Day Three - Grace and Honor

1.17.16

I took myself on an educational outing today to the D-Day Memorial in Bedford, VA.  For those of you that are not familiar with Bedford, likely the majority of readers here, it is a small town of about sixty-five hundred people, which, if you are interested, is approximately 4,000 less than the number of people living in my neighborhood of Philadelphia.   

It’s also home to views like this one:

 We don’t have one of these in my neighborhood.

Admittedly, my trip to the memorial was Plan B to a thwarted visit to Homestead Creamery, which, I sadly discovered, is closed on Sundays.  In my years of relaxing at Smith Mountain Lake I had never made it to this World War II Memorial.  Everything I had heard about this dedication to the 4,000 plus men, who lost their lives in June of 1944 in a monumental battle for freedom, had been filled with praise and acknowledgment.  So in a quick change of plans, I hopped into my car and drove the 30 minutes across town, turned left at a very modest sign, paid for my one adult ticket, and entered the quarter-mile of memorial in honor of these men who fought with valor, fidelity, and sacrifice. 

You may find yourself wondering why a memorial such as this exists in a town with fewer people than one square mile of Philadelphia.  A good question until you discover that Bedford suffered the highest percentage of losses than any other community in the United States in the early morning hours of June 6^th that year. 

This piece of information was not new to me, but as I walked down the cold pathways of stone, marble, and bronze, I was struck by the honor and humility of these men and their relentless fight for freedom.  And suddenly my own freedom was that much more precious.

Knowing me, you will also know that I am someone who is adamant about what is not working about this country I live in.  Among a people who obstinately profess living in the greatest country in the world, I pointedly differ in opinion, noting our comparisons in education, incarceration, technology, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.  And so I was startled and moved at the honor, humility and gratitude I was suddenly awash with.  These men, these 10,000 soldiers, had voluntarily put up for sacrifice their most precious and beloved lives for the honor of my freedom—the freedom of a woman born decades after their fight.  I was, in that moment, and still am, present to the unconstrained ability to pursue happiness, peace, and joy, and the gratitude of having that freedom fought for so bravely and seemingly without question.  I am filled with a whole new level of love and appreciation for the men and women who fight for those freedoms that I have taken for granted.  I am flooded with a new kind of acknowledgement and recognition of the fight and stand these most beautiful service men and women take.  And while I know I will never fully understand what the fight is like for them, I am forever honored by it. 

The last figure as I drove away from the memorial was a sculpture created by French artist Edmond de Laheudrie.  It has been erected here to remind us of the fragile nature of peace – that it takes tending to and is not something expected, but held with honor and vigilance.  And that we are the keepers of it and it is our duty as the men and women left behind to honor the lives of these 4,400 men who died that we may know peace and freedom and the pursuit of happiness.