Yesterday's Widow

Step by determined step I walk on through Arlington Cemetery. A car passes on my left, then another and another. The procession of mourners drives by in slow motion making its way to the grave site in Section 60. A color guard stands at attention near a freshly dug grave. A bugler waits for his call, and a squad of seven riflemen stands across the field for their moment of tribute. Cicadas hum just below the surface of unspeakable grief.

I hurry under a tree, not suitably dressed for a funeral nor invited by the family; but here by circumstance in my nation's field of honor. He is my soldier.

Beautiful in its simplicity, the military funeral proceeds with expected precision. A minister addresses the young crowd of mourners. The flag covering the soldier's coffin is folded and given to today's grieving widow whose two restless toddlers squirm next to her. She bows her head in anguished respect - uncertain the nation is truly grateful for her sacrifice, but so very proud of the hero her husband is. The riflemen give a twenty-one gun salute matched by twenty-one unexpected echoes from another burial in progress on the cemetery grounds. The shots of honor reverberate back and forth across the valley as if to emphasize the sobering cost of freedom.

The cicadas pick up their song again whirring louder and louder until I feel them pounding in my ears. Looking up through the tree, I see that a helicopter has joined their cacophony giving tribute to this fallen hero. The bugler closes with the mournful notes of "Taps," hanging onto the last note until it slowly dissolves into history.

The crowd disperses while I wait under the tree. Stillness returns. Slowly, I begin to walk the uniform rows of gravestones. The magnitude of what we have asked of our soldiers and the grief these families are going through comes quickly into focus. I realize that for the first time ever, I am standing in the graveyard of a war in progress.

A caisson rides by and I leave to follow it to the next funeral. Just across the road a sign reads, "Section 61." It is a massive parcel of uncultivated dirt growing only two lone trees. As I wonder why an empty lot sits nearby, the top of the Washington Monument peeks above the small rise holding its breath, waiting for my realization.  

"O God, the next war!"

I steady myself as waves of grief overtake me. Before I know it, I've returned to Section 60, taken out my camera, and am taking pictures so I never forget their sacrifice. I walk by the headstones of many highly decorated service members. There is a middle-age grandmother, a Marine who loves the Boston Red Sox, a team of five soldiers, and a grave marker for a Muslim. I stop to pray for these families and weep for their loss.

The cadre of mourners attending the earlier service has mostly disappeared. In its place a non-organized yet subconsciously synchronized, convoy of mini vans arrives. A woman gets out of her van, grabs a blanket, lawn chair, and a jug of water before slamming the door. Mounted on the back of her car is a sticker that reads, "Half my heart in Heaven." Another mini van arrives, and another. Each van carries a single woman armed with water, grief and memories.

Her home has betrayed her. It is no longer full of the life and hope of her husband's return, so she escapes to Arlington to reflect. The widow comes to say the things that she cannot say at home...to utter aloud the unspeakable agony of her heart. Surrounded by a field of dead strangers, the widow now feels more at home in a cemetery than she does in her own house. She is tired. She is lonely. She is broken. In the waning afternoon hours of what has become a typical day, the widow lies face down over her husband's grave aching to hold and be held. She whispers a prayer of surrender, and asks for the strength for just one more day. Despite the challenges she knows await her, yesterday's widow rises to conquer her own battle...the battle for her future.

Lord, when I have expended all that I have, remind me that your resources are limitless and you eagerly desire to add your strength to my faith.

"He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak." Isaiah 40:29 (NIV) 

Included in the newly released book: Battlefields & Blessings: Stories of Faith and Courage from the War in Iraq & Afghanistan

Copyright © 2009 by Jane Cook, Jocelyn Green, and John Croushorn. Published by God & Country Press, an imprint of AMG Publishers - All rights reserved.