Gratitude comes to us at the strangest times, and in unexpected places. Don father passed away last week, after a long and difficult battle with an aging body. Sadness and relief partnered together the past few days as the extended family moved from hospital room to funeral home to gravesite to muted gatherings.
Gene was an Army vetran and had a military funeral. It was almost surreal to drive through the National Cemetary and see the perfectly aligned rows of gray headstones, looking almost like soldiers themselves, standing at attention for eternity. Thousands of them, hills and valleys full of them. At that moment, I felt the first twinge.
It has taken almost 50 years for me to recognize that the base of my spine owns the role of emotional barometer. The pain comes out of nowhere, strong and persistent, my body’s way of feeling what my brain chooses to ignore. I’ve learned that the faster I recognize the source and just feel it, the sooner I can get that hot poker out of my back. Brief soul searching during the procession came up dry and I couldn’t figure out what this one was about.
The answer came with a vengence as the two color guards took the flag from the coffin, folded it with exquisite care, and presented it to Gene’s wife, now his widow. Without conscious thought, I became her, knowing, “This could have been me.” This could have been the flag covering my son’s coffin, as it was so many others who didn’t come back from Iraq. This could have been my unwanted sacrifice to my country. And for one brief moment it was. There by the grace of God go I.
And as the tears flowed, the pain left and gratitude was mine.
