My husband, George, shares a story each year in remembrance of those who have paid the highest price for our country.
Nine years ago, I buried my father in Arlington National Cemetery, Arlington, Virginia. He was 86 and an Army veteran of WWII; part of ‘the greatest generation.’ As we drove to the burial site we passed row after row after row of white tombstones perfectly aligned in all directions. The tombstones reached out over rolling hills like fields of wild flowers. As I absorbed this vista, the tombstones seemed to speak out, in ever so soft voices, offering untold stories of service to our Country. Is anybody listening? Will you remember me? Do you care?
On subsequent visits I have noticed that many of the graves are of young men and women who never got the chance to grow up and age with their families. Lives cut short, standing their watch, so the rest of us could enjoy the freedom provided by this great Country.
In the vastness of this…
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