Remembering – 19

I would wake up a little later than usual, although most Mondays I’d be off to school already and the weather was less predictable.  For some reason, though, this day was usually a warm sunny day.  It was a surprise to find Dad making oatmeal or pancakes.  This Monday was different. 

There would be more flowers in the house and a few of the garden tools would be out.  We wouldn’t be doing work outside in the yard, though.  We were going to work in a yard, per se, but our clothes didn’t indicate it.  We were actually going to do this work elsewhere.  This Monday was different.

Mom and Dad were always in their busy routine.  Mom would be getting ready for a busy “bussing-the-children-to-school” and choir teaching day while Dad would’ve had his lunch packed with an assortment of fruit and sandwiches along with a fresh, hot thermos filled with coffee and honey for his truck run.  This was not case today.  It was quieter; well to us, at least, it seemed that way.  This Monday was different.

This Monday we would all get in the family van and drive to Greenwood Memorial Cemetery.  Don’t be surprised if the drive was more somber than on other days.  When we arrived, we quietly walked out of the van and began walking softly.  I would look down at graves of people, mostly children that I never knew, but their gravestones were still familiar nonetheless. 

Mom and Dad would begin working while we kids usually watched.  We wanted to help and sometimes we did, but this was a moment they spent together, working together, and they shared with us how reverent it is to remember a lost loved one. With garden shovels and garbage bags, they would meticulously clean the gravestones, first my brother’s, Caleb.  After they were done, you found a perfectly edged gravestone with new colors from the flowers planted tastefully around it.  This they did a few more times: my Pop Pop (Llewellyn Fletcher), a World War II veteran, my grandmother Iris Fletcher, and my other grandmother Martha Wilson. 

Once they finished cleaning the stones, we usually walked them back in reverse, observing our lost grandparents/parents first.  Interestingly, it wasn’t until after my Pop Pop’s passing that I found out of his service.  He never spoke about it to me, at least that I can remember.  He was always so peaceful and joyful.  My grandma Iris I remember vividly.  She was always joyful and filled with the Spirit.  Her joy at times was overwhelming - but wouldn't any little boy think that - but I am so thankful for her love for the Father.  She lived as though she could literally see angels about us.  My grandma Martha was tender.  There isn’t much I remember of her since she passed relatively early, but her smile is still in my mind.

Lastly, we walked back to see Caleb’s stone, or at least Mom and Dad did.  We would soon follow them there, but our eyes were already set on them.  Mom and Dad were holding hands, both faces set on the stone, and then tears would follow.  There weren’t many times Mom would cry, but over Caleb it was often.  We remained still wherever we were, worried that movement would disturb them, even if we were yards away.  I would fight back tears and quickly rub them away if they ever tried to drip.

Who do you remember?  Do memories of loved ones flood you as they do me?  These images are falling on me as I speak, enough for me to easily write chapters.

On Memorial Day, I feel honored to be able to remember our loved ones.  I am humbled by the men and women who fought for me to be able to remember them.  But not only to remember them but to be thankful for them, for what they gave me.  Freedom.  And not only did they fight for my freedom, they fought for others to have it as well.  They bound up the brokenhearted, proclaimed freedom for the captives and released the prisoners from darkness (Isaiah 61:1b).  But the lasting image in my mind comes from the gravesite.  Just a few yards from my brother’s stone sat a large statue.  Jesus was sitting with children.  Here I can see Caleb jumping into Jesus' lap.  And then I see Jesus' death on the cross.  Not to die for the sake of a good story, but to die to give us freedom. He released us from the darkness.  He has set me free.  I am no longer captive.  On this day, I remember salvation and joyfully celebrate the liberty he gave to me and to those before me so that I can see them again.  Because of this, I will walk in freedom because your love is unfailing and promises are trustworthy.

⁴¹ May your unfailing love come to me, O LORD, 

   your salvation according to your promise; 

⁴² then I will answer the one who taunts me, 

   for I trust in your word. 

⁴³ Do not snatch the word of truth from my mouth, 

   for I have put my hope in your laws. 

⁴⁴ I will always obey your law, 

   for ever and ever. 

⁴⁵ I will walk about in freedom, 

   for I have sought out your precepts. 

⁴⁶ I will speak of your statutes before kings 

   and will not be put to shame, 

⁴⁷ for I delight in your commands 

   because I love them. 

⁴⁸ I lift up my hands to your commands, which I love, 

   and I meditate on your decrees.

Psalm 119:41-48

19 days!