When I woke up this morning, I lay awhile in my comfy bed with ceiling fan blowing cool air and debated about whether to actually get up and do the thing I'd said all week I ought to do.
The Houston National Cemetery, the second largest veteran's cemetery in the country, was scheduled to host a Memorial Day tribute at 9:30 a.m. today and early on I thought I ought to go and take my children with me.
We talk a lot about America during our homeschool studies -- even as we delve into ancient Greece and Rome I make a point to draw parallels between those cultures and the ideas that established them and the influence still felt in our culture today. I am desperate for my children to understand that very little happens in a vacuum. Rather, the history of who we are and what we do is deeply rooted in what came before us. It's a continuum, the reason we refer to the "timeline" of history.
Anyway, after numerous conversations about war and peace and why we have soldiers stationed around the world -- and in preparation for the hard conversations we will have someday about things like the Holocaust, A-bombs, Bataan March, etc. -- I wanted my older children to see the price we pay to live free.
So I packed them up along with my mother (who was a young woman during WWII) and we headed out for the veterans' cemetery.
After sitting in traffic forever, walking for what seemed like forever under the Texas sun that was already beginning to scorch everything in sight, and standing forever to hear speeches that weren't audible due to a poor sound system, we waited longingly for the parade of colors, soldiers and music we thought would surely come.
When it didn't, I began to question the wisdom of my decision. My mom and I were hot and tired, the kids were obviously bored and disappointed at the lack of gee-whiz.
The ceremony -- presentation of colors, wreath laying -- all took place at the steps of a semi-circular stone structure, just far enough from where we stood under shady trees to be invisible to us. We sang the national anthem, we did see a cannon salute and we did hear, albeit faintly, a lone bagpipe playing "Amazing Grace." But to say that the ceremony was moving or inspirational or interesting would be a lie. We couldn't really see anything and we sure couldn't hear. The disappointment was palpable.
It wasn't until we began the long, hot trek back to the car past rows and rows of tombstones that I realized with shame the following, and I was immediately remorseful and humbled.
The purpose of the Memorial Day ceremony was not to entertain the crowds. It was to remember those who gave of their time and, in so many cases, their very lives in defense of our country.
We were not entertained because we were not supposed to be entertained. We were supposed to honor and remember.
So if you ask me whether it was worth getting up early, hauling my three kids out in their U.S. flag t-shirts, driving for 45 minutes, and standing around in 85 degree heat at the edge of a cemetery that seems never to end, I have to say it was and here's why:
No matter how far I drove, how long I walked, how sweaty I got, or how tired it made me feel, no one shot at me and I don't rest in peace beneath the hot Texas sun with a flag at my head.
All gave some and some gave all.
Showing up to acknowledge that was the least we could do.
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