Memorial Day

It saddens me that so many think nothing more of Memorial Day than a day off work. So I wonder, why should it matter to remember the fallen, the brave who gave their lives in service to us? After all, they are gone and cannot reap the rewards of our gratitude. Just who is this holiday for?

I learned this morning that Decoration Day sprang, in 1865, from the deep gratitude of freed African slaves, who observed an annual remembrance at the graveyard of 257 Union soldiers in Charleston, South Carolina. In time, it became the day to remember all who died in military service in all conflicts─Memorial Day. Today it marks the unofficial beginning of summer and the blockbuster movie season with parades, fireworks, and the television broadcast of the Indianapolis 500. 146 years from the holiday’s inception, thankfully those parades also include moments of silence, spontaneous applause and standing ovations for the vets who march by.

I remember as a kid watching Memorial Day parades in my home town, even marching in them as a Boy Scout. I recall visiting my father’s grave, a vet who returned from World War II but died from a stroke when I was 12. Someone always placed a flag on his grave. I was too young to question who.

My brother and father both served, though both returned safely from war. I know Memorial Day mattered to them. The brotherhood forged in battle runs deeper than all friendships, and for my brother, Bill, volunteering at the VFW meant giving back, an expression of his gratitude and compassion that he never tired of. Army, Navy, Marines, regardless of how they served, he shared a comradery with all vets until cancer stole him in 2005. Dad died the year before my brother was drafted. They never had the chance to share the comradery.

To ignore the memory of the fallen is to ignore their sacrifice. We can’t thank them directly, but we need this day to remember that our freedom came with a cost. I’m no legalist and as guilty as anyone for getting excited about a three-day weekend ahead. But when I flip that steak on my BBQ, I hope I’ll remember the price that was paid for the freedom to do so.

Something About Nothing

Have you ever considered starting a blog? Me either. Well, actually I secretly wanted to. I just had nothing to say. Not that nothing isn’t something, mind you. It’s just that, what can you say when you have nothing to say?

But certainly nothing, itself, is something. Shakespeare thought so. He wrote Much Ado About Nothing, a comedy centered around lovers having a “merry war.”

And they say, “nothing ventured, nothing gained,” which certainly applies to me on many a Sunday afternoon as I watch Seinfeld reruns. You might say I venture nothing, and I get it, and that’s something … I think.

And if space is a vacuum, is that nothing? In 1995 astronomers pointed the Hubble Space Telescope at a tiny region of empty space between stars in Ursa Major, and exposed a photo for 10 consecutive days, just to see what they’d find. (Astronomers are such rascals. Never leave them alone with a telescope for 10 days.) The resulting picture revealed over 3000 galaxies, each containing billions of stars. Now that’s something!

But black holes in space. Now there’s a whole lot of nothing─matter compacted so tightly that even light can’t escape its gravity. Stephen Hawking, made famous for his work on black holes, puts his faith in nothing, literally. In fact, he believes the universe created itself from it. In his latest book, “The Grand Design,” he’s quoted as stating, “Because there is a law such as gravity, the Universe can and will create itself from nothing. Spontaneous creation is the reason there is something rather than nothing, why the Universe exists, why we exist." Apparently Mr.Hawking has never been to Washington D.C. All those laws we have seem to come from somewhere, and his statement begs the question, “who wrote the law of gravity?”

On a more personal note, I recently found God in nothing as I waited 4 ½ hours for my wife to complete surgery. The operation was relatively routine, but any surgery involving the spine and full anesthesia is not without risk. We kissed goodbye, knowing there’s always a remote chance of becoming the, “almost,” in “almost never occurs.” I did the same as everyone else seated around me. I read. I prayed silently. I looked around. I paced. I prayed. I prayed more. I read more. (By the way, did you know Robert Redford is originally from L.A. and started out his career as a painter in Europe? You can learn a lot by reading AARP magazine. But I digress.)

So after living about 180 minutes-by-minute, the magazine rack and my book on photography didn’t cut it for me. I wanted it to be over. It wasn’t painful, I just resisted living in the present tense. I sat and silently stared at the windows, taking mental note of the shift in sunlight during my wait. I drew near to God when I prayed, and it certainly mattered. But that was a very long 60 seconds ago. What about now? I resisted living in the present.

How silly of me to fight  what I couldn’t change. My body lives each minute, but I can still pass time by losing myself to thoughts, longings, hopes and fears, filling the time with anything other than what’s happening in front of me, especially if it’s ordinary. To live in the now seemed grueling, because I sat alone in the mundane. It was alright to wish the surgery would end, but why resist the moment when I could travel it with the creator of the universe. In my moment of nothing I found something. He’s been waiting for me all along. Unaccompanied by life’s distractions, I heard his gentle whispers and knew his peace.