I don’t know his name. I don’t know his story. In fact, for all I know, he could be a “she.” But as the crowd of sixty or so of us stood motionless and silent at Gate B18 gazing down through the windows as his flag-draped casket was being carried across the tarmac, none of that mattered.
Just an hour earlier I was sitting at a corner table at the North Hanger, one of three eateries/bars at the center of Concourse B at Omaha’s Epplely Airfield (“The Largest Airfield in the State of Nebraska.” Really? Impressive.) There I sulked, exhausted and frustrated at the boisterous crowd around me, at the growing queue of unanswered emails on my phone, at my late expense report still not complete, and at the fact that my flight home was delayed thirty minutes. (A delayed Southwest flight? Wow, that never happens.) As a business traveler, I have the opportunity work in different parts of the country on a fairly regular basis. I know I shouldn’t complain, having just returned from trips to Maui, Minneapolis, and Honolulu. But now I was stuck in Nebraska, and after three long (though productive) days of meetings and presentations, all I wanted to do was go home.
Home.
I stood up, pulled my backpack on and trudged towards the numbered metal pedestals that lined up Southwest passengers waiting to board. An announcement was made that our flight would be further delayed. Great. I looked down at the plane to see what the hold up was.
And that’s when I saw it – a black hearse, escorted by an Omaha police car easing towards the side of our plane. Officers in military dress came out of the hearse and stood at attention. My heart sank. The crowd around me slowly grew as we watched the scene below unfold. No words were exchanged. Just the somber, silent acknowledgment of what had happened and what was about to happen. We watched as eight officers marched towards the plane. We watched at the casket, an American flag on top – it’s edges swaying slowly in the gentle summer breeze – emerge from the plane. Everything was in slow motion. We watched the family come forward. The mother, the father and two brothers, with a crowd of friends and family held in the background. The mother faltered as they gathered around the casket. The younger son lurched forward, hardly able to support himself as he grasped for the edge of the flag, his older brother righting him as they shared an embrace. We watched as the father stood tall, sunglasses concealing his grief.
After the casket was lifted into the hearse the family turned to return to the terminal, escorted by the officers. As they approached, I could see the anguish on the mother’s face as she abandoned any attempt to hold back tears. She was surrounded by friends and family, but not by the one person she longed for most at this very moment. No. All she would have now would be memories. Memories of yesterdays.
Even after the procession had passed by us, the crowd remain silent. It was only then that I turned away from the principal characters and looked at the people around me. There were tears in everyone’s eyes. It was then that I noticed that there were also tears in my eyes. I wiped them away and dropped my backpack to the ground.
I thought of this soldier. I thought of his family. And I thought of all of the brave young men and women who have made the ultimate sacrifice in the service of our great country. There are some who will use this as fodder in a political debate. But these fallen heroes shouldn’t be thought of in terms of casualty statistics. They were sons and daughters. Brother and sisters. Mothers and fathers. With dreams and passions and loves. And now, serving to defend our way of life, they are gone.
I thought again of Frankie.
Frankie was my sister-in-law’s nephew. My last and only real memory of him as a seven year old kid was from our wedding over twenty years ago, when he delighted our guests with energy and exuberance as he moved and shook on the reception dance floor. There was so much joy in his heart.
On May 4th, 2013, he and four other members of his battalion were killed in Afghanistan when a bomb exploded close to their transport vehicle. He left behind a young wife and daughter. His uncle, my brother-in-law, was quoted in the paper saying that they will always have their memories and that they would hold them close. Memories. Memories of yesterdays.
The crowd dispersed and announcements were made for us get back into our line, in position. We boarded the plane in silence.
Now I did not know this person. I did not know his or her family. I do not know the exact circumstances that brought him or her here today. But in situations like this, it really doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because moments like these serve as a timely reminder of the fact that even though we may often feel overwhelmed and consumed with our own mundane day-to-day problems, like overflowing inboxes and barking dogs, at the end of the day the only thing that really matters – the only thing that really matters are the connections that we have with the people and the God that we love.
I don’t pretend to believe that this is some sort of ground-breaking revelation. We all know this. It’s cliche. It’s the resolution of hundreds of sappy dramas. But sometimes, sometimes we just need a reminder to slap us in the face.
So as I write this, I am finally heading home to my family and dogs. Heading home on the same plane that brought this fallen soldier home for the last time. Yes, the plane is crowded. Yes, the flight is late. The people in front of me are loud and the turbulence is keeping me from being able to use the rest room. But none of that matters.
None of that matters.
RANDOM MUSINGS 