Remembrance Day Reflection

                                                                                        "where poppies grow"

Growing up I knew nothing of war. In fact, the only thing I really knew about war was from movies and books in which war was often romanticized. Yet the presence of war hung around our home. Literally. The big farm house in which I grew up has a front stairs and a back stairs. A door off the kitchen led to the back stairs - a narrow circular stair case - a great place to hide ‘stuff’ when visitors arrived unexpectedly. 

The front stairs is more elegant, without twists and turns. Along the staircase hung a long narrow vintage WW1 picture, about 4 ft  X 15 inches, of about 100 men dressed in uniform. One of those men in the long picture was my great uncle Theophilus McCoubrey, only brother of my paternal grandmother Beatrice who lived with us. Theo was one of the thousands killed overseas in WW1. Another picture of Theo hung in the parlour (the living room of a farm house) in a large oval dark wood frame.

Most days we would bounce by those pictures and not even notice their presence. Except for the times my sister and I would try to find Theo in the photo. Then there were other days when the eyes of these 100 plus men stared into my being. 

It was not unusual for homes to have one of those long pictures on display. 

Still Theo’s life and death were rarely talked about - except for the occasional time when my grandmother would call out his name in the middle of the night. 

Families say how grandparents did not talk about the horrors they experienced. Indeed, many coped with what we now know as PTSD with alcohol. Thankfully, in recent years we are talking about PTSD; including the impact on loved ones.  

It is only in watching more recent documentaries and movies like “The Forgotten War,” do many of us witness the horror of the so-called Great Wars. Still, miraculously, many families are ultimately able to move out of their tragic circumstances into a place of strength.

This strength has been passed down, generation to generation, all the way to us. That is, each successive generation bears in our bodies and lives both the trauma our ancestors experienced and the Holy hope that took them forward.

For indeed, the person I am today is influenced by what my people have survived, or done, or coped with, or opted out of. For our lives are built on the shoulders of the generations before us - including our faith ancestors. For certainly, our lives are never an individual story alone: it’s a community story, it’s a story of many “we’s.”

Tomorrow, Remembrance Day, we will pause to remember those who offered everything they had; those who gave their whole lives.

As we pause in a moment of silence, as we reverently present each wreath of remembrance, can we remember that there is nothing lucky about the fact that we are free to choose justice?

This exercise of choice is a privilege won by many, including those who gave their lives - those we remember on November 11. 

Could Remembrance Day also be a day of thanksgiving: for others who give their all - for the service of veterans, living and dead; for the service of caregivers — nurses and doctors, chaplains and mental health professionals, spouses, family members and friends — who walk with veterans through the ravages of war, even after the bullets and bombs and missiles stop flying? Could Remembrance Day be a day of thanksgiving  for the days of peace that continue to be a dream rather than a reality?

Could it be a day for all of us to find ways, large and small, to build bridges across lines of difference, suspicion, or hostility within ourselves, our families, our neighbourhoods, our country and among the nations of the world?

Could it be a day to lay down our arms, so that the next one hundred years may be more peaceful than the last?

May we give thanks for the opportunities before us. Lest we forget.