Feeling Proud of Where I Come From

Dear Honey Run Friends,

I have been blessed with a couple of quiet days this past month that allowed my thoughts to wander.  During this time of reflection I kept thinking of some of my most cherished gatherings with my family. A recent memory was a gathering with my mother’s side of the family here at the Inn this past Christmas. Some of the immediate and extended family came to stay for a night and we gathered over dinner and watched old silent films of my great-grandparents and grandparents beginning to build their homes in their new adoptive country, the United States of America. While we admired their ingenuity and hard work, stories were also shared about their faults and shortcomings. Listening to the good, the bad, and the ugly shared by the cousins of my mother’s generation was truly a gift to me and the next generation.

While our daily tasks may seem mundane and insignificant it is in these non-heroic tasks that our lives are shaped. Too often today we are trying to hit a home run at every bat rather than recognizing that life is made up of thousands of “at-bats” and we need not, nor are we capable of, hitting every single ball out of the park. What we are capable of doing, however, is putting in the hard work every day and grinding every batting opportunity so our batting average is better than most, and better than it was yesterday. We achieve this by being in the moment and giving the gift of our time with whomever we are present. We do this by being thankful for our health and our ability to awake this morning to another God given day.

As I prepare for another Fourth of July celebration I am watching a show called The Fighting Season which documents on the ground footage of our soldiers in Afghanistan. Seeing this made me reflect on my cousins in Virginia who lost their cousin Thomas R. Wilson at the age of 21 in Afghanistan on August 27, 2007. Reading stories about Thomas and the man that he was is touching and reminds me that I owe my freedom to Thomas and the other soldiers who paid the ultimate sacrifice along with the numerous others who were injured.

These lyrics from the American Civil War interpret the last words of a brave little drummer boy who was fatally wounded at the Battle of Gettysburg.

For the Dear Old Flag I Die

S. Foster

For the dear old flag I die,
Said the wounded drummer boy;
Mother, press your lips to mine;
O, they bring me peace and joy!,
Tis the last time on the earth
I shall ever see your face,
Mother take me to your heart,
Let me die in your embrace.

For the dear old flag I die,
Mother, dry your weeping eye;
For the honor of our land
And the dear old flag I die.

Do not mourn, my Mother, dear,
Every pang will soon be o’er;
For I hear the angel band
Calling from their starry shore;
Now I see their banners wave
In the light of perfect day,
Though ’tis hard to part with you,
Yet I would not wish to stay.

May God Bless America and never let any of us forget!

Your grateful citizen in freedom,

Jason