It had been sitting on the coffee table all weekend, but with the busy schedule of alumni events, the plethora of friends to see, and a social calendar bursting at the seams, I never even looked at it until after it was all over.
“Loudoun Soldier Killed In Taliban Attack On Outposts.”
Stephen Mace. He was only 21. A Specialist in the Army. His parents lived in the town I went to school in. The picture in the paper showed a proudly happy soldier, probably taken right after he finished some segment of training. He was actually smiling, unlike most soldier pictures where their intense desire to be “macho” and “manly” supercedes the ability to smile. He was younger than me. He was serving his country. And now he’s dead.
Because I missed the headline and hadn’t seen it a few hours ago, I was blissfully unaware of what was going on this autumn morning in Northern Virginia. It was a short drive to church. I drove alone, heading to meet friends at my church of many years ago. In true Virginia style, the trees are just about to pop a multitude of earthy colors. The sun still gave long shadows across the road, making me itch for my camera. And – duh – traffic was irritating.
At first, I thought the cop cars were there to make sure we didn’t speed or break some obscure traffic law. Then I noticed a smattering of people along the highway and decided they were there to cheer on racing athletes. Then there were flags. And more people. And more flags. And red, white, and blue signs saying something about “God Bless America.” As I drove closer to the church, I realized that I was also on the road to the airport and obviously these people were waiting on someone to come from the airport.
Then traffic stopped. Just stopped.
Ahead, I saw a hook and ladder truck extended over the road displaying an American flag. People lined the streets, but no one was smiling.
I rolled down my window and asked probably the dumbest question I have ever uttered.
“What are you guys waiting for?”
If I’d read the headline from Friday, I would’ve known the answer.
“They’re bringing home the fallen soldier this morning.”
Almost as soon as she told me and I fell silent, embarrassed that I would disrespect such a beautiful day with my naïveté, the motorcade started coming. Slowly. Reverently. The sunshine showed that every car, every uniform, every motorcycle had been meticulously polished and pressed, the chrome sparkling in the early morning.
Everyone was silent. Somber. The mother told her toddler to “Wave the flag, honey. Wave it big.”
First the cop car.
Then two motorcycles.
Then another policeman.
Then the hearse.
The hearse. Black, big, foreboding. Carrying the body of a soldier. A very young boy who gave his life for his country. A boy who’s life should not have been cut so short.
I didn’t start crying until the next car came into view. All I saw was a woman, probably 50 years old, waving graciously to the crowd with one hand while wiping away tears with another. His mother, I presume. I unconsciously reached up to my face. When my hand came away wet, I realized that I was crying, too.
Crying for the boy. Crying for his mother. Crying for his girlfriend. Crying because that boy will never see how many people actually supported him. He will never know the pride of watching strangers wave their American flags while his body and his family crept slowly along that winding Virginia road. He died for our country but his legacy will live on.
I missed the headline, but I felt the grief.
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