Somebody’s Children

There’s something about becoming a parent that changes the way you see the world.

I didn’t grow up in a military family. I come from a long line of independent farmers. Rural people. Hardworking people. Patriotic people. We respected the flag and understood what Memorial Day stood for, but if I’m being honest, it still felt somewhat distant from my everyday life.

As my family grew over the years, there were a few aunts and uncles who married men that had served. I saw old military photos here and there. Young faces in uniform. But they were names and stories I never really felt personally connected to.

That changed when I became a mom.

Especially a mom to boys.

Somewhere along the way, I realized just how fast eighteen years goes by. One minute you’re rocking a baby to sleep, and the next they’re young men standing on the edge of adulthood. Eighteen years old. Fresh out of high school. Barely old enough to figure out who they are yet.

And somehow, that’s old enough to go to war.

For the young men and women who willingly choose military service, I have nothing but respect and appreciation. That kind of courage and commitment deserves honor. Some never see combat, and some do. Some make it home, and heartbreakingly, some do not.

As a parent, I cannot imagine that loss.

But what settles differently with me now, the older I get, is thinking about the generations before us. The young men who didn’t choose. The boys who received letters in the mail telling them when and where to report. Boys with parents who had no say. Dreams they never got to chase.  Families they never got to build.

I think sometimes we unintentionally convince ourselves that people back then somehow felt things differently. Tougher. Less emotional. Less afraid.

But that's not true.

Those were sons to parents who cherished them just as deeply as I cherish mine.

Young men who were probably scared to death. Mothers who cried behind closed doors. Fathers trying to stay strong. Families forever changed. And for many, their boys never came home.

The ones who did were often never quite the same.

The older I get, the more those old photographs affect me. I no longer see uniforms first. I see youth. I see sons. I see families.

Sometimes, I even picture them as newborn babies. Completely loved. Wanted. The absolute apple of their parents’ eye.

And I think that’s what Memorial Day has slowly become for me over the years — not just gratitude, but a deeper understanding of sacrifice and the weight carried by generations before us.

This weekend, while we gather with family, cook good food, enjoy an extra day off, and celebrate the freedom we’ve been given, I hope we also pause for a moment to remember the people behind those old photographs.

Not just soldiers.

Somebody’s children.