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We stood side-by-side, my son and I, gazing at the small photograph on [...]]]> I am posting this older article today both in memory and in honor of Allen Etheridge and Paul Harrison, two of my high school classmates (Crossett High School Class of 1963) who gave their lives in Vietnam. May God bless their families today.

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We stood side-by-side, my son and I, gazing at the small photograph on a tombstone. My son finally broke our silence: “Dad, he’s so young!” Yes, I thought, the very same age as you. And because of him — and so many of his companions — we had the privilege of even being there together.

He’s ever youthful in that picture, an 18-year-old soldier keeping a mute, timeless vigil over his own grave. Though we were alone that day, I’ve seen a woman there before, his mother perhaps. And the continual presence of flowers tells me that there is someone who can’t forget … and shouldn’t.

His life came and went so quickly. He was barely old enough to drive when he died for his country. For him it’s over, but not for his parents. They’re the ones who will visit his grave and pose the endless questions in their minds.

What would life have held had he lived? Would he have married and had children? How would he have handled joys and tears, success and failure? Would he have achieved prominence or obscurity, wealth or poverty?

And perhaps the most difficult question of all: Why my son?

Certainly he was spared the difficult trials that come so close on the heels of youth: struggling with jobs and families, making mistakes with mates and children, feeling the hurt of rejection from family and friends, seeing health ebb away.

In one sense, he’s forever held captive in the bloom of youth. Standing at attention in uniform, his picture reflects confidence, hope and courage. His is a warrior, strong and fit for battle. And that’s how he’ll be remembered.

The news that a child has been taken by death brings a numbing knot in the pit of the stomach. Can such a loss ever be soothed?

In November 1864, Abraham Lincoln faced that challenge. He wrote to console Mrs. Lydia Bixby, a widow who was believed to have lost five sons in the Civil War. “I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.”

The young man in the photograph is a hero. When duty compelled him to forsake all for the cause of freedom, he obeyed. In his death, someone else’s son has perhaps spared me of the awful burden of loss that his family still carries. I am indebted, both to him and to them for that immeasurable sacrifice. And I thank God for him in the same breath that I ask God for a successful future for my son.

How ironic that death and life would be entwined in such a way. How tragic that we could ever forget what a great debt we owe for the freedoms we often so lightly esteem.

MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS

Some think that war’s a faceless game
And never feel the awful cost
Of blood that’s spilled in freedom’s name
Which mounts as mothers’ sons are lost.

I’ve seen a grave one mother tends,
Her inner battles not yet won,
Still clinging to the might-have-beens
That were not buried with her son.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

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Calling for a common silver coin, Jesus responded with a question of His own about that coin. "Whose likeness and inscription does it [...]]]> Should we pay taxes to Caesar? A group of hostile religious leaders once posed this simple question to Jesus, intending to ensnare Him into a likewise simple answer of either "yes" or "no."

Calling for a common silver coin, Jesus responded with a question of His own about that coin. "Whose likeness and inscription does it have?" "Caesar's," they readily acknowledged. And He said to them, "Then render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's."

The thunderbolt of understanding struck them with silent amazement at His meaning. Indebtedness, whether it be to Caesar or to God, can be absolved only with the proper "coin of the realm."

But the thought of indebtedness to Caesar grated both pride and contentment with the bitter reality of subservience to Rome. Nevertheless, through Caesar flowed the benefits of Pax Romana, a 200-year period of Roman peace when the Roman alphabet, language, road system and engineering expertise facilitated trade and economy–even for those unwillingly under Caesar's heel.

Don't ask whether you should pay the debt, Jesus advised. Just pay it–but only the proper coinage will suffice. And the Apostle Paul would later admonish that the appropriate currency for discharging indebtedness might not be made of metal. "Give to everyone what you owe them: pay your taxes and import duties, and give respect and honor to all to whom it is due."

Obvious examples of "rendering unto Caesar" rankle us each year as April 15 looms closer. But just this past Sunday we were privileged to accept an offer to participate as a particular group joyfully discharged a measure of their indebtedness with those precious "coins" of honor and respect.

The approach of Independence Day occasioned the 22nd annual God and Country Rally at the First Assembly of God Church in Van Buren (Ark.). Pastor Bobby Johnson extended personal invitations to a broad spectrum of public servants: legislators, judges, mayors, law enforcement officers, fire fighters, and many more. Flag-waving children in festive attire, beloved songs like "God Bless America" and "America the Beautiful" and a splendid lunch all honored God and country by recognizing those who serve.

Pastor Johnson's pointed message referenced a quotation often attributed to French philosopher Alexis de Tocqueville, who visited America in the early 1800s to study democracy. "America is great because she is good. If America ceases to be good, America will cease to be great."

And a worthy corollary to this thought (as we ponder the implications of Independence Day) might be: "America will cease to be great when her people cease to discharge their debts to those who have sacrificed to make America good."

The fabric of simple answers seldom stretches to fit the shape of a complex world. "How" and "why" simply cover more ground than "yes" and "no."

Copyright 2003 James McAlister

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Not many years ago I stood in poignant reflection as a mother decorated the grave of her son killed in battle at age 18. The ever-youthful [...]]]> War’s gruesome visage snarls from flickering screens with bone-chilling horror. And with each explosion, every flash, the cost of freedom visibly manifests itself through death and destruction–right before our eyes.

Not many years ago I stood in poignant reflection as a mother decorated the grave of her son killed in battle at age 18. The ever-youthful photograph on his tombstone belied the passage of decades to the mother still posing, perhaps, another in her endless string of “might-have-beens.”

What might have been–had he lived? Whom might he have married, and how many children might they have had? How might he have handled joys and tears, success and failure?

Questions of what might have been naturally arise when the young die. Having lost a daughter in her youth, the Bible holds the only satisfying answer for me: “My times are in Thy hand.”

When Jenny was small, “might-have-beens” drifted through my mind. Whenever a group of children her age sang at church, I envisioned her among them. As other mothers described what fine young women their daughters were becoming, I wistfully projected Jenny into that role. And even today as my contemporaries extol the delights and virtues of grandchildren, I brush back tears of what might have been… had Jenny not been retarded… had she not died.

Until her last day I clung to one peculiar hope: Jenny might be healed, fully restored to physical and mental wholeness. But death finally stepped in to dash that dream, spawning an unwelcome barrage of new “might-have-beens.”

I support our Commander-in-chief and the legions he has dispatched into this conflict in Iraq. And I pray for a quick, decisive victory. But we must remember: when silence eventually blankets both desert and gun, other enemies, less obtrusive and obvious, defy defeat. They come in camouflage–a song, a smell, a picture– to release troubling thoughts long held captive. They are the might-have-beens.

My mind’s eye envisions them now, falling into ranks in ever-increasing numbers as we weep for the fallen. The glow of victory warms but for a moment; death’s icy grip hangs on and on.

Dwelling on might-have-beens always plunges me into a cold fog of despair. But the rising sun of recognition–acknowledging the measureless flow of blessing and joy still streaming from that life now gone–burns the mist away.

“Weeping may remain for a night,” assures the Bible, “but rejoicing comes in the morning.” Thus there is hope for our friends, families and companions who may soon be compelled to face the might-have-beens, unwelcomed, unburied and unresolved.

We must stand with them–united arm in arm–embracing together what might yet be.

MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS
Some think that war’s a faceless game
And never feel the awful cost
Of blood that’s spilled in freedom’s name
Which mounts as mothers’ sons are lost.

I’ve seen a grave one mother tends,
Her inner battles not yet won,
Still clinging to the might-have-beens
That were not buried with her son.

Copyright 2003 James McAlister

So with credit to the Nashville (Tenn.) Public Library and numerous Internet sources, [...]]]> In the aftermath of September 11, nothing fuels national pride more than the innumerable public displays of the Stars and Stripes, affectionately known as "Old Glory." Though accounts of that name's origin indicate a blend of fact and legend, the story is inspiring.

So with credit to the Nashville (Tenn.) Public Library and numerous Internet sources, here's yet another collage of the roots of Old Glory:

Born in Salem, Mass., in 1803 William Driver ran away to become a cabin boy at age 14. By 21 he had earned his master's papers–and the right to command a ship. For his twenty-first birthday, his mother presented him a flag made by her and friends which he ran up the rig of his first vessel and exclaimed, "We'll call her 'Old Glory,' boys!"

When his wife died in 1837, Captain Driver moved with his three children to Nashville to be near his brother's family. He took his treasured flag with him, and Old Glory became familiar to most residents there. During the Civil War, Driver remained a Unionist, and Confederate soldiers repeatedly tried to locate and destroy Old Glory, his powerful symbol of loyalty to the Union. They never found a trace.

Then on February 25th, 1862, Union forces captured Nashville and raised the American flag over the capital. It was a rather small ensign, and folks immediately began asking Captain Driver if Old Glory still existed. Happy to have Union soldiers with him this time, Driver went home and began ripping at the seams of his bedcovers. As the stitches holding the quilt-top to the batting unraveled, onlookers peered inside and saw it: the original 24-starred "Old Glory"!

Captain Driver returned with the soldiers–and the flag–to the capitol. Though nearing 60, he climbed the tower and replaced the smaller banner with his treasure. The Sixth Ohio Regiment cheered and saluted–and later adopted the nickname "Old Glory" as their own.

Buried in the Old Nashville City Cemetery, Captain Driver's grave is one of only two places (some say three) in the United States where the American flag is permitted by act of congress to fly twenty-four hours a day. Old Glory's final dispositon is uncertain, ranging from "eaten by a mule" to "displayed in the Smithsonian."

As the Confederate's sought to demoralize their enemies by destroying Captain Driver's flag, terrorists would do the same to us. But rank upon rank of flags now sprouting, it seems, from every home are but feeble representations of other Old Glories firmly planted deep within our hearts.

For in the depths of soul no terrorist bomb can touch still wave the Star-Spangled Banner of Fort McHenry, the Stars and Stripes over Iwo Jima, and the NYC firemen's splendid flag amidst the Twin Towers' rubble.

And once the "seams of the covers of our hearts" are torn away, terrorism can peer in upon the infinitely formidable foe Old Glory truly represents: a love of God and country that won't be suppressed or denied.

Copyright 2001 James McAlister

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The flag was more than a patch of colored [...]]]> On February 23, 1945, photographer Joe Rosenthal snapped a picture that would become the world's most reproduced image. The object of his Pulitzer Prize winning effort? The American flag being raised over Iwo Jima. Why was it so important that the flag be visible on Mt. Suribachi?

The flag was more than a patch of colored fabric. It embodied a cause, a purpose, and a mission that inspired the best from the American soldiers. Those stars and stripes were another way of expressing duty, honor, and country. The flag meant something to those in the conflict, something they were willing to give their lives for.

My wife Mary was recently in a group of people who were asked what the flag meant to them. In an instant, this event from 44 years ago popped into her mind:

"Uncle James, Aunt Fran, Mama Daniel (my grandmother) and I had gone for a ride on a clear summer day. We stopped at a small post office, and Uncle James went inside. We had parked near a flagpole.

"Mama Daniel and Aunt Fran were in the front seat talking. I was leaning over the back of the seat listening to them and staring up at the flag gently fluttering against an incredibly blue sky. The conversation lulled for a few moments, and then Mama Daniel spoke. It was obvious that she too had been staring at the banner in the sky. 'I think that red, white and blue together are the most beautiful colors of all.' 'I was just thinking the same thing,' said Aunt Fran. Then followed a quiet, rambling discussion of the flag, its colors and its meaning. There was a gentle respect in every word, and they never considered that a freckled, bespeckled eight-year-old was soaking in every attitude and nuance.

"I was barely aware that Uncle James had just come home from the Korean War or that World War II had just ended a few years before. But for the mother of the soldier and the wife of the soldier, these wars were fresh. They spoke with the knowledge that Uncle James might not have come home. They spoke with respect for the flag and the country that he might have died for.

"My memory of this event is as fresh as it was the day it happened. I have thought of that conversation and have seen that beautiful flag against that blue sky hundreds of times in my mind.

"Aunt Fran and I recently discussed why there's so little respect for the flag today. Perhaps one reason is that it's so hard to sit in the quiet and soak in respect from those who have it. Instead, radios, TVs, tapes, and CDs provide 'entertainment' just to fill up the time. But in a few quiet moments 44 years ago, a good citizen was born. Entertainment has never created such a thing."

And so we must be careful to whom we listen. We'll eventually be like them.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

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