We had gathered at the cemetery. The sky was heavy and the clouds sat near the ground. It had rained all morning. You know, the cold rain that feels like it dripped off of ice.
The earth squished below me, while I wrestled to hold back a chill that fought to race through my body. My feet had already succumbed to the cold that came up from the ground. Its icy fingers pierced through the soles of my shoes and wrapped themselves around my toes.
I couldn’t help but admire the young members of the ROTC. Each one stood unflinching against the elements.
Surrounded by veterans and headstones, I watched as a Military Chaplin, and his son retired tattered flags in quiet reverence. The seams of our flag, Old Glory, had separated. Stripes of unity flew, divided.
I couldn’t help but think of our country. The invisible thread that has held us together for so long seems to have broken. We stand, divided.
Yet in a state of disrepair honor is still given. In solemn silence the flag was lowered. Careful not to touch the ground, it was taken from its place, and folded in half, lengthwise. The stripes took on the form of a triangle. The 13 Folds of Glory had begun.
The colors sang out against the sky that was blanketed in white. Red for valor and bravery. White for purity and innocence. Stripes that came to rest in the Field of Stars, The Union. Blue for vigilance, perseverance, and justice.
I thought of the blood that has spilled through the years that allowed us to gather today. In fact, that is why we came together. To remember.
We had gathered to honor the 81st Anniversary of the Battle of Iwo Jima, and USMC Pvt. First Class Franklin R. Sousley. A native to our area, Pfc. Sousley laid down his life only days after raising our nations flag with five other Marines on Mount Suribachi. They were Sgt. Michael Strank, Cpl. Harlon Block, Pfc. Ira Hayes, Pfc. Harold Schultz, and Pfc. Harold Keller.
The Laying of the Memorial Wreath at the graveside of Pfc. Franklin R. Sousley had begun with the order to march.
Five men in decorated, red coats fell in line. They are our U.S. Marines.
Their bodies had grown old, and their hair had faded to gray, but they were strong men. Looking past their frail frame, I saw young men in their prime. Each step they took carried honor and eternal youth.
Commands were shouted.
Orders given to navigate the grounds and lay the wreath at the headstone of their fallen comrade.
Next, seven men, each with a rifle, were directed to give The 21-Gun Salute. The highest honor in military tradition, rang out across the countryside. Signifying respect, peace, and authority.
Without hesitation the blast from the bugle followed, cutting through the wind.
Soldiers saluted while civilians placed their right hand over their heart. The Marine Corps Flag was raised as we drank the bitter cry of Taps into our core.
Today, I heard clearly the silent plea for unity.
The call to remember.
The challenge to not forget.
A remnant gathered.
To honor.
To stand. United.
Let us not forget who we are as Americans.
Let us not forget the price of blood poured out for our freedom.
Let us not forget our responsibility to defend our country.
The United States of America.
In grace and peace from God, our Father.
Sharon Rose
Hiking in Pearls 