🌸 The Flower and Flame of Memorial Day

In truth, I always struggle with how best to address this day. When I was asked to deliver Memorial Day remarks at a recent event, I did what I often do when challenged: I read, I thought, and I wrote.

I titled the remarks "The Flame and Flower of Memorial Day," pulling from themes in historic speeches that rose to the moment of this somber day. I was particularly inspired by the 1884 speech by Oliver Wendell Holmes, which is worth reading in full.

In short, I came to an unsurprising but evergreen conclusion: to honor sacrifice, we must serve with our whole selves.

As you read it, you’ll note one part that references Taps, the song played at every military funeral. I encourage you to pause there to actually listen to the song, letting each note impact your thoughts on the day.

And know that however you are doing today, you are not alone.

My Remarks

Allow me to start with a confession: While I am not an anxious speaker, in the lead up to this address, I have felt uncommon pangs of nerves.

I am learning that no matter how familiar one may be with speaking in front of crowds, there are certain occasions that simply feel different, and this is because they are different.

I can speak with comfort on Veterans Day with genuine enthusiasm and a celebratory tone, holding up my fellow veterans and honoring their service. I can speak with ease at organizational events where I seek to inspire community and connection among attendees.

But to meet the moment on Memorial Day is a challenge unlike any I've had before. Yet as I tell my young children, with every challenge comes an opportunity.

And so, to my fellow veterans and all who are here to honor them, allow me the opportunity to try to meet the moment, following my heart. Because, as it turns out, "heart" plays a historic and essential role in Memorial Day.

In a historic 1884 speech, the great Oliver Wendell Holmes said:

"Every year--in the full tide of spring, at the height of the symphony of flowers and love and life--there comes a pause, and through the silence we hear the lonely pipe of death."

His Memorial Day speech, where he sparks somber reflection and calls for intentional action, is now etched into the fabric of the day itself. Let us use his speech to ground ourselves today, considering not only the import of our gathering but also the things we can, should, and must do when we leave here today.

The timing of Memorial Day is, as Holmes notes, worth considering. In May, we find ourselves in a period of renewal, with flowers and spirits in bloom, looking forward to long days of sun and connection to those we hold dear. We relieve ourselves, however temporarily, from the burdens of our obligations as we plan time for recreation and rest.

And it is in this season of energy that we pause to, as Holmes puts it with eloquence, "hear the lonely pipe of death."

Consider the structure and melody of Taps, played at every military funeral. It is simple in nature, as the bugle, capable of creating only 5 notes, is not a complicated instrument. Yet it calls to us with a leveled patience, ascending and descending, swelling and holding space for emotion conjured.

Lonely pipe of death, indeed.

The question then is how to fully listen to the pipe; to let it crash into us, that we may fully pause and reflect.

The founding of Memorial Day provides a glimpse at the answer. On May 5, 1868, General John A. Logan, Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, issued General Order No. 11 designating May 30 “for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion.”

Historical accounts suggest that General Logan, a union soldier, was moved to issue this order after seeing flowers upon the graves of confederate soldiers, realizing that this ancient tradition of honoring the fallen should be extended to all, regardless of which side of the civil war they fought on.

And flowers—there they are again. As plants of all type spring from the ground in May, we cut down some of the most beautiful among them and lay them on the graves of the fallen. We know these flowers, too, will wither, but we trust that future generations will continue the tradition and ensure that, at least once a year, the pipe will be heard and fresh flowers and wreaths will be laid.

In perhaps the most memorable passage of his Memorial Day speech, Holmes orated:

"...the generation that carried on the war has been set apart by its experience. Through our great good fortune, in our youth our hearts were touched with fire. It was given to us to learn at the outset that life is a profound and passionate thing. While we are permitted to scorn nothing but indifference, and do not pretend to undervalue the worldly rewards of ambition, we have seen with our own eyes, beyond and above the gold fields, the snowy heights of honor, and it is for us to bear the report to those who come after us. But, above all, we have learned that whether a man accepts from Fortune her spade, and will look downward and dig, or from Aspiration her axe and cord, and will scale the ice, the one and only success which it is his to command is to bring to his work a mighty heart."

There are a number of essential things at work in that passage. In recognizing the value of those we mourn, Holmes speaks about all who answered the call and served their country. The youth whose hearts were touched by fire, and who learned the unmistakable value of bringing that very heart into all that they do -- those youths include those who came home and those who did not.

Honoring the fallen should not—indeed, must not—diminish the experiences of those who still hold breath today.

Recall Lincoln's canonical Gettysburg Address, where he stated with humble clarity:

"It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here, have, thus far, so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain."

"Grief," said Holmes, "is not the end of all."

For my part, I grieve a marine I trained with, who was the fastest on every run, the friendliest in any conversation, and the most clever in any situation. He was the best of us, and years after I lost contact with him, we learned of his passing in a "non-combat incident" while deployed abroad. We all knew what that meant, even without asking for confirmation from his family, for it rhymed with the all-too-common experience of losing a brother or sister stateside.

I think of another marine who trained us hard and had no problem being disliked if it meant he was making us better. He was killed in Libya, serving on missions no one could every talk openly about. He was the first marine I served with whom I learned had been killed in action, and you never forget your first.

I think of the many service members and veterans who are still living but who have come within an inch of taking matters into their own hands, drowning the grief and anger and confusion with plans that leave no option for return.

A dear friend of mine, not even a week ago, expressed to me with a chasmic sorrow that I've seen him caught in for years that he went to Iraq to die, and that every day he lives now seems unjust and impossible. And I am haunted by the memory of a call with another friend, a bottle in one hand and gun in the other, who, with the slightest amount of pressure on the trigger finger, would not be here today. Just because a veteran returns home from the battlefield does not mean they returned home from the battlefield.

Like many actively serving in the veteran space, these calls and final hour interventions are a regular part of my life. And with each one I receive, I'm shaken by the magnitude of the responsibility before me and filled with eternal gratitude that I'm entrusted with a chance to help.

Grief is ever present among this community. But if Holmes is right and it is not the end, then what exactly are we to do? Yes, we should listen with rapt attention to that lonely pipe of death, but then we must build upon that sound and turn it into something good.

Holmes concluded:

"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 submit to you, my friends, that we must do more. We must honor sacrifice with service. Not just the type that is easy, but the type that is taxing and heavy.

The poet Kahlil Gibran wrote, "You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give."

To give of yourself! It is insufficient to merely give the pieces you are willing to discard and will not miss. The dollars you can easily spare, the clothes you no longer need. To truly respect and honor those who are no longer here, and to support those who still are with us but obsessively contemplate their demise, you must lay the spring flowers down to show your respects and then consider all that you have as a result of those mingling in the dirt beneath your feet.

You are a product of every experience you've ever had, and you live in a world shaped by the innumerable actions of those who came before you.

Giving of yourself, I submit, starts with honest recognition of what makes you who you are, and paying respects to all who have influenced your composition and place in this world.

The bumper sticker proclaims, "freedom isn't free" and "thank you for your service." But in their attempt to succinctly capture true sentiments, these sticker phrases undercut the shared responsibility that it takes to hone and protect liberty, and to not only admire service, but to also to participate in and take ownership of it.

You may like these phrases. You may even say them. But my encouragement to you is to do so only if used as a motivation to find personal ways to take action that goes beyond the words.

Look to your fellow humans. Put aside, if you can, the temptation to look at those who have more than you, letting yourself be consumed with envy instead of appreciation. Look instead to those who have less and seek out the ways to lift them up and help them.

Give of yourself, even if it means you have less time to grow literal flowers of your own. For the seeds you sow by channeling the memory of the fallen into authentically supporting the living will bloom in ways you cannot quite conceive until it happens.

Let your heart be touched by fire, whether you served in these armed forces or not.

Let your heart be touched by fire, that you may use this day as an annual reminder to give some dose of yourself that shows those who gave that last full measure of devotion that you do not take their sacrifice for granted.

Let your heart be touched by fire, my friends, for fire spreads. And if today is a spark that lights aflame a spirit in even one of you that helps you find new ways to serve, then I'll have done my job well.

For my heart was touched by fire at 17, and I hereby recommit, in front of all of you present, to never letting that flame expire.