In 1884 Oliver Wendell Holmes gave an address in which he said; “…Year after year the comrades of the dead follow, with public honor, procession and commemorative flags and funeral march—honor and grief from us who stand almost alone, and have seen the best and noblest of our generation pass away.
But grief is not the end of all. I seem to hear the funeral march become a paean. I see beyond the forest the moving banners of a hidden column. Our dead brothers still live for us, and bid us think of life, not death—of life to which in their youth they lent the passion and joy of the spring. As I listen, the great chorus of life and joy begins again, and amid the awful orchestra of seen and unseen powers and destinies of good and evil our trumpets sound once more a note of daring, hope, and will.”
I believe he understood this day well. Liberty that is handed to us on a silver platter without the ghosts of those in attendance who made it possible is like a limp rag that is tossed aside and forgotten. Not all who serve are heroes, but all who die in the cause of justice show us what it means to live for something that is more precious than life. When we honor them, we honor ourselves. And by honoring ourselves we are less likely to stand idly by when tyrants move to take liberty from us. It’s a lesson worth remembering.
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