This I ask of You

Dear Heavenly Father

This I ask of you...

Please give each soldier a special place in heaven

A soft feather bed to lie on...

A satin pillow for their heads to rest upon

The best food heaven has to offer to nourish their souls

The warmth of a hearth fire... to warm them

And a heavenly stream to cool them

And two loving arms to welcome them home

The knowledge that we are grateful for all they've done

Goodnight soldier dear, nothing more to fear

For you are home at last... 

Rest in God's eternal love and peace

Thank you for allowing me to live free!

In Jesus most precious name,

Amen

weymouth@cwnet.com

?©Copyright, Barbara J. Ervin-Weymouth, May 22, 2005, ?®All Rights Reserved

my memorial day webpage:http://snicklefritzmuffins.tripod.com/memorialday

~**~**~

In Canada we have Remembrance Day. We remember those who died in the wars on this day.

The vets sell poppies (Plastic) during that time. Everyone wears a poppy on their lapel.

There is a poem called "In Flanders Fields" written about 11/11/11 (The 11th month, the 11th day,

the 11th second) which is the exact time WW1 ended.



Here is the poem. Below that is a story I wrote last fall.



In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian ArmyIN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.


McCrae's "In Flanders Fields" remains to this day one of the most memorable war poems ever written. It is a lasting legacy of the terrible battle in the Ypres salient in the spring of 1915. Here is the story of the making of that poem: Although he had been a doctor for years and had served in the South African War, it was impossible to get used to the suffering, the screams, and the blood here, and Major John McCrae had seen and heard enough in his dressing station to last him a lifetime.

As a surgeon attached to the 1st Field Artillery Brigade, Major McCrae, who had joined the McGill faculty in 1900 after graduating from the University of Toronto, had spent seventeen days treating injured men -- Canadians, British, Indians, French, and Germans -- in the Ypres salient.

It had been an ordeal that he had hardly thought possible. McCrae later wrote of it:

"I wish I could embody on paper some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days... Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and said it could not have been done."

One death particularly affected McCrae. A young friend and former student, Lieut. Alexis Helmer of Ottawa, had been killed by a shell burst on 2 May 1915. Lieutenant Helmer was buried later that day in the little cemetery outside McCrae's dressing station, and McCrae had performed the funeral ceremony in the absence of the chaplain.

The next day, sitting on the back of an ambulance parked near the dressing station beside the Canal de l'Yser, just a few hundred yards north of Ypres, McCrae vented his anguish by composing a poem. The major was no stranger to writing, having authored several medical texts besides dabbling in poetry.

In the nearby cemetery, McCrae could see the wild poppies that sprang up in the ditches in that part of Europe, and he spent twenty minutes of precious rest time scribbling fifteen lines of verse in a notebook.

A young soldier watched him write it. Cyril Allinson, a twenty-two year old sergeant-major, was delivering mail that day when he spotted McCrae. The major looked up as Allinson approached, then went on writing while the sergeant-major stood there quietly. "His face was very tired but calm as we wrote," Allinson recalled. "He looked around from time to time, his eyes straying to Helmer's grave."

When McCrae finished five minutes later, he took his mail from Allinson and, without saying a word, handed his pad to the young NCO. Allinson was moved by what he read:

"The poem was exactly an exact description of the scene in front of us both. He used the word blow in that line because the poppies actually were being blown that morning by a gentle east wind. It never occurred to me at that time that it would ever be published. It seemed to me just an exact description of the scene."

In fact, it was very nearly not published. Dissatisfied with it, McCrae tossed the poem away, but a fellow officer retrieved it and sent it to newspapers in England. The Spectator, in London, rejected it, but Punch published it on 8 December 1915.



And now the story I wrote:

 
Here in the USA it is known as Veteran's Day. In Canada it is known as

Remembrance Day and is a national Holiday. The number 11 took on a new meaning

after 9/11, but it signified freedom long before that.

As a kid I had no idea what it meant. To me it was just another holiday. A day

when stores were closed and more importantly, there was no school. I knew about the

war, but I was free to play. I knew people died for our freedom, but I could sleep in. I

knew my parents had little when they were growing up because of the war, but I had food on my plate and a day to watch TV. The real meaning of the day was distant to me.

Years later my daughter joined the Brownies. The first year she was a member I

was setting the alarm to wake us on the morning of 11/11. She had to participate in a

parade. Every Brownie, Girl Guide, Cub Scout, and Scout had to participate in this

parade in remembrance of those who died for our freedom.

My wife and I left her with the Guide leader and proceeded to the Canadian

Legion where we would wait for her. The kids paraded a mile along the coastal roads of

Nova Scotia, carrying their flags high and proud. We parents waited for their big arrival.

As we waited the veterans began to arrive. Old men now, long past the prime they were

when they fought in the trenches and watched their comrades die. Many came in

wheelchairs, some limped, and some still stood strong.

They joined the kids and walked as proudly as they could to the legion, where a

band waited. The band played, speeches were made, and on the 11th month, the 11th day,

the 11th hour, the 11th minute, and the 11th second there began one minute of silence.

It was during that minute that I wondered why I had not stood there in the cold before.

Why had I not gotten out of my bed on this holiday and stood with those that fought for

our freedom? It took my daughter to make me realize the importance of the day.

I never missed another Remembrance Day.

Many years later, because of work, I was separated from my family. I was in

another city, but on Remembrance Day I heard there was going to be a service in the city

square. This was in Saint John, New Brunswick.

I put on my jacket and a tie, walked the mile to the service and stood in the damp

cold and watched those brave men once again march for our freedom. I don't know if it

was because I was away from my family or the sight of those old men still walking

proudly, but that service sticks with me always.

The Veterans marched, wheeled, and limped to the city square. The mayor gave a

speech, the minute of silence came, and when it ended a bagpipe began to play "Amazing

Grace." After the first chorus a second one joined in along with a small band, and on the

third chorus more bagpipes joined and a brass band began to play. The building of sound,

the magic of the moment is something I will never forget. The tears filled my eyes that

day as the blood must have filled the trenches in battle. It was a moment burned in my

mind forever.

On November 11th let's all take a minute to remember those who fought for our

freedom and those that continue to fight for it.



May God bless them all.



Michael Smith

mtsmith@qwestonline.com

 ~**~**~

 WHY DON??™T WE LISTEN?

By Ron Gold

It was an eighth grade light bulb moment.  Mrs. Hogan, my English teacher, read us a profound verse about World War I.  She called it a ???war poem???, knowing ???war??? would appeal to adolescent boys and ???poem??? had strong appeal to junior high school Princesses.

The short poem was entitled ???In Flanders Fields???.  It was written by an early twentieth century renaissance Lt. Col. John McCrea, a Canadian Army medical officer, physician, college professor and poet, who was inspired by a visit to Flanders Field. a small American Military Cemetery in on the France/Belgium border..

Here are those three insightful stanzas:

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

            Between the crosses, row on row,

            That mark our place, and in the sky

            The larks, still bravely singing, fly

            Scarce heard amid the guns below.

            We are the dead.  Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunsets glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie.

In Flanders Field.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders Field.

When she finished reading, the room fell silent.  No sub-rosa girly gossip.  No fidgeting with pencils or staring out of windows.  No clearing of throats??”just the sound of the pipes that kept our classroom comfortable.

In an amazingly mature discussion, we talked about that war and the

impending new war.  We also talked about the bombing of Great Britain,

which we heard on our radios and saw in the movie theatre newsreels.  We

talked about our fathers going off to war; perhaps even dying.

Mrs. Hogan and Captain McCrea got us thinking.

Yet we did enter an international war. Then a police action.  Then a few

incursions followed by Viet Nam, Desert Storm and Iraq.

Why don??™t we listen?  Why don??™t we accept John McCrea at face value.  If we hate war as much as we say, why do we walk away and let hatreds fester and explode rather than gain the peaceful closure we need?

People are imperfect.  War is stupid.

And poppies still blow in Flanders Fields.

Ron Gold

outthinkresumes@aol.com
About Me:
Ron Gold has been writing professionally for some 50 years--in public relations,
advertising and motivation agencies. He now writes
inspirational and humorous stories for the Internet. He also creates
professional resumes from a recruiter's viewpoint, ethical wills and
personal love stories. He also edits college essays students submit
to undergraduate and graduate schools. He was graduated from the
University of Bridgeport and served as a Public Information Specialist
in the U.S. Army. He resides in West Orange, NJ He can be reached at
outthinkresumes@aol.com

~**~**~  

The White Rose Wreath

Kay Seefeldt

Vernal rebirth to our small coastal island seemed to come much later
than any where else in the state of Maine. By Memorial Day, April
showers had not yet kept its promise of May flowers.

Due to this annual shortage, ingenious island women made up this
deficit by spending days with scissors in hand, crafting miles of crepe
paper into floral facsimiles fit to grace cemetery lots of their
deceased loved ones.

Grammie was master of this art form.  She would cut stacks of pink,
red, yellow, and white petal shapes. With her nimble fingers, she
pulled and puffed them into lush fullness. With a rolling motion of the
scissors, she fluted the petals??™ tips. By attaching and overlapping
those petals to green paper wrapped wire stems, roses magically burst
into full bloom.  Or sometimes, small buds.

My favorites though were the single petaled white flowers with the long
yellow stamen. Grammie told me they were calla lilies. Years later I 
saw my first real calla in a florist??™s shop and recognized it
immediately. I still marvel over their simple elegance.  Several of
these exotic beauties have a home in my garden window.

Patiently, Grammie taught me the fine art of petal arranging. My first
attempts weren??™t very professional, but when mine were combined with
hers in vases, they became breathtaking bouquets.

After the flowers were completed, Grammie dipped them in melted
paraffin. Instantly, they were transformed into translucent splendor
that rivaled the real thing. With a bit of imagination one could almost
smell their fragrant scent.  I??™m not so sure that Grammie didn??™t drop a
bit of her Evening in Paris perfume from the cobalt bottle into the
melted wax.

As Memorial Day approached, our teachers explained its significance as
a special time to honor and show appreciation to fallen American
soldiers. In the mid 50??™s, W.W.II was still a haunting memory to many.

To commemorate Memorial Day, students and teachers marched from school
to the nearest wharf. One of the teachers offered a prayer of
thankfulness for soldiers who willingly paid the ultimate sacrifice for
their country. After singing ???God Bless America,??? a student solemnly
tossed the wreath of white roses onto the waters of the Atlantic Ocean
in honor of those buried or lost at sea.

Seeing those white flowers floating on the cold, dark ocean waters left
me with an indelible memory and a feeling of sadness for parents who??™d
never be able to welcome their loved ones home. In profound silence, we
returned to school to be excused.

Island women no longer painstakingly make their paper roses. Plastic
Memorial flowers became a much easier alternative. The school??™s
tradition of tossing the white wreath into the ocean ended as well. I
do not know why.  But I do know how my entire being filled with awe,
knowing I was part of small band of children and teachers to remember
and honor the brave men who gave their lives to keep America a place
where freedom rings.  May they never be forgotten.

?©Kay Seefeldt

birdnest @ megalink.net

Kay??™s mother Ola Woodward has been deceased twenty five year in June.
She is most thankful for the wonderful mother God provided her. She
appreciates her mother??™s legacy of unconditional love, sense of humor,
and compassion for life more with each passing year.

Kay Seefeldt
Birdnest @ Megalink.net