Today was the second funeral that I have attended in the past week. I was struck by their similarities and differences. One was for a person I never met; one was for a person who has been a constant in my life since I was around seven. One was more formal to the point I wish my suit fit me better; one was less formal as I was one of the only men wearing a tie. One was uncomfortably warm; one was cold enough that my daughter complained. Both had people speak about the love they had for the deceased. Both were followed by food and fellowship. Both made me wish that I had the foresight to carry tissues with me. Both made me think about what my own funeral might be like.
Today is also the 70th anniversary of D-Day. The one thought that I think about each time I hear or talk about D-Day (which, since I am history teacher, is more often than most people) is how lucky I am that my grandfather was not allowed to go. He was separated from his unit before they left for England (I believe because too many of his brothers were in combat zones) and reassigned as a cook on the transport trains going across the country. As I understand it, all but one of his platoon were killed as they landed in Normandy; the one survivor became a paraplegic. Had my grandfather not been reassigned, I probably would have never existed. I often think of all of the other children and grandchildren who never came into being because their would-be fathers and grandfathers lost their lives during this invasion. Their sacrifice saved the world, but I am selfishly glad that my grandfather was not asked to give that same sacrifice.
Perhaps these thoughts are a bit dark, or perhaps they are perfectly appropriate for a day like today. I don't know. I do know that the lives that we commemorate and celebrate today deserve the honors we give them, and that they have moved on to a better world.