Sacrifice and Service

Memorial Day was last Monday. My thoughts this week have been on the images from that day, the words, and ideas of sacrifice and service. At the Cubs game Monday afternoon a soldier who lost three of his four limbs in Iraq threw out the first pitch. He got the loudest and longest applause of anyone that day.

Unfortunately too many soldiers have not been able to come home alive. It's staggering to think of the number of people who have died over the centuries in various conflicts. Men and women, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, losing their God given gift of life at far too young an age. Some of them were drafted into service, some volunteered to fight, but I would imagine at some point all of them must have fearfully wondered, why me?

Why them? There's no good answer for that question. It's a cliche to say that they died so we might live free. But you know, it's the truth. God has blessed me with freewill and has placed me in a society that allows me to choose to do just about anything. It's not that way for everyone. Not everyone can live a life of discipleship in freedom, but I can. And while a Christian may sit in prison in China or loose his life in Indonesia, I can proclaim the gospel as freely as the Holy Spirit leads me.

I don't know why those soldiers had to die or why it had to be them? But I do know this... their service to the United States and their sacrifice is a gift of love to me, my family, and my community. I thank God for them.

There is a poem written during World War I that is often connected with Memorial Day. I want to lift it up here on this last day of May:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

—By John McCrae