It was June of 1986 and our family went on a vacation out East.  Gettysburg, Boston, Cape Cod, and Washington D.C. One of the things I wanted to do in D.C. was to visit two high school friends whose names were on the Vietnam Memorial Wall.

I was carrying my ten month old son, Michael, in my arms. After I visited my two friends I walked the full length of the memorial, stopping at each individual panel to scan the names and utter a silent prayer.

I guess it was about sixth or seventh panel in where I stopped. I scanned the names down to the very last row, and there almost hidden by the grass was the name Michael Joseph. I was stunned. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I held my Michael a little tighter in my arms.

A million thoughts raced through my mind but the one that stuck out was that somewhere out in this country was the father of that Michael Joseph. A father who would never again hold his son; who would never again sit at a ball game with his son; who would never dance at his son’s wedding; who would never see grandchildren from his Michael.

I was shaking, a lump in my throat, and the tears rolled like a waterfall. I wanted to stop but I couldn’t. I just held my Michael and looked at the name engraved on the Wall. As I stood there another man, a little older than I stopped, patted me on the back and said, “It’s ok, he’s in good hands now.” He was right.

I finally pulled myself together and pressed on. I read more and more names and I was at a loss. I prayed for those whose names were on the Wall. I prayed for parents, grandparents, sweethearts, and children who were left behind. I prayed that the time would come when what Isaiah said would come true, “They shall beat their swords into plowshares, there spears into pruning hooks, and men will study war no more.” I prayed that my son(s) would never have to go to war.

My eyes are full of tears right now thinking that the killing still goes on. That nations have not learned anything since Hannibal went over the Alps, since the shot heard round the world was fired, since that final charge at Gettysburg, since the Argonne Woods, Normandy, Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan, and on and on and on.

Will it ever stop? How many more sons and now daughters must have their names engraved on a Wall before we see the folly of war? All I can do, and I hope that you can do on this Memorial Day is to remember the advice of the man at the Wall, “It’s ok, they are in good hands now.” Dear heavenly Father, please make it stop! Amen.

Veritas - Curt