Sometimes I sit down to write and before I know what has happened, a completely unexpected story bursts out. Today was one of those days and this is one of those stories. I hope you enjoy the interruption to my usual subject matter.
In August of 2000 I was on a religious pilgrimage in Assisi and Rome, Italy. One of the Rome days our group took a side trip to Anzio, the stage of tremendous fighting during WWII. If you visit today you will see a very well used recreation beach and not far away a massive United States military cemetery. The ground of the cemetery are considered U.S. soil, much like an embassy. It was immaculate and symmetrical in a way I had never experienced on such a grand scale.
Our small group of mostly teenagers gathered in the small chapel with a book of prayer intentions sent by our families and the members of our church congregations. We said a few prayers for the soldiers and closes our brief service by singing the Battle Hymn of the Republic. There were no instruments and we stumbled to recall a few of the words. The easily recognized driving rhythm was replaced by a slow steady warmth that turned the marching anthem into a gentle lullaby. It was the most powerful music I have ever experienced.
We left the chapel and split up to walk among the soldiers and find a name to add to our book of intentions.
At first it was difficult to see for the tears in my eyes. I kicked along a pebble path and picked up a few acorns to serve a reminder of the experience and to give my hands a task while I processed the overwhelming emotions pushing on my heart. I let my feet choose my direction and turned into one of the many small sections enclosed by low manicured hedges.
I stepped past the brilliant white headstones. Each was marked by a name, rank, dates, and a religious symbol, mostly crosses with occasional Stars of David.
Our time at the cemetery was nearly at an end but I had not locked in on a specific name to add to our book. I took a few more steps, collecting myself before choosing a headstone and returning to the group but before I could look up, I froze.
The bottom of my left foot had just felt what I can only describe as a very firm and clear thump. Rooted to the spot I looked around assuming someone nearby had just dropped a rock or jumped and I had experienced the vibrations of that impact. No one was anywhere near enough to cause such a vibration.
I pivoted on the spot and found myself squarely in front of a headstone. I stood still and waited for a second sign or message but just like lightening the first message was fleeting and did not come twice. The headstone marked the grave of Clarence Overby. You’ll have to forgive me, I am sure I recorded all of the details on the stone at the time but I can no longer recall his rank or hometown. But his name is something I don’t believe I shall ever forget, and I’m pretty sure that was the plan.
Two years before visiting Anzio I spent an afternoon at Dachau concentration camp near Munich, Germany. It was just myself and a friend, we were just 16 years old. The camp administrative building has become a museum and the grounds are open to the public though most of the smaller buildings have been removed.
In both places I struggled to find a way to connect the dots between my own experience and what had happened to the people who stood where I was standing. I couldn’t. My own great uncle, an Army Ranger, landed on the beach on D-Day. He was wounded but survived. However, most of his unit were killed during the invasion.
These two soldiers did not know the people in the camps, nor did they know each other (that I am aware). They gave up everything they knew to protect the freedom of the people at home and around the world. They answered a call higher than most of us will ever receive. Today, around the world, free people are stopping to say thank you. I am stopping to say thank you.
Thank you to all men and women who have made untold sacrifices so that we can continue to dream the American Dream. Thank you to all the families who have said goodbye to loved ones, not knowing if their promises to see each other soon will be fulfilled. May your willingness and dedication to putting others ahead of yourself be forever rewarded.
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