The Grave of a Young Sailor Stirs Thoughts and Emotions

Last Sunday, just before the Super Bowl, I took a walk over to the cemetery near my house in a small town in California. Some member of “Findagrave.com” (of which I am also a member) had requested that someone in my area find some of her relatives’ graves and take photos. It was a nice day for a walk, as the sky was completely blue and cloud-free and the weather was warm.

Upon arriving at the gate of the cemetery, I saw that it was not the right cemetery. Since I was already there, I went in and looked around.

The cemetery was quiet and had graves going back more than a hundred years. I found a couple of sections that were all military. They had stand-up headstones, rounded at the top, typical military style stones. There were soldiers and sailors buried close together from World War II, the Korean War and Viet Nam. Some of the headstones bore the serviceman’s picture, in uniform. I always feel humbled standing before the graves of soldiers or sailors even though most of these died of old age, not on the battlefield. I am humbled by their service, by their willingness to go in harm’s way so some stranger like me can go through his life in relative safety and peace as a free man. Each and every one of these men has a story if only I knew them. I read their names and whispered to each of them, “God bless you brother!”

I envy them, because they had the opportunity to serve their country, to wear its uniform, to do something very meaningful with at least a portion of their lives. They earned the right to have future generations stand before their graves in reverence and respect.

In another cluster of military graves, I found that of a young U.S. Navy sailor who died in 1969 at the age of 23 years of age, probably in Viet Nam. His picture looked out from his tombstone. He had dark hair and was wearing his Navy blues. I was born two years before he was. The feeling of poignancy was very strong as I stood over his grave in the deserted cemetery. How is it that I am looking down on his grave rather than the other way around? How can it possibly be fair? When they snapped that picture of him, no doubt he never thought it would mark his grave. What would he have thought had he known he would soon die and be buried in this grassy, quiet spot? Never to marry, have children or grow old.

I thanked him for his sacrifice and prayed for him before walking away towards home. He was a human being. He counted. People loved him. He had hopes and dreams. How can his book simply be closed for good, put away on the dusty shelf of eternity, never to be read again? For whatever it’s worth to him, I gave witness to these truths and questions. I spoke my feelings to God that this young man counted for something, that he mattered, that he should not be forgotten by Heaven. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could do for him. Hope someone up there heard me.