Washington

I've been to Arlington Cemetery twice in less than a year.

Both times were visits done with heavy hearts. We were not tourists but participants.

I had never been before. And we have been to Washington several times.

The first time we went we were in terrible pain and grief. Four blackhawks flew above as we sat on the white seats provided in front of the flag drapped casket. The Secretary of the Army came and shook our hands and conveyed condolences. We heard words of comfort, gun salutes of honor, bagpipes of sorrow, revving of the motorcycle engines and muffled sobs and tears hid behind dark glasses. Our friends and family around.

This time, we four went alone to Arlington.

It was a beautiful day. We could drive right in. Right to the grave site. A privilege no one really wants but one we have posthumous.

We walked down silently, hiding our feelings and emotions again, behind dark glasses.

Yes, yes this was the place we were at in December. This is the place he is resting now. The headstone has been inscribed and placed.

We didn't say much. We stood and thought and remembered.

We wandered around other gravesites and found Dave's headstone.

We sat under a tree alone. We wrote in our journal, our intimate thoughts.

We pulled out a pocket New Testament and leaned on each other and read scripture.

We kneeled, embraced and found strength.

And then we drove off in the car to another part of Arlington. An area set aside for slaves. No one had any dates of births or deaths. No one kept account.

Some were unknown. Some were just citizens. Some civilians.

There were unnamed children buried there. Living briefly, not named.

There was an area of small headstones doting the landscape with no names. No names. No way to remember who lived and died so many years ago.

And yet each one had value. Each one had hopes and dreams, interests and giftings. Each one was a unique creation made in the image of a loving creator.

When Elizabeth was in third grade her teacher asked the students to write a paper about their names. We found this paper while unpacking at 34.

My name is Elizabeth.

I like my name because it is pretty.

My mom named me that because I have an aunt named Elizabeth.

My name means conscrated to God.

I wish my name meant cheerful, excellent, amusementing, and funny.

Becuase that is a good way to go through life.

I had not realized that she was such a philosopher at such a tender age but it was a very good thought.

Jesus taught about names. He gave a slight rebuke when his disciples came back with excited reports of power and honor during a missionary trip they had embarked on. His encouragement to them and to us.......Rejoice that your names are written in Heaven.

And so we do rejoice. Christian Philip Skoglund's name is written in Heaven!