From the desk of Pastor Craig...

Memorial Day, Memories of Memorial Days,

and Why We Need Them

It’s official.  I’m a geezer.  I know this because I am absolutely convinced that Memorial Day celebrations were better when I was a kid.  And, yes, I know that when you read that, you’ll think it should have been in quotes: “when I was a kid.”  Like “in the good, old days.”

So, let me wax nostalgic for a few minutes and, hopefully, let you experience (or re-experience) what we learned about Memorial Day back then… not from books or speeches but from our feet and legs and hands and arms and sun-burned faces and tired bodies.

Here’s how (some of my) Memorial Days started back then:

We got up when the dew was still heavy on the grass, ate a hurried breakfast at the kitchen table with very few words.  We had a schedule to keep.  We knew what it was.  There wasn’t time to waste or need to talk about it.  We had to get to the meeting place for the parade… a parade that could have been in almost any other town in the U.S. because every town had one.

Those of us who were Scouts (Cub, Brownie, Boy, Girl, Campfire Girls, Explorer, etc.) put on our uniforms, made sure our shoes were polished, neckerchiefs ironed and straight, then hopped on our bikes or got into the family car.  We arrived at the staging area for the parade, joked with our friends, said “Good-morning!” to their parents, and lined up for inspection.  Yes, inspection!  No scout leader would allow an untucked shirt or cock-eyed hat to show disrespect for the troop, the dignitaries present, those who lined the parade route, or the honored dead on that day.

The parade wasn’t long – maybe a quarter-mile from the staging area to the small stage erected in the cemetery.  But, we marched carefully… left, right, left, right… to the music of a school band playing Sousa marches.  The route wasn’t long but it took a while because every scout troop, every cheerleading squad, every drum & bugle corps, every antique car, every decorated tractor, every elected official, fire chief (on the newest truck), police chief (in the newest cruiser), ambulances, and every homecoming king & queen were in the parade… even the book-mobile… past every parent of every kid in that parade.

By eleven o’clock we were all at the cemetery, standing at parade rest among the headstones, a small American flag in front of each.  For the next hour, politicians and clergy, veterans and active duty officers went to the microphone.  None of us remembers a word of their speeches now.  Truth be told, we didn’t listen much then.  We do remember how our legs and feet felt after an hour, how the sun (or rain) felt on our faces, how heavy a flag gets after the first half-hour.  We remember talking to each other out of the sides of our mouths and stifling a giggle, covering it with a cough, so as not to be thought disrespectful.

And, then, the moment we waited for… the flagged was lowered and folded, the rifle team snapped to attention, the orders barked in staccato tones, “Ready. Aim. Fire.”  Again.  And, again.  And, then, it was over.  “Dismissed!”  The younger ones scrambled to where the gun-smoke lingered in the air to grab a still-hot shell casing – a souvenir of one of the most-important days of the year.

I’m not sure we really knew WHY it was important.  But, I know HOW we knew it was important.  Because no one would make us take a perfectly good Saturday away from baseball and building forts for something that wasn’t really important.  No one would make us shine our shoes and stand at attention for an hour for something trivial.  No one would make such a fuss with music and parades or wait through long speeches for anything… unless it was important.  No one would make us do that for anything less than something really special.

That’s how I learned that Memorial Day was important.  Later, I came to understand some of the “whys” of its importance.  And, now, I understand that nothing is important unless someone makes it important.

“I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” – John 10:10

What a wonderful gift, this life is.  And, too frequently, we treat it as less than what it is.  Let’s make it important.