Dem
47
GOP
53
Today, a memory from J.G.P. in Glendale, AZ:
In the early 1970s, I was a Boy Scout in Southern California—part of a generation raised on reverence, khaki uniforms, and a sense of civic and spiritual duty that sometimes outpaced our own understanding. I earned my Eagle Scout rank in 1971 and, like many Catholic Scouts, I worked toward the Ad Altare Dei religious emblem. The requirements were challenging but meaningful: attending Mass regularly, demonstrating knowledge of Church teachings, performing acts of service.
But one requirement stood out: We had to attend five rosary services for the deceased.
At 12 years old, this was a logistical challenge more than anything. My peers were still very much alive, and death was not something that yet shadowed my world. So, my father and I took to the obituary section of the local newspaper like some sort of somber treasure hunt, scanning for the names of recently deceased Catholics. When we found one, we'd put on our Sunday clothes—or in my case, my neatly pressed Scout uniform—and drive off to attend the rosary.
Most services blurred together: dim chapels, murmured prayers, faces I didn't recognize. But one stuck.
The man in the coffin had been a soldier—young, recently returned home from Vietnam in the most tragic way. He had been a member of our parish, and I might've served on the altar at the very same church where his casket now rested. My father, a World War II veteran who liked to say he "kissed the sand in Normandy," sat beside me in the last pew as we recited the prayers for the dead.
As we were quietly leaving, a woman approached me. The soldier's mother. Her eyes were red but kind. She thanked me for coming, told me her son had been a Scout once too, and that he would've been proud to know a young boy in uniform came to honor him. She hugged me.
That hug—gentle, grief-soaked, and utterly undeserved—stayed with me long after the medal was earned and tucked away into a drawer.
I remember walking out into the parking lot and telling my father that I felt ashamed. I had come in pursuit of a badge. She had come to bury her son. And somehow, she ended up comforting me.
Years later, in one of those moments that sneaks up while reminiscing with your parents, I told my dad that I couldn't remember the soldier's name. "I wish I did," I said. "I'd look for him on the Vietnam Memorial one day. But I just don't recall it."
My dad was quiet for a moment, then simply said: "That's because he wasn't just one name. He was all of them."
I've never forgotten that moment. The humility of a grieving mother. The quiet wisdom of a father who'd seen war firsthand. And the realization that sometimes, when we set out to earn something for ourselves, we're actually being given something far greater—a lesson in grace, sacrifice, and remembrance.
The Ad Altare Dei medal sits in a drawer somewhere, its ribbon a bit faded. But the memory—the soldier without a name, the hug that still lingers—remains sharp.
He represented them all. And I was lucky enough to stand in prayerful silence, wearing a Boy Scout uniform, on behalf of every one of them.
Thank you, J.G.P. (Z)