The Fourth of July

Bud Lewis from Sgt. Bluff writes,

"I had the privilege to attend the Peace rally at the Peace pole recently. I was somewhat disappointed that more were not there, but it was cold, and windy and a nice night to stay at home. I wrote this reflection following that event and wish to share it with any that you think might be interested."

The Fourth of July

It was the Fourth of July and a dream had come true. Don’t know when the dream first came about, but somewhere in the far reaches of memory there was a dream to be at the Seat of Democracy on the Fourth of July. There we were, Philadelphia, Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell. An unreal possibility that we should even be there on that day, but we were.

We had checked into the historic hotel that we had book months in advance. Left the rental car in the hotel parking facility and bought tickets that allowed us to ride that bus all day long, get on and get off as often as we wanted and go where ever the bus took us. We had been told to get our tickets to the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall early so we were standing in line as the doors opened. It was just starting to get hot that day but a breeze seemed to blow just for keeping us cool. The excitement was what caused the perspiration on the brow and the trickle down the back.

As we stood in line waiting, enactments were happening all around. People dressed as John Hancock, John Adams, and Ben Franklin were giving speeches on the green adjacent to the hall where the Liberty Bell was on display. Fife and drum corps marched up and down the street, and band music was playing everywhere. Folks like us were snapping pictures, taking videos, maintaining their place in line, while food vendors shouted out their wares. Philadelphia transformed to 1776 with 2005 folks watching in awe.

As we entered the hall to see the Liberty Bell, there were photos and artifacts on all the walls, mostly encased in glass frames. The Declaration of Independence was not there, but on display somewhere else. That did not make sense because it was the Fourth of July and it belonged in that place. But the emotions and feelings that were felt soon overcame that disappointment, filling us instead with a real sense of having been there at that time, so many years ago.

The Bell was all that we had expected. Rung until it cracked for a freedom that still needed to be fought for, but majestic and heavy. It seemed to have a spirit all its own, and when we were allowed to touch it, it seemed to convey an energy that assured us that it had been worth the fight that came after the ringing. An emotional, deep sense of pride and patriotic energy filled up the empty spaces in our being…just for a moment.

After the presentation in Independence Hall, we went back out onto the festive street, looking for one of the food vendors, or a sidewalk café. We crossed the street and there, on another grassy green area, we saw what looked like a display of some sort. As we approached, the noise of the celebration seemed to become muted. Each step that we took brought us toward a feeling of isolation, solemness, and stillness with in the tumult of that day.

We passed through a temporary shared opening and the world seemed to become a sacred shrine. Soft music played from somewhere. On the ground were row on row of combat boots, each with a nametag, arranged in long solemn rows, row after row, state after state, empty boots after empty boots. Each name, an American who had died, not fighting for freedom from oppression, but from a far off place called Iraq.

Those people, who walked those rows and read those names cried real tears, questioned why two thousand young Americans had to die. As in all wars the personal losses seemed to strike the hardest, but there was a deep personal pain that engulfed those present, knowing that every pair of boots represented a small town boy or girl, a child of a city, but our own children. Some would never work a farm again, nor hold their child, nor write a great novel, or a simple beautiful verse turned into song. That is why the tears were shed that day, even in the midst of the celebration that went on all around.

Now, eight months later, three years after the start of that war, another 1,100 children of America have “emptied their boots.” Three thousand one hundred pair have been added to that sad memorial, and more will be added each day. The questions are not answered, but become more intense as the days, weeks and months pass on. We are told that more will die until “after I leave office…” and the despair, returns, the pain returns, and the hopelessness returns. Tens of thousands of others have returned with out legs, arms, or other serious forever wounds. Perhaps one hundred thousand humans have died in addition; the sand is red with their blood. The question that still remains unanswered is why? We know why the Liberty Bell was cracked. We most also know why there are gaping cracks in the souls of us all.

Our tears will never wash away the stain of blood and shame that freely flows into the sand of that far away place. How many more babies need to die? They all bleed the same. The tears are all crystal clear. Never clouded by lies and justifications.

Bud—March 2006