On Memorial Day, we take a day to pay homage to the men and women who have died in the service of protecting and defending our country.
Not to be confused with Veteran’s Day which reminds us to recognize all of those who have and are serving, Memorial Day, with its rich and historical past, is a day to remember those who have paid the ultimate sacrifice.
My favorite Memorial Day memory involves a little boy, his Papa and a rose bush.
That winter was a tough one. We received the news in the days before Christmas that my Dad had brain cancer. He had surgery right after the New Year. The prognosis was grim; radiation would be a last ditch effort.
My now 16-year-old son, Patrick, was four that year. On our non-school mornings in those early weeks, Patrick and I would head over to Grandma’s to help take care of Papa. On most days, the distraction of a pre-schooler was just what my Mom needed.
Patrick would stay and have lunch and hang out with Grandma while I took my dad to the hospital for his treatments. As the end drew near, the innocence of children somehow calmed the fears and anxiety of adults.
As grown-ups were wringing hands and wiping tears, Patrick would bounce into the bedroom and slip his hand into my Dad’s very still hand and share a funny story or something that he had seen on TV, seemingly unaware that Papa wasn’t responding in turn.
Papa passed away in February.
Of the many wonderful cards and flowers that our friends and family sent in honor of my Dad, among the most special was a rose bush from my sister-in-law and her family, to be planted in our yard as an annual reminder of my father. When we got home after the services, I put the potted bush near our sliding glass door where it could get plenty of light until we would be able to plant it in the Spring.
And then, the dog ate it.
One day, when we weren’t looking, our new puppy ate the whole rose bush. I was heartbroken. This incredible symbol of the love and respect for my Dad had been chewed down to the roots.
There seemed to be nothing left. With tears in my eyes, I threw the empty pot under the sink in our laundry room. I didn’t take the time to dump out the dirt. I didn’t have the heart to throw it away.
Months later, Patrick came home from pre-school with questions about Memorial Day. In school, they had talked about why we celebrate Memorial Day and how it was a time to recognize people in the military who had passed on. “Was Papa in the military?” Patrick asked. When I said yes, he responded “Well, that means we are going to have to go decorate his grave.”
Because he hadn’t wanted a graveside service, I hadn’t yet been to my father’s gravesite. He had died in February and both the cold weather and pain of losing him hadn’t made that visit a priority.
With Patrick’s continued insistence over the next few days, we finally agreed that all five of us would pay our respects to Papa over the Memorial Day weekend. After Mass that Sunday, we piled in the car, stopped at Wal-Mart so Patrick could pick out a plant to properly decorate Papa’s grave and headed on our way.
In the car, the girls were quiet. I was anxious and nervously barking at everyone. My husband was trying to keep the lid on the emotional pressure cooker. Patrick, on the other hand, was smiling as he held the flowers on his lap.
On the way there, it started to rain. It was a steady downpour the whole way on I-99. Using directions I got from my Mom, we got out of the car and quickly hurried over to the gravesite.
As Patrick placed the flowers on the grave, the pain of seeing my Dad’s name on the plaque next to my Grandmother’s was almost too much to bear. As my four year old stood up and brushed his hands together in satisfaction that he had honored his Papa on Memorial Day, I thought my heart would break all over again.
Soaking wet and very sad, we got back in the car and started a silent trip back to State College.
When we got home, I ask the kids to change out of their wet clothes so I could put them in the washer. I was emotionally and physically spent. Memorial Day had always meant picnics, a day off work and the start of summer.
That year, for the first time, I understood the intention of those women in Boalsburg back in 1864 who started Memorial Day. Even though my Dad hadn’t died in the line of fire, his memory and his service to our country was important for my children – especially Patrick – to remember.
And then I saw it. As I was separating our wet laundry into colored piles, I leaned over to pick up a sock and there it was. Poking out of the dirt, in a pot that had been thrown under the dark sink months ago, was a very bright green shoot about six inches long.
The rose bush had come back! A plant that had received no light, no water and no attention for three months was not only alive but healthy and vibrant.
Memorial Day.
I’m sure there are explanations that involve words like “pruning” and “dormant” in reference to rose bushes in the winter. There may be scientific reasons why a plant with no water or light for three months might actually grow.
I don’t care. I won’t believe you if you try to logically explain how a plant that has been run over with a lawn mower, eaten by a dog, transplanted as part of new landscaping plans, under-watered, over-watered or not watered at all comes back every year.
I know in my heart why that bush is still so strong and why it seemed to “come back” on that very special Memorial Day. Each and every day as I walk past it, I am reminded of my father and a little boy who wanted to decorate his grandfather’s grave. Thanks Dad, for continuing to remind me that you are still with us. Thank you for your service to our country and all that you gave to your family
Today is a day to remember those who have served our country who are no longer with us. May their service and impact in our lives be remembered and honored today, and every day.
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