It’s very cool this morning. The winds that have plagued us for the past weeks are gone and the air is still. There is a meadowlark hiding in the brush somewhere near my property. He is singing and the dogs don’t seem to be driven to find him and chase him away. My parents are buried in the National Cemetery in Santa Fe. My father died by his own hand when I was fourteen. Five years later, my mother died of cancer — and I was an orphan — with six little brother and sister orphans. My father was a veteran. He was in the Coast Guard, serving on the Border Patrol. He rode the barren land between Mexico and the United States on a horse named “Beans”. He was the only man my mother ever loved and it is right that they are buried together.
My dad’s service was not during an armed conflict, but he served his country. This morning, I am thinking that each of us should be serving in some way. Even as we remember and honor those that have died, we should be celebrating those that live and give of themselves.
This is a tiny sermon, but it is from my heart.