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The price of yesterday

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My family like millions of others enjoyed our country’s birthday yesterday.  Our fanfare was reserved to the later afternoon and evening because unlike many others looming deadlines kept us tethered to the computers for a few hours. Nonetheless, the significance of the day was never forgotten.  As dawn broke, we posted the “Stars and Stripes” outside our door, and we recounted how incredibly lucky we are to have been born here in the “land of the free”.

The cost of that freedom has never been questioned in our family as military service dots our family tree like the ripe mulberries in our backyard currently. Generations of uncles, cousins, grandfathers and my own sweetie have served proudly in the various branches of the armed forces. We often get a few raised eyebrows when people hear of our college graduation dates because mine is three years before his.  When folks learn it is because of my husband’s service during Operation Desert Shield and Desert Storm, the incredulous looks we receive are a mixture of gratitude and awe that war changes everything including your college graduation date. The cost of freedom is never free.

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In the last month there have been a few experiences that have brought this knowledge to the forefront of my thoughts in unexpected ways.  Recently we traveled to one of the absolute best World War II museums, Fagen Fighters.  Although we had visited this collection before, our visit that day was to see a travelling Holocaust exhibit featuring Minnesota survivors.  Also new to the museum was a German boxcar which houses a two-sided exhibit.  One side featuring Nazi officers supervising as a Jewish family exits the boxcar, and the other depicting American soldiers who were prisoners of war.  Our visit was emotionally draining as the journey was heart heavy indeed, but I completely lost it when we got to the boxcar.  I broke down and sobbed.  When I looked in the eyes of the extremely realistic wax figures on the GI side, I felt as if I was looking in the eyes of my great-great uncle, Arlie, who was captured shortly after landing on European soil and was forced to work in awful conditions the remainder of the war.  I have only heard bits and pieces of his story as it just wasn’t something he talked about, but I knew enough.  And there I stood overcome by my emotions as my baffled family looked on. The cost of freedom is never free.

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As a part of our family’s commitment to service we participated in the second annual flag placing for our Modern Woodmen youth service club.  For this project our club purchases hundreds of small flags and places them on the graves of veterans in our local cemeteries.  It warms my heart that our children and friends spend hours walking cemetery rows, honoring those who gave of their time and energy to answer freedom’s call.  Walking in the hot July sun is a small sacrifice compared to what these men and women gave to us.  This year one marker really stood out to me and made me wonder how I missed it last year.  The inscription told of the greatest sacrifice of the man commemorated there.  “He died as prisoner of war in Germany during World War II.”  Once again, I was overcome with tears.  My people came home from their various wars, but this man’s family wasn’t as lucky.  The cost of freedom is never free.

Over the years, I have witnessed some things that I never believed I would like a female college student refusing to stand for the national anthem while seated next to my veteran husband, who had tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.  Then there was the time we were shopping in another college town and there were young people protesting soldiers.  Protesting war is one thing, protesting soldiers is something altogether different.  The sacrifices made by individuals protecting their rights to do so, but both times I wondered how we as a society forget the sacrifices that were made on our behalf.

Twice I was reminded through the eyes of my children that while we can’t jog the collective memories of a nation we can instill patriotism one child at a time.  When Reed saw the protesters he asked that we never drive by that corner again, he was too overcome with emotion to explain his daddy was one of the soldiers.  Even at his tender age of nine or ten, he knew that the protestations were laid at the wrong boots.

FullSizeRender (5)Over the weekend, while tending to the grave of that sweet boy, his baby sister looked around at the North Dakota cemetery and noticed the veteran plaques sitting empty.  “Where are their flags momma?” It was a quiet little question, but it reminded me that in her eyes every veteran in every cemetery should be honored with a tiny little flag each Independence Day as a token of our gratitude.

While the prairie wind whispered through my hair, I was reminded she understood the cost of freedom is never free.

For this momma, that was more than enough.

 

Cowabunga Dude

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Growing up, I was the only girl on one side of my extended family for many years. Then, they just kept bringing home one little girl after another for a lot of years. When it was just me and the boys, I learned to love a lot of things that my brother and cousins did. Do not get me wrong. I was ALL GIRL, playing countless hours of dollies dreaming of the day I would have a huge family, but I loved baseball, football, muscle cars, building things, and superheroes as much as they did. I am so thankful those conventions of my childhood are starting to break down.

The first weekend I met my future in-laws we took all the grandkids (one niece and two nephews at that time) to a petting zoo. I don’t remember why there was a petting zoo, but I do recall pushing the old umbrella style stroller with my little tow-headed niece down the streets of Leeds, North Dakota.

From the first moment, I was smitten. If I wasn’t going to marry this wonderful guy, could I, at least, keep these kiddos and this family? When I later learned that the oldest nephew loved a certain clan of superheroes, this news only solidified my thoughts of love at first sight. My future nephew’s favorite was the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. For years, my sweetie and I would search high and low to find the perfect TMNT items for Derek’s gifts for Christmas and birthday. Whenever we would visit, we would watch the cartoons together. All these years later, Raphael, Donatello, Michelangelo, Leonardo, and Master Splinter feel like old friends. I can never take a home-baked pizza out of the oven, and not think of one of the turtles wearing oven mitts doing the same thing.

Over the years, his interests changed as he grew and matured, and he is now a husband and daddy himself. But I never forgot about all the hours we would spend bonding over the latest way our favorite mutant reptiles would battle Shredder and his lackeys, Bebop and Rocksteady. Many times in my daydreams, I remember joy savored in the days long gone. So this last year I put my mind to preserving some of that joy by making a quilt for Derek and his little girl for his birthday and her Christmas present.

I thought this would be a great plan since our TMNT friends were making a comeback. Maybe if I lived in a larger area or maybe if I was a last minute gift planner, that plan would have come to fruition easier. It however did not. I could not physically find fabric anywhere. Rather than despairing, I called my sister (I dropped the in-law moniker years ago) and asked if by chance she had saved any of the bedding our boy had years ago. Not only did she, but she had just ran across it! As a busy mom of busy kids, knowing where something is located is a incredible feat in and of itself.

Words do not adequately express how thrilled I was when I got the flannel fitted sheet, but I will confess to being more than a little nervous. This worn flannel was a precious part of his childhood. I had a hard time cutting it into quilt squares. Once I finally mustered the courage, there was no turning back. I wanted the quilt to be cuddle sized for each recipient, and I wanted a simple design that exuded all things cartoon turtle. It didn’t take long to choose a fleece blanket backing with flannel squares in orange (for Mikey), red (for Raph), blue (for Leo), purple (for Donnie), and turtle green. The only difference between daddy’s and daughter’s quilts would be the addition of some denim squares in the larger quilt and a different sized quilt blocks due to the nature of the repeating pattern of the original sheet.

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She shops around for the best yarns and cottons,     and enjoys knitting and sewing. ~Proverbs 31:13 (MSG)

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 While I love quilting, cutting squares is not always my favorite thing to do. I chalk it up to having tiny hands; so I did have more than a few helpers on that part. The piecing and simple tie quilting were all my handiwork and I loved every minute of it. What an honor to accumulate those three original nieces and nephews and to have added four more on that side of the family and five more on the other side of the family! My dreams of a huge family came true, and with that dream came more blessings than I can even count, including these two cuddle bugs for sure.

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Thanking God today for all the little boys and girls in my life over the years, and all the great adventures they have added to my world! Cowabunga!

19 days: We shall never forget

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Please excuse a short momentary break from all things Christmas.

Two things hold constantly true for me. I am always a keeper of stories, especially those passed down by family members. I am also a burden bearer. My heart hurts when others hurt, even historical hurts. It isn’t exactly rare when those two constants collide, but when they do, I hold what unfolds tenderly and dearly in my spirit. Such was the case when I had a phone call with my Mama the other day.

I call my ninety-year-old grandmother fairly often because I know someday I won’t have that opportunity, and I do not wish to miss any chances to savor time with her, even if she lives twelve hundred miles away. Over the years, we have talked about everything under the sun. Most stories in her collection, I have heard more than once before. This held true until that phone conversation when she told a story I had NEVER heard before.

She commented about seeing her namesake on the annual family calendar I give as a gift for grandparents and great-grandparents. She reminded me that the little Cloie had an upcoming birthday. Teasingly, I said my family had another birthday, our dog’s, to celebrate first. Her retort was, “Well, how could I forget it? You put it on the calendar!”

The mood shifted a bit when I said it was always easy to remember our Huckleberry’s birthday because it coincided with the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. The moment those last two words left my mouth, the old memories came spilling out. It was as precious a moment to me as it reconnected me with my Mama’s family.

She said everyone should remember that date and hold it sacred. She remembered the day as if it were yesterday. In east central Alabama, the Cunningham’s (my Mama’s birth family) were getting ready for church. In a sharecropping family with twelve children, that was no small feat. The radio was playing gospel music in the background before the normal programming was abruptly interrupted. The choked up announcer relayed the information as best he knew it at that time.

The United States at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii had been attacked by Japanese forces. The toll in terms of lives taken and property destroyed was indescribable, but the vulnerability felt for the first time by entire generations of Americans was even greater. Just the retelling of the story, one that had a significant impact on her life, left my Mama choked up.

“It was the first time I had ever seen my Daddy cry.”

As soon as he heard the newscaster’s words, he sat down at the kitchen table and wept. Mama Cloie described it as sobbed. There they stood as young children and teens, surrounding their loving Daddy, not fully understanding what they were witnessing. He had lived through the Great War, World War I, something his generation never wanted to relive. As the patriarch of his family, he knew, without a shadow of a doubt he knew, what would happen to his young sons and his brothers-in-law as America regrouped and dealt with one of her darkest hours.

His knowledge of past hurts proved to be prophetic, my great uncle Preacher (his nickname) and my great-great uncles Arly and Hef were all sent away to fight for America on foreign soil. Their lives changed forever.

Tonight as we drove by a city building on our way to a banquet, we saw the flag being flown at half-staff. I wanted to call my Mama and tell her, “We remember. But more importantly, we shall never forget.”

Photo found on www.nbcnews.com

Photo found on www.nbcnews.com

No greater love . . .

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This past Monday, Memorial Day, was spent the way it typically is for our family – albeit in a different location.

This day is one we hold dear.

Normally our remembrances occur at the place where two special people (my father-in-law and our son) are laid. There the deer really do roam free as the geese and ducks fly overhead. It is a beautiful place where the wind whispers comfort to our hearts that creation knows our greatest sadness rests in her rich, dark soil.

On this day, our feet usually trod in the cold, dewy grass, before we journey through breath-taking, sun-dappled lands to a program and fellowship at VFW Hall (long ago also serving as the indoor basketball court) in almost forgotten North Dakota town.

Every year, we remember and we give thanks.

My heart always stirs driving by the cemeteries on what was erstwhile Decoration Day to espy a treed lane, green, yet bedecked in red, white, and blue splendor.   Out here in small town America, we do it up right – almost reverently.

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Old Glory waves exuberantly over the verdant grasses of the prairie as families make the somber pilgrimage to honor the lives of the ones held now only in their hearts.

For this day, we remember.

Silently and contemplatively, we remember our loved ones that have gone on to their eternal rest.

More so, we remember the sacrifices, a cost so high we dare not utter it aloud, made by others on our behalf.

Our usual sojourn for son delayed, we knew exactly the place he would want us to go this year.

Nothing hits a small town harder than the loss of one of their own children, our greatest legacy. When that loss is the result of a war, we can never erase the pain.

It is a sadness that lingers because it is a constant reminder at how precious life truly is. Our thoughts are cloaked by a thin veil of mourning; evoking such a strong soul response . . . our worst nightmares can and do come true.

For this day, we remember.

We want to shout to the heavens that we will not forget your sons and your daughters, but protocol is silence.

We were not alone as we walked silently up the car-lined dirt road to the cemetery on the prairie.

We went to honor a soldier our son revered. We are not alone; more people are in the cemetery than live in the nearby town. A grieving parent’s  greatest horror is that their child’s name will not be recalled.  Today is not that day.

The soldier’s parents are there. We hug them tight, whispering, “Your son will never be forgotten.”

They echo the same whisper to us.

For this day, we remember.

We remember that freedom has never been free, and we know that liberty come at a cost.

A stone surrounded by patriotic flowers and ribbons is our evidence.  One of our own paid that ultimate price.  He was taken much too soon.

For this day, we remember.

We remember gold star flags are bought at a thieves ransom, a price higher than anyone should ever have pay.

Tears overwhelm our wearied lids as we know that sometimes daddies, brothers, husbands, sons, cousins, wives, daughters, mothers and friends do not return.

For this day, we remember.

We grieve and yet simultaneously, we stand next to our own soldiers, quietly whispering prayers of thanksgiving – they made it home.

Later, we gather at park aptly named Liberty to hear the order of the day and reflect upon its meaning.

We watch as a generation of men and women, the ones who helped make this country great, lay wreaths, humbly recollect the stories of the lost, and cry tears for friends and loved ones that didn’t make it home.

We realize that this generation, remembering all who have taken up the America’s call, is aging before our eyes.  Will this continue without them?

For this day, we remember.

We remember that those who are serving today work in conditions far worse than this drizzling rain, and we stand, wet, as if our small sacrifice honors what they do every day.

Watching them in their starched white and black American Legion attire, we know the salute is coming, and yet, collectively the entire crowd of souls jumps after the explosive first round fires away.

My children don’t know a world where this is a day of celebration.

For this, we are proud they don’t because for this day, we remember.

Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. John 15:13 

 

 

 

 

The grand finale . . . the last Reed’s Run

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Drawing Copyrighted property of Reed's Run

Drawing Copyrighted property of Reed’s Run

Well this is it.  I feel like I am sending my baby off to kindergarten.  I have loved, nurtured, worried, fretted, and spent many hours praying for Reed’s Run, and now, it’s time to send it off.  I carry in my heart precious memories of a job well done, funds raised, and hope given.  To say farewell, I am just going to give a list (not all-inclusive) of some of those favorite memories.

  • Friends and family working together to remember and honor
  • Honoring veterans each and every year (including remembering Jason Timmerman)
  • The friends from the Patriot Guard coming (even if unofficial)
  • Being able to publicly thank all of the first responders.
  • That flag over the start/finish line – took my breath away!
  • Friends arriving that were a surprise to me
  • Family flying/driving in from all over the country
  • Hosting a Grampa’s Amp concert
  • Students taking a stand (I will never forget what they did.)
  • All the hugs!
  • The Reed stories that came out.
  • Remembering all the children gone much too soon. The luminaries were always my favorite, especially during the movies.
  • Remembering three adult friends who offered healing to us and now are gone before we ready.
  • Honoring those who have inspired us.
  • The Star Wars theme song!
  • Seeing the t-shirts everywhere!
  • The generosity of our neighbors!
  • The joy of the runners, walkers, and kid runners!
  • Cheetahs and all the love!
  • Popcorn stands, Boy Scouts & Girl Scouts!

Finally, the most important memory is the message that we worked so hard to send.  Healing comes from a firm foundation rooted in the love and sacrifice of Jesus Christ and from the all the many hands & feet (and HEARTS) of a loving community reaching out in love.

To rise from tragedy . . . cling to HOPE!

Thank you for being the hearts that offered hope and healing!

 

6 days to go: To God & My Country

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Those who have attended previous Reed’s Runs know of a special ritual that we have each year.  The ritual is the placing of 12 American flags at the beginning of the race course.  Each flag is placed by a veteran that has a special place in our family or in Reed’s life.  We have had every military skirmish since World War II represented in that flag line.  Military operations, such as Black Hawk Down also known as the Battle of Mogadishu, and Desert Storm as well as Vietnam, Korea, and Iraq/Afghanistan are represented.  Seeing those 12 beautiful flags flying is one of the highlights of the day for this veteran’s wife.

Most do not know the background behind the significance of that simple recognition and placing of those flags.  Twelve flags – one for each year Reed lived – mark the path for the runners for the beginning and the finish of the race course.  The decision to continue this tradition each year has been because of an oath that Reed pledged at Boy Scouts.

The Boy Scout Oath

On my honor I will do my best
To do my duty to God and my country
and to obey the Scout Law;
To help other people at all times;
To keep myself physically strong,
mentally awake, and morally straight.

Reed’s faith is something that has been a core memory at each run, but his love of country is lesser known.  Reed was so proud of his dad, a veteran of Operation Desert Shield and Operation Desert Storm.  He took pride in his dad’s service, and he went out of his way to thank men and women in uniform.  It’s just something we do in this family.  But he took his love a little bit farther than most his age.

He was fully aware of some of the protests throughout our world, and he wasn’t opposed to the right to assemble.  He never minded when groups protested war, but it was a different story when people protested soldiers.  Then it was personal.  Reed was fully aware of the reception his adopted grandpa and football coach received when he returned from Vietnam.  He was equally aware of how much of a sacrifice military personnel make for each of us.  Protesting soldiers simply just made him mad.  We once had to practically sit on him when we accidently drove in the midst of a protest in Mankato and we were jeered because we were in a vehicle with veteran’s plates.  After that moment, Reed simply asked us to avoid any protests because it was too upsetting.

He wanted the whole world to understand that “no greater love hath a man than to lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:13 (ISV) He knew that the bench that sits at Lakeview school on the way to the Memory Garden wasn’t there to be pretty.  It represented a real Lakeview Laker. A real soldier. A real man. A real husband. A real son.  The bench is memory of Jason Timmerman.  Reed followed the story in school of how the street in front of the armory in Marshall was to be changed from Armory Drive to Timmerman Drive.  Every day, EVERY DAY, until I was almost exhausted from doing it, Reed begged and pleaded with us to drive by there until that sign was up.  He just had to see it.  When it finally changed, he was PROUD.

It is so easy to take something for granted, especially something as insignificant as a piece of cloth.  Not for those of us who understand that lives have been changed for that piece of cloth.  A whole lot of love and sacrifice and honor and duty are wrapped up in her waving beauty.  In one of his sweetest moments, Reed got down on his knee and explained to his baby sister when she was only 2 years old what a sea of flags represented at Mattke field.  In reality, each flag represented a life lost in the Iraqi war.  But in his own sweet way, he told Cloie that the flags were special because each one of them were about someone who loved her.  I would have to say that he was right.