So then, with endurance, let’s also run the race that is laid out in front of us, since we have such a great cloud of witnesses surrounding us. Let’s throw off any extra baggage, get rid of the sin that trips us up, and fix our eyes on Jesus, faith’s pioneer and perfecter. – Hebrews 12:1-2

Note: The key images in this post are from the Arlington burial service for my brother-in-law Tom’s father, Captain Paul McMahan

Sunday evening, sitting around the table enjoying perfect bacon-lettuce-tomato sandwiches with good friends, we talked about memories and stories we have of people who fit the Memorial Day criteria.

Then, as we began to share, I realized that to a great extent story is memory. In other words, as we tell stories even of people we never knew, they become part of our collective memory and of who we are today.

Even more important, the memory of those who gave everything for us relies on those of us who are living to know and to tell their stories.

If we fail to tell the stories, then in some way those no longer remembered cease to exist.

Those we Remember:

The greatest distance in time Rebekah and I are able to travel for Memorial Day is Feb 20, 1864 and the battle of Olustee outside of Lake City in Florida. There were 10,500 combatants engaged, with 2,807 casualties, including John Alexander. She also is a direct descendant of ancestors who fought as Patriots (Kings Mountain and Guildford Courthouse) in the War of Independence, but they survived.

The next story we know is of my great-uncle Arthur, who lied about his age three times before finally getting into the British army and immediately heading to France and Belgium, where he soon died “on Flanders Field where poppies grew…” Arthur was seventeen.

Then, in WW2, Rebekah’s uncle Pete, the eldest of the Alexander boys, went down with his ship – The Angelina – in the North Atlantic. He and three others survived the initial blast (probably the hold full of munitions exploded when it was torpedoed), hanging onto debris in the freezing cold water, but he slipped off and was gone before rescue. One of the other men was kind enough to write GrandMary and give an account.

So I will say this again, because it bears repeating: telling the stories of people we love is incredibly important. Likewise, listening to stories – especially the memories held (temporarily) by our parents and grandparents – is priceless.

Living into the story:

Rebekah and I are currently in a church celebrating One Hundred Fifty years of ministry. Remembering the stories, retelling the stories, is part of our strength in continuing to live the story.

This year of celebration had the perfect kickoff in February when a group of key people from 1874 showed up for worship; we called it “Our Own Places in the Heart Moment” – go back and read/look if you missed it. It is a powerful moment because sharing stories expands and enriches our own story.

My take away from Memorial Day 2024 is this: If we neglect to share our stories, if we fail to learn the stories of the elderly and the stories of the past, then we risk becoming two-dimensional, cardboard cutouts without the depth and the wisdom of collective memory.

Thanks, more than I can possibly express, to those who gave all so that we might have this shot at freedom ourselves. But freedom is fragile, especially if we know nothing of our own shared story and how this freedom came to be.

In love, and because love does not hold back – DEREK