By definition, Memorial Day ought to be about memories. Mine are about Sunday School picnics. My older brother and I would get up early, meet friends, and reserve space for our entire church family at the city park. We tuned our radios to find out who won the Indianapolis 500, then we would enjoy a potluck (my mom’s specialty was Jackpot Noodles), compete in games, eat ice cream, and drink unlimited cans of soda.
My wife remembers something more solemn: her grandfather making sure the family was wearing their red poppies. That is a tradition based on the poem, “In Flanders Fields,” by John McCrae. In the Spring of 1915, a WW I battle left 87,000 Allied soldiers dead on the fields around Flanders, Belgium, yet McCrae noticed that in juxtaposition to all the death and destruction, beautiful red poppies were blooming in great abundance. He wrote:
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
Each year, my life has been filled by more and more memories—some sweet, some painful—but through them all, the poppies grow. By that, I mean that God always provides beauty and joy.
I also remember my father’s death. Shortly before he died, he said to me, “I can’t die yet. I haven’t suffered.” I know that wasn’t true, after all, he had raised four other boys and me. Still, by God’s grace, he was able to look back on his life and only see joy. His was the same perspective that allowed Paul to write from a Roman prison, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice.” (Philippians 4:4)