When I see the grave of an unknown soldier like this one in our city’s cemetery, I try not to think of the sad politics of war and the atrocities humans are capable of committing. No, instead I think of a young man, probably not much older than my own 21-year-old son, who left his home, to protect the idea of home, and for doing so, never returned.
I paused at his grave marking and wondered for a while what he must have gone through fighting in a battle that occurred 100 years before my birth. It seems so sad to die unknown and that his family was never able to receive his remains. So I try hard to imagine what might have been his experience, to remember him and his sacrifice and to give thanks.
And although he is unknown and did not make it back to his earthly home, I like to think he knows he is not forgotten and that he is in his ultimate home.
This grave of an unknown Confederate soldier reminds me I must never take the privilege of my home for granted.
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