I’ve never lost anyone I loved to war. In fact, I don’t think that I know anyone who has died in war. That feels absolutely remarkable given that I grew up with two parents who both served more than 20 years in the United States Air Force. Today, I feel deeply humbled by this reality.
On the news last night, I heard that six more soldiers died last Thursday while serving in Kandahar, Afghanistan. They were stationed in Ft. Campbell, Kentucky, a base near my home. Six more families without their loved ones. The future of our world altered in at least six more ways. Six more stories abruptly ended by America’s “War on Terror.” The whole thing turns my stomach, over and over and over again. It has for years.
Today is Memorial Day, the day we are supposed to remember the cost of freedom. We are to honor the people who’ve shed their blood for our country. Blood, like the thing that ran down my son’s legs when he wrecked his bike last weekend. Blood, the thing that races through my veins right now while I try to explain how an Air Force brat resents Memorial Day celebrations.
They lost their blood. They lost their lives. We buy beer and buns to celebrate… er, I mean to honor them. It makes me sick.