But I grew up in a military city, raised by military brats, I have had family members serve in the army and air force, I have enough friends serving in all branches of the military to know that Remembrance Sunday and Veterans’ Day are not about glorifying war, but remembering the fallen. Every soldier is a son or daughter, brother or sister, mother or father, friend to someone who loves them and misses them. On this day we wear red poppies to mourn with those who mourn for those who have served, for those who have shown that “greater love hath no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”
Before the Silence in the remembrance ceremony, the priest of my church reads the names of those from our church who died in the two world wars. Did those young men know that their names would be read year after year, decade after decade? They couldn’t have. This is their immortality on earth; their names are remembered by those who never knew them, who never saw their face. But some of our congregation remember. Jimmy, fellow server, Navy veteran from the second world war, carried the wreath of poppies to the church’s war memorial in the courtyard. He looked splendid with his row of medals.
We will remember them.