lieutenant. Barely 25 years old and only a child in the eyes of the woman that he is escorting. His tears shed months ago for the loss of his comrade, his Platoon Sergeant, his mentor and friend, and none are coming today because he must be strong for the wife and child of his fallen brother. His composure is solid as he stands there in his uniform. He helps get the mother daughter combination through the crowd, with some anticipation he too wants to see the slab and ensure that his friend’s life is marked on the rock for all to see and know. Being strong and compassionate is easy in uniform, the shiny buttons and tabs and badges give you a false sense of security and an added strength. It is not until he watched the little girls face light up with final understanding of what the meaning and reason of this whole elaborate game she had been playing all day was. At the moment the girl spun he could see the look in her eyes and it brought him to his knee and unleashed emotions that had been buried for over ten months.
I stood no more than ten feet away from this Shakespearean tragedy, watching the final tribute of a family that I did not know except from stories and smiles, and the tinny pictures that my friend loved to show to all of us that were so new to life and love. I watched as my friend had to endure the pain of escorting the family to the monument, as well as watch the crowd of people grief stricken and sad. All I felt was complete sorrow toped with a not so health proportion of anger. The contemplation of the sacrifice made by men for other men, is too much for anyone to truly appreciate until they have seen it in person. That man whose name is forever etched as a hero in the a marble slab on the west entrance to Fort Carson Colorado, would probably tell you he would do it all over again knowing the outcome.
“Greater love hath no man that this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:13
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