There is this gentleman that hosts a local talk radio show here in upper Utah. He definitely trends to the more conservative side of issues regarding politics and religion. I have listened to him for years on the way into work and have come to think of him as a friend, even though we have never met in person.
With that being said, he also has a background as a newspaper reporter, but that seems like that was back when journalism involved telling the facts of a story rather than the writer's opinion and bias on the subject of which the journalist was reporting supposedly. Anyway, I was struck by this article that my radio friend wrote and thought is was more than worthy of sharing. His name is Bob Lonsberry.
HORNELL, NY – I spent two hours last night in the cold outside Dagon Funeral Home. There were three or four hundred people ahead of me, two retired schoolteachers behind me, and a congressman about a dozen people back.
When I left, in the cold dark, the line still stretched out the front door, left down the sidewalk, around the corner, and back for two blocks.
That’s how it is when a hero dies.
That’s how it is when a small town loses its first such hero. The first since Vietnam.
Lance Corporal Zack Smith was 19.
His high school sweetheart will be a widow on their first anniversary.
And the price of freedom will never be clearer than it was last night in the cold.
The pictures inside showed a young man who could be a model of what a young American man should be. Strong, robust, smiling, obviously full of joy. Ready to tackle the world and whatever it had to offer. In a football uniform, on the golf course, in the arms of his family, in the arms of his bride. In the uniform of the United States Marine Corps. You felt a shiver as you saw and thought.
This is the fruit of America, this is the best we produce, this is the salt of the earth and the foundation of the future. This is what was lost in the south of Afghanistan in the fight to keep the war over there and the peace over here.
On January 31 an explosive went off and three Marines were dead. Eight years at war and thousands lost and this is the price you pay.
Only the odds are you don’t pay it. And neither do I. Odds are it is paid by all-American families from every corner of this country, mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers. Hearts broken, dreams shattered, loves lost.
He was a great kid, a good son, an American patriot.
And in the connections of a small town, in that fabric that is the substance of life’s richness, most of the people in line knew one another, or were related to one another, or felt close to one another.
Zack’s wife’s mother was five years behind me in school. His grandfather was best friends with my uncle, and his great-grandfather worked on the railroad with my grandfather. The guy ahead of me in line was school friends with Zack’s dad, and cousins with his wife’s father.
But the brotherhood in the place was of country, not blood. There was love of Zack and his family, but there was also love of America. A palpable patriotism, expressed in stuttering grace at one time or another by almost all the people in line. There were men in Vietnam veterans hats, Marines with combat medals on their chests, a guy with a 1st Cavalry pin on his lapel, another with a service ribbon, countless with American flag pins. The congressman wore a Naval Academy ring and there were four motorcycle guys out front lining the walk with flags.
This was America. The real America.
Where a state trooper and his wife can raise a son noble enough to wear the uniform of the United States.
Where a community and a culture can give a young man a chance to chase his dreams and be who he wants to be. Where two young people can fall in love and pledge their lives to one another.
Even if that’s barely six months.
Even if a warrior’s homecoming passes through Dagon’s and St. Ann’s on the way to St. Mary’s.
This is America. The real America.
And at the head of the line, inside the warmth of the funeral home, stood the family, shaking hands hour after hour, exchanging hugs and smiles, words and tears, memories and promises. A grandmother who was grateful for offers of prayers, a grandfather who paused to stare ahead and above as the emotion overcame him, a proud brother and loving mother, a father with the physique and the haircut of a Marine himself. And a teen-aged widow with her husband’s embroidered name strip around her wrist.
And a casket where Zack lay in the dress blues of the United States Marine Corps.
That’s what war means.
That’s what freedom costs.
That’s what one family paid.
That’s what a small town lost.
That’s what the rest of us must live worthy of, what we must live up to, what we must never forget.
Last night in the cold, hundreds stood in line to bear witness of their love for a family and their commitment to their country. They quietly waited for a moment to whisper what was in their hearts, and what their presence shouted for all to hear. They quietly waited to say “Thank you,” and “We love you,” and “We will always remember you.”
HORNELL, NY – I spent two hours last night in the cold outside Dagon Funeral Home. There were three or four hundred people ahead of me, two retired schoolteachers behind me, and a congressman about a dozen people back.
When I left, in the cold dark, the line still stretched out the front door, left down the sidewalk, around the corner, and back for two blocks.
That’s how it is when a hero dies.
That’s how it is when a small town loses its first such hero. The first since Vietnam.
Lance Corporal Zack Smith was 19.
His high school sweetheart will be a widow on their first anniversary.
And the price of freedom will never be clearer than it was last night in the cold.
The pictures inside showed a young man who could be a model of what a young American man should be. Strong, robust, smiling, obviously full of joy. Ready to tackle the world and whatever it had to offer. In a football uniform, on the golf course, in the arms of his family, in the arms of his bride. In the uniform of the United States Marine Corps. You felt a shiver as you saw and thought.
This is the fruit of America, this is the best we produce, this is the salt of the earth and the foundation of the future. This is what was lost in the south of Afghanistan in the fight to keep the war over there and the peace over here.
On January 31 an explosive went off and three Marines were dead. Eight years at war and thousands lost and this is the price you pay.
Only the odds are you don’t pay it. And neither do I. Odds are it is paid by all-American families from every corner of this country, mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers. Hearts broken, dreams shattered, loves lost.
He was a great kid, a good son, an American patriot.
And in the connections of a small town, in that fabric that is the substance of life’s richness, most of the people in line knew one another, or were related to one another, or felt close to one another.
Zack’s wife’s mother was five years behind me in school. His grandfather was best friends with my uncle, and his great-grandfather worked on the railroad with my grandfather. The guy ahead of me in line was school friends with Zack’s dad, and cousins with his wife’s father.
But the brotherhood in the place was of country, not blood. There was love of Zack and his family, but there was also love of America. A palpable patriotism, expressed in stuttering grace at one time or another by almost all the people in line. There were men in Vietnam veterans hats, Marines with combat medals on their chests, a guy with a 1st Cavalry pin on his lapel, another with a service ribbon, countless with American flag pins. The congressman wore a Naval Academy ring and there were four motorcycle guys out front lining the walk with flags.
This was America. The real America.
Where a state trooper and his wife can raise a son noble enough to wear the uniform of the United States.
Where a community and a culture can give a young man a chance to chase his dreams and be who he wants to be. Where two young people can fall in love and pledge their lives to one another.
Even if that’s barely six months.
Even if a warrior’s homecoming passes through Dagon’s and St. Ann’s on the way to St. Mary’s.
This is America. The real America.
And at the head of the line, inside the warmth of the funeral home, stood the family, shaking hands hour after hour, exchanging hugs and smiles, words and tears, memories and promises. A grandmother who was grateful for offers of prayers, a grandfather who paused to stare ahead and above as the emotion overcame him, a proud brother and loving mother, a father with the physique and the haircut of a Marine himself. And a teen-aged widow with her husband’s embroidered name strip around her wrist.
And a casket where Zack lay in the dress blues of the United States Marine Corps.
That’s what war means.
That’s what freedom costs.
That’s what one family paid.
That’s what a small town lost.
That’s what the rest of us must live worthy of, what we must live up to, what we must never forget.
Last night in the cold, hundreds stood in line to bear witness of their love for a family and their commitment to their country. They quietly waited for a moment to whisper what was in their hearts, and what their presence shouted for all to hear. They quietly waited to say “Thank you,” and “We love you,” and “We will always remember you.”
- by Bob Lonsberry © 2010
Mr. Lonsberry is unequivocally correct.
My thanks goes out to everyone serving or that has served in an American armed forces uniform. You all are my heroes and while I often pray for the safety of every last one of you, I also pray that I am worthy of the protection of our God-given freedoms that your service and sacrifices provides. So my humble and heartfelt thanks to my friends still in the service, to soldier mommy, to Free0352, and to everyone that puts himself in harms way for us. God bless you all!
2 comments:
I'll be linking to this post. Very moving. Thank you for your prayers for Soldier Mommy
Please tell her that I, and I am sure millions of others, thank and honor her for her service!
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