Remembering . . .

It's Memorial Day Weekend.
It is a time for reflection about what war is, and what it is not.
It is a time to remember those who have lost their lives for things bigger than themselves -- freedom, honor, loyalty, faith, their country and their countrymen.
My dad was a veteran.
My grandfather is one.
I have several favorite war poems I would like to share as a way of honoring and recognizing those who lived and died for greater things. Who live and die.
I say a humble thank you.
I whisper a prayer that this country would be worthy of the many sacrifices.
I hold my breath for my sons.
I hope for the peace that can only truly come from One.
These poems vary greatly in their take on the subject, which I believe is only fair for such a multi-layered creature as war.
The first is a poem called "Facing it" by Yusef Komunyakaa.
A long time ago, I found this reading of it on a site called favoritepoem.org. To me, this is the best way to encounter this poem.
Please take a moment to click on the link below and select this poem from the list of poems available.
It is powerful.
http://www.favoritepoem.org/videos.html

Facing It

My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way—the stone lets me go.
I turn that way—I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

Yusef Komunyakaa

Into Battle

The naked earth is warm with Spring
And with green grass and bursting trees
Leans to the sun's gaze glorying,
And quivers in the sunny breeze;
And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light,
And a striving evermore for these;
And he is dead who will not fight;
And who dies fighting has increase.
The fighting man shall from the sun
Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;
Speed with the light-foot winds to run,
And with the trees to newer birth;
And find, when fighting shall be done,
Great rest, and fullness after dearth.


All the bright company of Heaven
Hold him in their high comradeship,
The Dog-Star and the Sisters Seven,
Orion's Belt and sworded hip.


The woodland trees that stand together,
They stand to him each one a friend,
They gently speak in the windy weather;
They guide to valley and ridges' end.


The kestrel hovering by day,
And the little owls that call by night,
Bid him be swift and keen as they,
As keen of ear, as swift of sight.


The blackbird sings to him 'Brother,brother,
'If this be the last song you shall sing
'Sing well, for you may not sing another;
Brother, sing'.


In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours,
Before the brazen frenzy starts,
The horses show him the nobler powers;
O patient eyes, courageous hearts!


And when the burning moment breaks,
And all things else are out of mind,
And only Joy of Battle takes
Him by the throat, and makes him blind.


Through joy and blindness he shall know,
Not caring much to know, that still
Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so
That it be not the Destined Will.


The thundering line of battle stands,
And in the air Death moans and sings;
But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,
And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

Julian Grenfell

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.


GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.


In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.


If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Alfred Lord Tennyson

How do you remember? Share your Memorial Day traditions, celebrations and remembrances in the comments.

Gone from my sight. . .

(Just a warning, this one may require tissues.)

I miss the dead people in my life.
I say it like this because though they are no longer here, they are still very much a part of my life, of me.
I miss them in ways I never knew it was possible to miss someone until now.
Morrie, of Tuesdays With Morrie fame, said, "Death ends a life, not a relationship." He was right.
I can see them sometimes, so clearly in my minds eye -- every contour of their faces, their expressions, their smiles.
I can hear them too. There are times when I hear their voices in my ear, my head, my heart -- how they would say a thing, the tone, inflection, quality of it.

So, when I read something I know grandma would have loved, I can hear her talking about it, what she would have liked about the characters and why.
We talked about books a lot. And the boys. And God. And all the bad things going on in the news . . . all the missing and abused children, all the persecuted Christians in other countries, all the oppressed people in the world.
Grandma cared about these people. She prayed for them like she prayed for her own family. She was a prayer.
On her refrigerator, even now, is a scripture she wrote out for herself in large black letters: "God forbid that I should sin against the Lord in ceasing to pray for you." I Sam. 12:23.
Many times, the boys and I would walk into her house and find her on her knees, praying and crying out to God.
I miss her.
I miss her listening to a good book on tape and telling me all about it.
I miss her singing through the house, everything from hymns to big band.
I miss her smooth, knuckley hands, her silly sense of humor, her life.

I miss my dad, too.
I miss the laughing mischief in his eyes.
I miss his quiet advice, his gentle guidance.
And I hear his voice in my ear so many times; I know what he would say, and how, when certain situations arise.
I hear his hilarious stories playing over in my mind . . ." I knew a man named . . ."
I miss him calling me from the road, "Hey, guess where I am? Roman Nose. That's right."
He called me everyday and sometimes we would talk for hours and some days a few minutes and some days he would just leave a message. Everyday. Let me tell you, it leaves a pretty big hole.
Not a day goes by that my sons don't talk about Pop and grandma at some point.
Not a day goes by that I do not see them, hear them, talk to them, miss them.
If I can be half the prayer gram was, if I can remember half of the wisdom my dad imparted to me in his short time here, I will be better for it.
Death ends a life, not a relationship, and in remembering them, those relationships continue until that day when we will see them again.
When gram was dying, Hospice gave us a book with this poem in it. The first time I read it, I never wanted to read it again. But I did. Because of everything I have been through this past year and a half, it has become one of my favorite poems, because it is about the bigger picture.

Gone from My Sight

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side
spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and
starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty
and strength. I stand and watch her until at length
she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where
the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!"

"Gone where?"

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in
mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and
she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her
destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the
moment when someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!"
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout: "Here she comes!"

And that is dying.

Death is not really "death".
It is a shedding of our mortality for life eternal.
It is a change of form, if you will. As a lowly caterpillar morphs into a beautiful butterfly after a short sleep, a small death, and flies away -- something that was only a dream when an earth-bound worm.
It is a changing into our true selves . . ."Beloved, we are God's children now; it does not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. . ." (I John 3)
It is a voyage.
It is a journey to our true home.
A homecoming.
A reunion.
Death ends a life, not a relationship.

Because I believe in ending on a high note, Joe will begin his journey home in a few short hours. On Thursday, we shall see his travel weary face, and it will be wonderful! Pray for his safe trip home.