When I was a young girl, I remember my teachers and grandparents telling us of World War I and the deaths that came about as a result of that war. I also remember my parents, aunts and uncles telling stories and tales of World War II. The sacrifices made, the USO's where people went to meet others, to dance and to fellowship. I remember watching all the wonderful movies and love stories about it on TV. How romanticized it all seemed. And besides, it was for a good cause. We never lingered on the topic of the realities of death and those who gave their lives for the cause; those who shed their blood for our peace, or those who lost limbs and life so we could have this freedom. 
 
Newsreels at the movies was the closest I came to war and it's realities, other than knowing and loving one cousin of my fathers who was missing his leg as a result of WWII. As children we were told not to talk about it. Even my fathers cousin never talked of what happened or anything having to do with the war or how he lost his leg. They said it was too painful for him to talk about and so we never did. 
 

None of these stories ever really had anything personally to do with me. They were just history, the past, a long ago story of deeds done by others for the sake of the good of all. A necessary reality of life, of war, and of keeping our Liberty. That was, until the 1960's when the "problem" in Vietnam came about. Now, I am not going to make a political statement out of this, even though I could, about whether we had any right being there, or how it compared to the previous wars in ideology, or what the ultimate outcome was and whether it was right or wrong. That is being left out for many reasons at this time, for this writing. Instead, I want to share how it all affected me and how my life and beliefs were changed forever as a result of what being "personal" had to do with Vietnam, the shedding of blood, and how symbols play an important part in our memories and in our lives.

A gigantic American Flag, hung the week we sang, above the individual sculpture of President Abraham Lincoln..

When high school was over for me, Michael still had to finish his. I became very active in my college music and drama departments and went my own way, wrapped up in theatre and musical performances. He stayed and finished school and then chose to go into the service to serve our country after graduation. We had many discussions about his decision to go and we both agreed that for him this was right. Mike ended up in the 101st Airborne. One of the best! We both became involved in relationships whom we dated, and our lives went in different directions, with both our time and our energies. We called and we wrote each other but the quality time spent together was gone. 

I'll never forget the call!!!  Mike had been killed in Vietnam. A hero. He had laid down his life for his friends. As the report goes,  Mike had used up all of his own ammo, emptied all of his fallen buddies ammo, to protect them and himself from the hordes of Viet Cong that had descended on the little village they were in. There was nothing else to do and no where to go. He noticed a buddy who was injured, and down, but still alive. Mike ran to where his friend was, threw himself on top of him to protect him, and was shot in the head while doing so. The friend lived to tell of the event later when he brought the body home to us for burial. 
 

My "Adopted Brother" Mike.

When I received the devastating news of Mike's death, I was in shock! I would not believe it. This could not be happening! We were going to get together and spend some quality time together on his next leave.  I didn't even have time to say thank you. Thank you for our wonderful and very special friendship. Thank you for loving me for who I was and not for my looks, or anything else. Thank you for teaching me that it was very possible to have male friends who cared deeply about the moral fabric and lifelong commitment to friendship and to God.  We talked a lot about God. I had recently become a "new" Christian and my life had changed drastically. He was interested in the changes and new excitement in my life. We had always gone to church together but things were different now. We talked about those differences and he was interested. We wrote back and forth about our fears and our questions.  We shared our joys and hopes for the future.

The funeral was difficult! The music was in a distant background that I couldn't hear, for my own thoughts were so hauntingly loud in my head. The American flag draped the coffin as it left the church in Concord, and drove before us in the hearse for San Bruno.  We drove and could not talk, each lost in the questions that could not be answered.  The military burial took place amongst rows and rows of white crosses representing the soldiers who had died before Mike and they seemed to go on for miles, for an Eternity. I was numb in the abyss of loss and pain! Just about the time I felt like I was doing ok and I had gotten my second wind, the deafening sound of the 21 gun solute drilled holes into my soul, shattering the buildup of spiritual wax I had been trying so desperately to plaster around my broken heart for protection, and I heaved with agonizing, painful reality, that Mike was gone and would never come back!  

With each set of the guns firing over my head, my body flinched and my mind tried to replay the events of his death as they were told to us and I asked, "Why?" "Why God?" No easy answers came. The flag had now been neatly folded and handed to his mother who seemed more numb than I. Even her husbands arms could not bring the comfort she was looking for. We went back home that day, taking only that very Special flag and our memories. Our lives had been permanently changed. The reality of war and death, the meaning of our flag, had taken on  new meaning in all of our lives.  As I drove away from the cemetery that day, I promised Mike that some-day if God was gracious enough to give me a son, he would be named after him and I would do whatever I could to train him to be a wonderful and faithful friend, just as Mike had been to me. 

Approximately a month after Mike's death, or a little earlier than that,  I received a letter that he had written to me before he died. It was his last, and it took awhile to get to me, for whatever reason. The shock of receiving it after his death was strange and unnerving, but in the closing section of the letter his comment was, "Well Sis, someday soon, I'll be saying Welcome Home."  What a strange statement to write unless he believed he was going to die and would be there in Heaven before me, welcoming me home instead of my saying "Welcome Home" to him, here in our earthly homes. He had been reading his Bible and getting his questions answered. His destination for Eternity had changed, his celebration was near. 

Shortly after Mike's death, I left home and went away to finish college. I had also decided to do whatever I could to give back to our servicemen away from home. I had been singing at Port Chicago before I left for college, so I started singing in Long Beach while in Southern  Cal. I always loved driving on the bases and looking up and seeing the flag flying high. I would always hurt also when I viewed it at haft mast.  
 

While singing in Long Beach  I met my ex-husband who was in the Navy at the time. While dating he was in Vietnam on ship in the Gulf along with other places, and after we married he was called to serve a year on land there again. I praise the Lord that he made it back safely! It was a difficult year to go through, being apart like that, but God was gracious and taught us both tremendous lessons as a result of it. After he returned home, I became pregnant, stopped teaching for the time being, and moved home near my parents where I delivered our first born son who we named Michael, after my "adopted" brother and dear friend. My husband willingly agreed to giving him that name. In some small way, that was my way of saying thanks for our precious friendship & deep love we'd had for each other.  As the years went by, I recognized over time, that because of my anger in many ways, I had never really thanked Mike or the thousands who had spent time or given their lives in Vietnam. No matter what our opinions of the war were, or how they changed over time, our country had sent our young men and women over there and they deserved our thanks and support, not our anger or abuse.  In 1991 I had the opportunity to go with a group of very talented individuals from around the country, mostly California and the Dakotas, to sing at Mt. Rushmore for the 50th dedication and celebration on the 4th of July, and all that week.

President and Mrs. Bush  who were at Mt Rushmore for the events on the 3rd and maybe the 4th.

The government was also making this a thank you celebration for our returning troops from the Gulf War.  I decided to go, and for me, make this a time for saying thanks to Mike and our Vietnam troops who had, up until then, been over looked and not well received. I auditioned and was asked to go. During our rehearsal the day before our first performance, we were in the middle of a song about the flag and the meaning of its colors, when out of no where, after almost 25 years, I saw my "adopted" brother Mike, appear before me, in uniform, while we were singing about the color red and the sacrifices made. Whether real or in my mind, he had a smile on his face, he was saluting towards me, and the flag, standing off to the side of me, saying, "Thank you Connie!" "Thank you for coming." I started to cry as I had at his funeral, but this time it was with peace, comfort, and an over-whelming joy!  

As we all stood at the base of Mt. Rushmore that next day, singing in front of thousands of people and all of the dignitaries, to celebrate the 4th of July, Independence Day, I knew that the day before, in that little church during rehearsal, I saw and experienced the greatest 4th of July week that anyone could ever have! I was reminded that long after I am gone from this earth and even Mt. Rushmore is gone, the earlier sacrifices made for me, the same color of red, the shed blood, and the symbol of the Cross, have given me an Eternal Home to go to, where my freedom is secured, already paid for, and my own independence will become, dependence on Almighty God. 
 

May you and your families have a wonderful and safe 4th of July, waiving the stars and stripes forever, knowing the value of this great nations symbol in the flag, and in the loving fellowship of your family and friends.    I'm on the left, a fellow singer, and my sister Kathy who went too, taking a breather.

Doing my solo song with the choir.