Memorial

Today's Daily Devo is drawn from a devotion I originally wrote nearly nine years ago.  I decided to reflect on it, update it, and then share it.  I hope that you all have a meaningful Memorial Day. 

When I was a kid, my family would often travel on Memorial Day to the small community of Seibert, Colorado, where my dad grew up. In a quiet cemetery on the outskirts of town, we would visit the graves of my dad’s grandparents and those of close friends and relatives.

I remember walking among the stones, reading names and dates, and noticing the small American flags placed beside the graves of those who had served in the military.

When my grandfather died when I was ten, those trips took on new meaning. My grandmother would refresh the flowers on his grave, and we would stand quietly while she did—each of us remembering in our own way, carrying our own thoughts and stories.

Years later, I officiated at my grandmother’s funeral and returned to that cemetery as an adult. I recognized gravestones I had gazed at as a child, and for a moment everything felt timeless—until the fresh earth from my grandmother’s grave reminded me that time keeps moving and love keeps changing shape.

Today, I find myself thinking of that cemetery again.

I am miles from that quiet place now. Yet I can close my eyes and see it clearly. I can smell the dust and sage in the air and feel the wind against my face.

Memorial Day invites us to remember.

We remember those who paid the ultimate price in service to our country. We honor sacrifice and acknowledge the cost of freedom.

But like many holy days and holidays, Memorial Day also becomes personal.

It becomes about all those whose absence still changes the shape of our lives.

It becomes about parents and grandparents, friends and mentors, spouses and children—the beloved dead who remain present in memory and whose lives still echo in ours.

The writer of Hebrews speaks of a “great cloud of witnesses” surrounding us (Hebrews 12:1). I have always loved that image—not because it removes grief, but because it reminds us that love does not end where life does.

For my own part, this is now nearly nine years since my mother died.

Nine years.  It's so hard to believe that much time has passed.  

Long enough that life has kept moving. Long enough for new memories to form. Long enough to know that grief changes—but does not disappear.

I still miss her gentle presence. I still find moments when I wish I could tell her something, ask her a question, hear her laugh.

And I know I am not alone in that.

Many of us carry names in our hearts today.

Some losses are recent. Some are decades old. Some belong to loved ones. Some belong to communities. Some belong to hopes we once carried.

This Memorial Day, perhaps one faithful practice is simply this: speak their names.

Give thanks.

Tell their stories.

And pray that the God who gathers all things into love would hold them—and hold us.

The Apostle Paul once wrote, “We do not grieve as others do who have no hope.” (1 Thessalonians 4:13)

Notice he does not say we do not grieve.

We grieve.

But we grieve with hope.

Because Jesus has risen, death is not the final word.

Hear the promise of Christ again:

“I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” (John 11:25–26)

So remember the fallen.  Think of those who laid down their lives in conflicts and wars, and pray for peace.  

Remember the ones you have lost.  Give thanks for the gift they were to the world and to you.

And hold fast to this hope: this is not the end.

The God who raised Jesus is still making all things new.

Death does not have the last word.

Love does.

Know this and be at peace.

And may the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you now and always.

Amen.