Reflections on Memorial Day and Service

In the early 1970s, I was just a kid when my father served as a U.S. Naval Reserve chaplain in Atlanta. One of his hardest jobs was casualty notification—breaking the devastating news to families when a loved one had passed away while serving, typically in the Marines.

During the colder months, he donned his Navy uniform, blue and crisp, and ventured into Atlanta’s poorest neighborhoods. Back then, there were no cell phones. Finding families was often a challenge. Notifications had to be prompt, and often, a uniformed stranger’s presence at the door was met with fear—some family members would initially hide, believing he was a police officer.

This Memorial Day, as a nation, we honor those who never thought twice about wearing their uniforms.

Yet, there was a heavy weight my father carried—the worst news a family could hear.

He balanced preaching from the pulpit with delivering messages at doorsteps, a dual role that was anything but easy. After years of service, he retired as a Captain, but those moments—when he had to share heart-wrenching news—left a lasting impression on me.

For me, Memorial Day holds deeper significance. It’s not just about statues or granite monuments.

Some memories were folded into flags, given to families trembling with loss. Others are immortalized in framed photographs or quietly nestled beneath white crosses by the sea. A few are so minute they might escape notice, tucked away in the pages of a Bible.

One such mention appears in the genealogy of Jesus Christ. Matthew, under divine guidance, documents the lineage: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, David, and Solomon.

However, when mentioning Solomon, an oddity occurs. “David became the father of Solomon by the wife of Uriah” (Matthew 1:6). Not Bathsheba’s name, but her husband’s—Uriah the Hittite.

It was David’s sin to betray Uriah, leading to his death in battle. The scripture doesn’t shy away from David’s failings; “What David did provoked the wrath of the Lord” (2 Samuel 11:27).

While David repented and received forgiveness from God, the consequences of his actions lingered. Still, God kept Uriah’s name alive—a name David may have hoped to erase.

This thought circulates in my mind every Memorial Day.

Uriah has been remembered for nearly 3,000 years, not due to royal honor but because the Divine refused to let his story fade. A Hittite by birth, Uriah served King David, despite the betrayal he faced.

Memorial Day is a poignant reminder of the essence of service.

As the U.S. marks its 250th anniversary, countless heroes have donned the uniform, some falling bravely on the battlefield, others succumbing to tragic accidents or mismanagement far from the front lines.

War is a tangled mix—honor and calamity intertwined. Yet, for generations, Americans have stepped forward, willing to face costs we can only hope to avoid.

Many, unfortunately, paid the ultimate price.

My sons are now the same age as I was when my father delivered unthinkable news in his Navy uniform, a reality that weighs heavy on my heart.

But these experiences were typical for my father. His faith was often visible in the living rooms filled with shock, as families grappled with the absence of their loved ones.

He served both his nation and his church, standing alongside grieving families at their most vulnerable.

My father’s grave marker speaks to both his rank and his calling, a testament that he was a source of support during the darkest moments.

This Memorial Day, we honor those who never hesitated to wear their uniforms.

And as we take a moment, let’s also remember the military chaplains. Many shared distressing news with families, prayed through tears, honored the departed, and spoke words that would stay etched in individuals’ hearts forever.

“On behalf of the grateful people…”

History may forget names. Monuments may erode. Politicians may falter. But God remembers.

In Christ’s genealogy, the names of faithful soldiers endure. Acts of service and sacrifice in the line of duty do not escape Divine notice.

Not all monuments are stone. Some legacies remain, unforgotten by time.