In The Garden of Stone

Last Wednesday was indeed a special day. You see, I attended the funeral of the father of a dear friend of mine at the historic Ft. Myer Old Chapel. He was entombed at Arlington Cemetery which is next door to Ft. Myer.

I know that I have had my share of deaths this summer. So really I haven't started attending funerals for pleasure. It was just something I felt I needed to do: express concern and care for my friend and his family.

I was so struck by the military precision and the care with which they handled the urn that contained the deceased's remains. He had been cremated. Yet, they carried him in solemnly, gently, and with honor. A folded American Flag rested next to the box.

There was a full procession to where he was entombed -- a niche in the columbarium overlooking the Pentagon with the Washington Monument in the distance. I counted at least 16 uniformed military men who were involved in the ceremony: 8 pallbearers, seven marksmen, and a bugle player. There was a representative from the office of the Secretary of Defense and her escort. The funeral director. The Catholic Priest.

There was the salute...three volleys from seven guns. With our heads bowed and eyes closed, the bugle player raised the instrument to his lips and played taps a few yards away. The haunting melody echoed through the garden of stone.

Then, his widow was presented a flag that had been folded at the conclusion of the ceremony. The pallbearers marched away. In precise unison. The marksman and the bugle player marched off in perfect unison.

My friend's dad was then placed gently into his place. The priest sprinkled holy water and blessed the urn and its surrounding niche. Each close survivor was invited to approach his final resting place for a moment of personal reflection. The widow placed a small bouquet of flowers next to the deceased. Some said audible goodbyes, while others paused in silence, carefully caressing the urn. My friend was the last to pay his respects.

The niche was closed.


We all walked to our cars in the bright summer sunshine. The tourmobiles whizzed by. Tourists darted to and fro looking for the Tomb of the Unknowns, or the final resting places of the Kennedy Brothers. In the distance we saw several other funeral processions -- all headed to their respective final resting places.

But there, among them all, was my friend's dad. He was afforded all the pomp and circumstance afforded the military. Oh, he wasn't an officer. He didn't make a career of the military. It has been perhaps 50 or 60 years since he wore a uniform.

Yet he was honored and not forgotten. His contributions were recognized.

Last Wednesday he took his place in the garden of stone.