When I lived in D.C., I had a steady stream of visitors who came for the 'exclusive' tour of the White House granted to Presidential appointees and to see the history that so defines that city.I can't begin to count how many times I've walked the mall with friends or ran the 6 mile loop between the Capitol and the Lincoln Monument, yet everytime I took a moment to pause at the War Memorials, I always fought back tears.
As a child of a Vietnam Vet, who got to come home, I realize that I am fortunate that my father made it home to participate in every happy and painful aspect of the last 30 some odd years of my life.
One July 4th weekend, a teenager I had discipled at my home church in Texas came to visit me, and as we stood silently at the Korean War Memorial, she turned to me and repeated the words engraved there "freedom is not free." She paused, looked back at the plaque and told me she'd never thought of her liberties that way.
When we crossed in front of the reflecting pool to The Wall, I promised myself that this time, I would not cry. I silently followed her as she slowly walked the crescendo/decrescendo that personifies The Wall. Trailing behind her, I watched a couple further down the wall, the female, tissue paper and charcoal in hand searching for a name, she kept saying, "I can't find it, I can't find it." Then she paused, craned her head and pointed to almost the highest point of the crescendo of The Wall and her companion, possibly 6 ft. 4 in. stooped down so she could mount his shoulders.
Carefully he stood up elevating her reach as she stretched her arms over her head, placed the tissue paper on the wall and used the charcoal to rub the name onto the tissue paper. As if in reluctance, she slowly lowered her arms, gently kissed one hand and laid it back on The Wall, where the name she had just shaded onto her flimsy piece of paper was eternally etched. And she sat there, atop her companion's shoulders unmoving.
I fought back tears, ashamed I had intruded on such an intimate moment.
My teenage friend had moved on down the wall while I had watched the discovery of another loved ones name. Wiping at my tears with my t-shirt, I quietly walked down the path to stand beside her where she had stopped, tears running down her face. Without looking at me, she reached out and gently intertwined her fingers with mine. In the space between the wall and the path someone had wedged a small Texas flag. She turned to me and told me that somehow seeing the flag of our home state, made it real, made all the names real.
One afternoon, I found myself back at the wall with my parents. My mom had wanted to see it, but hadn't wanted to suggest it to dad wanting to protect the emotions he still carried from his return from Vietnam so long ago. While he read the various historical postings at the Lincoln Monument, we snuck away to see The Wall.
I was stoic. She was quiet. We walked the monument without speaking, and as we turned to return to the Lincoln Monument to join my father, my tears could be dammed no longer, for my father, who knew some of the engraved names, stood a few feet away, hand on the wall.
I know that I am fortunate that each time I walked away from that wall, I walked away without a charcoal etching of my father's name. But for those whose names are there, and whose names aren't there. I say thank you.
For those watchman on our borders at night who stand guard so that I may sleep unafraid, I say thank you.
For those who have walked roads I fear to tread so that my freedom may continue unhindered, I say thank you.
For those who have paid with their lives, the ransom for me to enjoy unhindered life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, I say thank you.
For those who leave these hallowed shores to bring the hope of "freedom" to so many oppressed peoples, on behalf of those that cannot speak, I say thank you.
Freedom is truly not free, thank you for paying what I cannot.