“Speak that name, read the accomplishments of that member, lay that wreath, and say thank you. And it will change your heart like nothing else that you have ever done.”
Judy Carlile

This last Saturday morning, I drove over to Fort Sam Houston Cemetery. A few days before, I had been reminded that Wreaths Across America was happening on the weekend. For years I’ve seen photos and heard from my friends what a magical experience this is, and I wanted to be a part of it.

Each year, the Saturday or two before Christmas is allocated as Wreaths Across America Day. Thousands and thousands of Americans gather in the local and National Military Cemeteries across the United States to lay wreaths on the graves of our servicemen. Throughout the year, donations are raised and wreaths are sponsored to give each marble epitaph a token of our gratitude.

At Fort Sam alone, there are roughly 175,000 graves, this includes family members of deceased servicemen. This year, the local San Antonio chapter of WAA laid over 62,000 wreaths, an absolutely tremendous effort.

When I arrived, it had already been pouring rain for hours. The highways were flooded at points, and I wasn’t sure what the turn out would be. Rain is a good excuse to stay home, but I underestimated the pluck of my fellow Texans. The cemetery was crowded. Packed to the gills. Men, women, children, babies, grandparents, military, civilians, every walk of life.

Before the crowds were released, a brief ceremony took place at the pavilion. Craig Russell of Seguin shared the real meaning behind why we were gathered that day.

“I am not a Chaplain, but I am a man of deep abiding Faith. And in Deuteronomy 32:7 it says, “Remember the days of old; consider the generations long past. Ask your father and he will show you, your elders, and they will tell you.’… It is built into the fabric of humanity that we reflect God’s image when we remember. We bear the torch of God’s love as those to remember. We have come here today to Remember.

We are here to remember the sacrifices of those… that have gone before us. To remember that Freedom is not Free. And to inspire the next generation to be those that also remember. It is in remembering that we preserve the fragile democracy that we are a part of. It is in remembering that connects us to our past. It is in remembering that keeps the flame of Freedom alive in the present.”

As the rains beat a tattoo on our heads, the crowds moved to the massive trucks holding boxes and boxes of wreaths. Mutual misery causes conversation. As the long lines crawled forward, we discussed the obvious topic: the rain, and I recommended channeling the Marine Corps at Chosin.

The local Boy Scouts wrestled the rain and wind in their light ponchos, and I watched many an umbrella take flight. Every form of carrying device had been employed to transfer the wreaths from the trucks to the grave: walking canes, umbrellas, baby strollers, small wagons, long arms, even broom sticks. I love a bit of American ingenuity.

One of the mac trucks delivering the wreaths

“Do you think there'll be any wreaths left when we get to the truck?” was the question of the hour.

“Don’t worry! With 62,000 wreaths, I think there’s plenty to go around.”

My new friends didn’t enjoy the rain shower as much as I did. “Let’s just make one trip and call it a day,” they said.

I couldn’t resist, “Are you sure y’all aren’t Air Force??”

Immediately a couple in line ahead of us turned and declared, “Hey! The Air Force goes outside sometimes!”

Before going out, the crowd had been encouraged to, “Speak that name, read the accomplishments of that member, lay that wreath, and say thank you.”

Later I watched two little girls take this to heart. One laying a wreath on the grave, her sister said a quiet prayer. “Dear Soldier —- thank you for your service to our country. Thank you for protecting my family. We will always remember you. Amen.”

An older man walked down the line of graves with an arm of wreaths. Before laying a wreath, he recited the name, rank, and military branch. A salute. A “Thank you for your service,” and he moved on to the next one.

A father and his two little boys made their way up and down the rows. The three year old danced around the graves looking at the wreaths, trying to make out the letters inscribed on the stone. The father read the names aloud to his older son. When he came across a USMC he stopped and made note of it.

“Here’s a Marine, son,” he said.

“Are you a Marine?” I called out from several graves down.

“Yes,” he says. “Oorah.”

“Semper Fi!” I respond.

I ask him to take a photo for me. “Do you know the person?” He asked.

No I don’t.

“My son is somewhere in this cemetery,” he tells me.

On any day, these sights would be touching, but in the pouring rain, there was an intangible beauty. No rush. No hurry. No fight against the inclement climate. Just time standing still, as each grave received it’s honor and remembrance.

While the grave merely holds the frail and empty remains of our loved ones, their epitaphs etched in marble above represent a legacy.

Lucian Adams
SSGT, US Army World War Two.
October 25, 1922 - March 31, 2003
Purple Heart
Bronze Star
Medal of Honor

A full life summed up in a couple of words. The last of their accomplishments. How they are to be remembered.

Sometimes I jest that my fondest memories over the years have taken place in old battlefields or cemeteries while all heaven broke loose and threatened a second flood. But it’s also kind of true.

“Those of you that are gathered here today, you came here to take care of each other; to be a part of a legacy; and to remember.” -Craig Russell

I left Fort Sam inspired. And invigorated. I watched my community come together and perform a simple but massive task in less than desirable conditions. And it was done united, with a smile.

This is America. This is our heart.

I strongly encourage you to participate in Wreaths Across America next year. As the inestimable Judy Carlile said, “It will change your heart like nothing else that you have ever done.”

Operation Meatball

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Roy Huereque and Donald Long, two veterans who left a lasting impact on me.

A few weeks ago, a conversation I had led me to contemplate the birthright that is given to us as Americans. Birthright is kind of an archaic word, but absolutely invaluable. It is our inheritance, our legacy, a rightful privilege we receive at birth. Our birthright as Americans gives us the gift of freedom. Freedom to self regulate and self govern. With that freedom comes responsibility. The responsibility to tend to, care for, and protect our birthright.

“To whom much is given, much is required.”

This birthright, our freedom, has to be guarded. We all share the responsibility, true, but it’s not equally divided. Our military carries the burden of protection in a different manner than the civilian. Our military holds the line for the rest of us. A few men and women volunteer to make particular sacrifices and develop distinct disciplines so that the rest of us do not have to.

And that’s why we have a Veterans’ Day. To honor their service, their sacrifice, their discipline, their burden, and to say ‘thank you.’ It’s not hero worship. It’s recognizing that they have taken our place in line and made themselves available to protect America on behalf of the rest of us. Some years patriotism is in vogue, and other years it’s blacklisted. But our veterans stick it out, carrying the standard with pride. And for this, I will always be grateful.

A few years back, I listened as a veteran told me the story of a day when time stopped for him. Beneath the skies of Belgium, he watched the snow fall slowly and melt into nothingness on the open and exposed brain of the young paratrooper he held in his arms. He had tried to save the boy, but the surrounding snow was already stained red with the life of the young man.

The veteran was old, but still strong. I held his hand as he reflected on this painful memory. He was gentle, kind, and sincere. He had carried a Medic’s bag in the war instead of a rifle because he wanted to save life, not take away.

The entirety of our friendship, I never once heard him complain. His presence was like a warm hug. His sense of humor was charming. I cried bitterly when he died. But I never forgot that conversation.

“Liberty,” he had said in a smooth Virginia accent, “I love this country so much. As horrible as it all was, I would do it all again. At 95 it would be my greatest honor to take up arms for my country. That’s how much I love her.”

There was no pomp in what he said. No clichés. It was pure and simple.

He loved America.

For him to have that experience, just one in many nightmarish experiences he had suffered, it was worth it. Worth it if it meant I - ME - Liberty Phillips - did not have to. That was it.

There is so much chaos in the world. So much disillusionment, hurt, pain, and so on. But I am convinced a grateful heart is a happy one. Gratitude doesn’t mean ignorance. Gratitude is choosing to not allow suffering and hardship to define who you are, and who you will be.

I am grateful for my veterans. My military family. For all it entails. “So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love…. And Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

Happy Veterans Day.