On the first day of this year, I posted a list of things I wanted to do during this year. I’ll give you a full report on how the list is going sometime soon, but today I want to tell you about how I completed one of them, number 36, by sharing an excerpt of a letter I wrote to a soldier earlier today:

“36. Write a letter to a soldier in Iraq. Use the word brave. Cry when I seal the envelope.

… but to be honest, I’ve never really celebrated Memorial Day, at least not properly. I’m ashamed to tell you that, before this year, the day meant it was time for the local outdoor pools to open or a great sale at the mall. It was a day off work, a chance to sleep in, an opportunity to fix dinner on the grill. In my 24 chances of celebrating Memorial Day, I never once stopped to think about what it meant, who it really honored.

That, of course, changed as soon as I got to know your story.

I know that this day is meant to honor those who have given their life in combat, but I can’t help but believe that this day is also meant to honor the fact that, each morning when you wake up to another day in Iraq, you’re essentially offering to give up your life in combat, too. Whether or not God calls you to actually make the sacrifice of your life, you’re willing to do it even today and that willingness makes you a hero to me.

I woke up this morning wanting, for the first time in my life, to give this holiday the reverence it’s due; somehow, flying our flag outside my house just didn’t seem enough on this day. I looked in the newspaper and online for celebrations and I’m sorry to tell you that I couldn’t find anything within 50 miles. I decided to drive to a little restaurant downtown, find a quiet table in the corner and write you this letter. Before I left my house, I tied a yellow ribbon in my hair knowing that, every time I saw a reflection of myself in a window or mirror today, I would think of the sacrifice you and so many others have and are making even today. It’s just a silly ribbon, I know, but it was my own little way of quietly reminding the world around me to remember what today means.

As I was driving downtown, I realized that the police had blocked off the courthouse square and that men and women wearing red, white and blue were all walking towards the courthouse steps. I quickly found a parking space a few blocks away and hurried towards them, just as the service was beginning.

I stood in the back, pressed up against the front door of a local lawyers’ office. There was only one other man standing back there, an older gentleman who, unlike all the men standing in front of us, wasn’t wearing anything to signify he had ever served in the military. I smiled at him as I took my place in front of the door and, for the next hour, he and I stood by each other, never saying anything, just watching the service quietly. We were the only two people back there, just me and that older man.

At the very end, they announced that they would play Taps and there would be a 21 gun salute. As the music began, I couldn’t help but wonder what you were doing at that very moment, knowing it was early evening for you. Suddenly the first shot rang out and, even though I had known it was coming, I was startled. I didn’t know it was going to be so loud; I didn’t know it was going to make the glass on the door behind me seem to rattle.

As the next shot rang, I realized that this is what you’re used to hearing, that there have undoubtedly been times the shot was aimed at you or the men serving beside you. And I can’t explain why it bothered me so much, but suddenly the reality of where you’re at and what you’re doing for us hit me and I began to cry.

The old man standing beside me reached out to touch my arm and, when I looked up at him, I saw he was crying, too. He wrapped his arms around me, I put my face into his shoulder and we just stood there crying. As the last shot rang out, he whispered “my son” into my ear and I began crying harder, thinking of the sacrifice he had lived to watch his son make. We stood there until it was over, just the two of us crying, my face on his shoulder and his on mine.

When the music finally died down and the crowd began to walk away, I pulled back, looked him in the eyes and quietly said “he was brave.” And he looked right back at me, wiping tears off his cheeks and said his own thank you to me. And then, without another word between us, we both turned to walk away.

As I was walking along the sidewalks that led me back to my car, I couldn’t help but wonder what I would say to you if you were here today. I thought about how it will be weeks before this piece of paper is in your hands, about how everything will be back to normal on the courthouse steps before you read these words. I wondered if I’d say a quiet thank you or if I’d tell you that I hope you come home safely or if I’d even just ask you what you miss most about home.

But I think, if I could just say one thing to you today, I would pick these three words –

you are brave.

And, in case you’re wondering, I’m fulfilling the last part of that resolution, too.

I’m crying even before it’s even time to seal this envelope.

amy beth”