Reflections
Monuments. What are they and why are we drawn to them? Why must we observe the monuments of yesterday, if not to learn for tomorrow? I love history, and the study of it. One person even said that those who refuse to learn from history are doomed to repeat it's failures. So monuments provide for those of us today, a marker for yesterday’s successes and failures.
For 10 years, we lived in the Washington D.C area. Having done my undergraduate work in History, the D.C area was the first place I lived as an adult that was truly “historical.” Sure, Mobile and Huntsville, Alabama both have local history and some national significance if you dig enough. But, Washington D.C, the place where our burgeoning nation would teethe on the concept of “government for the people, by the people,” was a hotbed of history. I remember the first time I drove into the city and was confronted with the sight of our Nation’s capital building, standing majestically against the skyline. It was almost indescribable to finally behold with my own eyes that which I had read so much about before.
Invariably, any visitor to the capital city will have certain sights etched in their memories. Maybe it’s the National Archives and the Declaration of Independence where 56 men braved the wrath of the world’s strongest empire by affixing their names to the treatise that would proclaim “that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” Perhaps it is the Lincoln Memorial, where the man who proclaimed over the site of one of America’s greatest battlefields that “The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. “
For me, the most visually moving monument was the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial. I visited it once alone, a private journey during a job hunting trip. On a fall day, many years later, I would accompany my family to that hallowed monument.
Once criticized for its simplicity, no other monument ever had the dramatic effect on me that this one offered. I have walked Gettysburg and Appomattox. I have seen the remains of Hitler’s power in Germany. I have stood on soil where Americans have bled and died. Yet, somehow, this haunting memorial to 58,245 of America’s sons deeply moved me.
As moving as the monument was when I saw it alone, I was not prepared for the reaction my father would have at the Wall.
My father was a private person. He was of the breed that kept his emotions in check. That is not to say he never was upset or happy. He just never allowed others to see his emotions too deeply. He confronted the world with a sarcastic wit and was always ready to smile at himself and others. He served his nation proudly for over 20 years, going to defend the Republic of South Vietnam two times as a member of the 5th Special Forces Group, and was honored to wear the Green Beret of America’s Special Forces. He served with distinction in what has been described by one source as the most successful Special Operations unit in the Vietnam theater of war.
Touring the Wall, a different side of my father was revealed. Together, we walked the path beside the panels that reflect the names. Additionally, we stood together at the books that document the names on the wall. My father would say a name, I would look it up. Each time I found a name and pointed it out, I could see him reflect on the memories of his brother soldier. When we didn’t find a name, he would nod his head, as if to say “he came home.”
My sister and I would talk later in the day about the reaction of my father at the Memorial. Dad was different that day. The crusty veneer that he presented to the world was cracked.
I still struggle with what I saw that day. I just know I didn’t see the man that was normally where my father stood. I saw a man that felt the burden of the seeing so many of his friends names inscribed in the granite walls, brothers that saw their days end in a land far from home.
There are many that may say that America had no right to be there, and the war was wrong. I will not argue the politics, but, the fact that American men bled and died there is not changed. Whether the government was right in sending them, these men -- these soldiers, adhered to the oath they took upon entering the service of their country. Their's was not the argument of right or wrong, but of doing what those duly elected to office over them had ordered them to do. They answered the call of their country, and some paid the ultimate price for their loyalty.
My father passed away this year. On January 27, 2005 he breathed his last on this earth. As I spoke with my mother in preparation for his funeral, she shared with me that my father, two months prior to his death had “made his peace with God.” During the last year of his life, my father had become a devoted reader of the Bible. Not that he was an atheist prior to that. Instead, my father had a knowledge of God and his Son, Jesus Christ. But, it was only a knowledge of who Jesus was, not an acceptance of what Jesus was.
When Jesus was on the earth, he was questioned by men as to who he was. Repeatedly he was asked by his accusers and his friends who he was. The only time it was acknowledged who he was, it was by demons. They understood the person and the holiness of He who confronted them. Isn’t it amazing that only the demons of Satan understood that in front of them stood the Son of Man.
Many people know who Jesus is, yet they don’t appreciate that He was more than just a character in a story. He was not just the son of Mary; He was the only Son of God. He was to serve as God’s attempt to reclaim his creation. God had required a blood sacrifice to atone for sin after the initial sin of Adam and Eve in the Garden. This separation though would not be permanent. God would continually strive to reunite with his creation and He would, at the Cross, complete the act of reclaiming his children.
My dad reached that knowledge prior to his death. He reached out and claimed the promises that God makes available. While his passing brought great sorrow, I know that one day, I will see him again. When my time on earth has passed, I will be welcomed into heaven and my father will be in the welcoming committee.
While preparing for the funeral, we went through many of my dad’s papers trying to gather required information for his decorations and awards. This brought back many memories of discussions with my father concerning his service and time in combat. My mind went back to that day when we stood at the Wall and beheld the monument to America’s dead. His reaction on seeing names on the Wall, and then knowing some of his friends returned home from Southeast Asia. It made me wonder. Is there a Wall in heaven?
What would a wall in heaven mean? Maybe the names of those who heard the gospel, but never grasped the availability of salvation’s eternal promise would appear there -- those who knew the good fight, but never fought it. Those who felt the tugging of the Holy Spirit, yet, turned away. Maybe those names would be marked on a Wall in heaven.
Seventy black granite panels bear the names of a generation’s sons, brothers, husbands, and fathers that bled and died in the jungles of that Southeast Asia land. I wonder how many panels would be in Heaven’s Wall. How long would we walk the paths laid out by the Wall, reading the names of friends and family, and wonder why they never grasped the calling of the Creator. Maybe, I would stand there with my father, and we could search the names for friends and family, and the share the joy of failing to find a name. And, we could stand with Jesus, and see him smile that knowing smile, for each friend’s name that we didn’t find, and I would know his thoughts were, “That one is here, he is home.”
