Rev. Tommy Simons is the Pastor of Third Baptist Church in St. Louis, and a friend of more than thirty-two years. This week, his pastor’s email came with this reflection about Memorial Day. I asked if I could share it and he graciously agreed. Here it is:

The Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., was created to honor the U.S. armed forces members who served and died in the Vietnam War (1955–1975).  The winning design was Maya Lin, 21-year-old Yale architecture student. A V-shaped black granite wall, sunken into the earth, inscribed with over 58,000 names in chronological order—connecting the Lincoln and Washington Monuments. As you review the names, your image is reflected back from polished granite.

The connection is personal. 58,000 dead and estimated 300,000 wounded, along with high percentage of PTSD from survivors—fighting for the State—on our behalf…

…And I can’t reflect on war without remembering a rabbit named Daddy Shucks. Mr. Shucks was the favorite pet of children in the church daycare center. Daddy Shucks bit a child one day.

The next day Daddy Shucks vanished! Who kidnapped Daddy Shucks?!

An active member approached me after church. The brow is furrowed. “We need to talk.” (Gulp) This was my first church after seminary and first encounter with “I saw something you need to know, and I expect you to take care of it.” person.

He said, “I saw who took Daddy Shucks.”

 (Whew) what did I care? It wasn’t me…so I relaxed and then heard the name of the culprit: “I saw Otis Brooks with Daddy Shucks—he placed Daddy Shucks in the woods—and let it go! Some people are furious! He had no right to unilaterally do this without permission!”

Anxiety off the chart. Otis was the Pastor. And now, a recently hired Youth Minister would confront pastor of 20 years at this church.

I went to his office. “Otis, can we talk?”

“Of course, come on in.”

I decided to go for the quick kill without much preamble. “You were seen taking Daddy Shucks and releasing him into woods. There are upset leaders in the Daycare Department.”

I suspected the next part of the conversation would be a flurry of inquiries: “Who told you this? I need you to help me clean this up…”

However, Otis laughed. I wondered if he heard me. “What do I say to person bringing to my attention?” Otis chuckled, “Oh, I know him well— I’ll talk to him and the upset people in the daycare.” It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but in the grand scheme, his response implied, it wasn’t worth the energy, or as the Apostle Paul says, “boxing at air.”

Suddenly, his disposition changed. He was somber. He looked out the office window overlooking Shades Mountain, remembering events from long ago. His mind was somewhere else.

A short pause of uncomfortable silence.

He said to no one in particular, “I was a medic in the Battle of the Bulge. So much really doesn’t matter.” Wow, what was that like?

Otis’ face changed back to the kind, fatherly figure so many knew, communicating this conversation was done and he would never talk about it. And it was time for young man to leave the office. He said nothing else.

I walked out. “Thanks Otis, I really appreciate it.”

And with a warm smile and a twinkle in his eyes Otis responded, “We will survive this.”

Memorial Day is not a time for political talking points—it is a day set aside—as one of HONOR. The wounded and dead were so very young and paid an unimaginable price.

The Prophet Samuel set up stone of remembrance called Ebenezar Stone—memorial of battle won—calling people to remember military victory and God’s grace.

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Tommy Simons and I overlapped at Vestavia Hills Baptist Church for one year, 1993-1994. He was on his way to a youth position in Houston, Texas after my first year, but not long after I came, I had lunch with the former pastor, Rev. Otis Brooks, and invited him to come back to the congregation. I was his pastor until he died, and we hired him to tend to our Senior Adults for many years until he retired again—barely. He was a magnificent pastoral presence in the church. We became deep and good friends. I made him laugh a lot, but he also told me stories when we rode to the hospital together or to a funeral out of town. I knew the congregation through him; through the stories of people he had loved and cared for so long—nineteen years.

At that time, our church was full of veterans—World War II, Korea, Vietnam. I came to know men who were at Iwo Jima, the Battle of the Bulge (three at least), one POW in Germany, Omaha Beach, Guadalcanal, the 52^nd parallel in Korea, and the Tet Offensive, among others. Some were officers, many were not. They carried that experience and rarely spoke. They were community builders. They belonged to the Rotary and Lions Clubs. They gave to the church generously, joined in efforts to build up institutions and support their neighbors. Gratitude came easily, and I imagine the bluster and jingoism of the present would put them off mightily. They had stared into the abyss of war. They knew how easy it was to stir up a global conflict and how difficult and costly it was for those who had to go deal with it at the end of a gun barrel.

I wish they were still here. They remembered the Holocaust. One member went into the camps as an intelligence officer. They were men who had seen war firsthand and wanted nothing to do with it, if possible, ever again. But they were living memorials. And they are gone, now, all of them from our church, except for a Vietnam Veteran or two. And their witness, their wisdom, their humility has been replaced by a world of uncertainty. I wish they were still here.

Even at church, they could debate something in the business meeting and when it was over, if they lost, they still gave their money to support the church. Because they knew, “A lot of things don’t really matter.”

One day, Otis did open up and talked about the Battle of the Bulge to me. Only one time. And it never came up again. I got a short glimpse into men whose entire young lives were disrupted, wrenched out of normality for years, then sent back to move on. But they learned one thing for sure. “A lot of things don’t matter.” We could sure use them now.