I spent six years of my youth in England. Each Memorial Day, we attended a ceremony at an American military cemetery.

The Americans would speak first—sharing the history of what was once called Decoration Day, now Memorial Day—a time set aside to honor those who died in service to the United States, often marked by laying flowers on their graves.

Then, British speakers would take the podium. Most simply said: thank you.
Thank you to America.
To Americans.
To those who served.
To the wounded, the fallen, and their families.

The final speaker was always a British officer. He would salute—and everyone in uniform would follow. Then, silence. A deep, respectful, reverent silence.

And then—a low rumble in the distance.

It would grow louder and louder until RAF Lancasters flew overhead, roaring as they released a blanket of poppies over the graves below.

It was unforgettable.

Most days, we go about our lives unaware of the price paid by men and women in uniform. Memorial Day, as we’re constantly reminded, marks the unofficial start of summer. But in the midst of this busy weekend, pause—if only for a moment—to remember those who gave everything for the freedoms we now take for granted.

They laid down their lives for us. And with each fallen soldier, a family is left behind to carry the burden—the mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, husbands, wives, and children.

Their sacrifice warrants remembering.

And in remembering, we become stronger.

This reflection is published annually.