The many who never came home for Christmas.

A Cub Scout kneels reverently and in deep respect. 

A week ago today, early on a sunny, crisp Saturday morning, Pris and I found ourselves on the Washington D.C. metro with our hosts from Potomac, Maryland.  We were bound for the nation’s capital to participate in Wreaths Across America, a ceremony that has become an annual event to honor America’s fallen stalwarts at Arlington National Cemetery.

Under seemingly endless acres of cemetery plots, men and women from past and current wartime conflicts and from all branches of the United States Armed Forces quietly lie, buried below endless rows of ivory-white tombstones – boots once standing on the ground but now resting beneath the earth after perishing in the service of their country.

If only we knew the personal stories of each of these individuals and of what they did for us; of how they lived; of how they fought; of how they suffered; and of how they died.  If only we knew of how many broken hearts they left behind to carry on – but never to forget . . . if only we knew . . .  if only we knew . . .  if only we knew.

Denise honors a fallen WWII PFC from New York..

Perhaps we would be better citizens . . . if only we knew. 
 
Perhaps we would have a better comprehension of just what it means to be an American in this republic – and of the price paid in blood by thousands of young men and women so that we can live right here, right now, right in this country -- right in the USA.

If only it were so.  If only it were so.  Perhaps a little less bitching and a lot more respect would be in order about the singularly and exceptionalism – yes, exceptionalism of this magnificent nation. 
 

A crush of people wait to file through the turnstiles near Arlington.

Despite its many shortcomings, and notwithstanding critical missteps of the past, America’s tendency is always to look beyond the present as it endeavors to move forward, always guided by the blessing of liberty shining through what sometimes appears to be an impenetrable political fog.

On that Saturday, there was a horde of  like-minded people bound for Arlington:  As we embarked onto the Washington Metro at the last station, it felt more like we were getting on one of Japan’s rail cars where “oshiyas” (pushers) are employed to pack people into each carriage, there are so many people.

But it was OK.  We were all headed to the same destination and for the same purpose – young and old, all of us.

(Click on any image for an enlarged, enhanced view.)