I have two distinct memories of my dad crying during my childhood. He had to cry more than that, but these two are anchored into my brain. The first time occurred when I was in kindergarten. I was called home early from school. My dad was already home from work, sitting on our couch crying. He and my mom told me my “Papa” (Grandpa on my dad’s side of the family) had died. The second time took place a year and a half later. The summer before I entered second grade, my family took a six-week vacation along the east coast. We spent several days in Washington DC. I remember heading to a wall one day that had a lot of names on it. My dad found one name, leaned against the wall, and wept. It was the name of his childhood next-door neighbor who bravely died so that his comrades could live.
For many, today is a day off school or work. There are many barbecues and most think about it as the official kickoff for summer. It’s an incredible day to celebrate the fellowship of family and friends. Please, try to make it mean just a little bit more than this.
If you can today, please pause for a moment, and think of the brave men and women whom we honor today on Memorial Day.