Over the years, Memorial Day has become a weekend for sales, barbecues, and family time. And while those are worthy ways to gather and celebrate life, I can’t help but return to what this day truly honors: the lives lost in service to others—and the weight that service leaves behind.
I was raised by a World War II veteran. My father signed up to serve at a young age—so young, in fact, that his parents had to give their permission. That era understood, perhaps more clearly than any other, the importance of standing up against rising threats to freedom. My father rarely spoke about his time in the war, but he carried it with him every day. Growing up, I didn’t fully understand the trauma or sacrifices, but I felt the reverberations of it in our home and in his behaviors.
When I lived in Texas, I realized I was just down the road from the base where he first began his service. Still, I only knew fragments of his story: a few close-call memories, the countries he passed through, and the haunting tale of his journey home. That boat ride back from the war almost claimed his life after he had already survived so much. He told me about a violent storm—pianos flying across the ship, prayers spoken aloud as people braced for death, and being forced to shimmy between ships in rough seas during the rescue.
We had a few service pins displayed at home. And we all went as a family to see Saving Private Ryan. Afterward, my father said they had captured it well—“The only thing they left out,” he told us, “was the smell.”
Only after he passed did I learn more about what he’d endured and what his troop had done. They were part of the group that helped liberate Dachau. They brought civilians from nearby cities to the camp, forcing them to see the atrocities they had tried to ignore. I can only imagine what it took to carry those memories in silence.
Living with a WWII vet wasn’t always easy. As a child, I found a gun hidden under his pillow—something I now understand as a symptom of lingering trauma. Loud noises like car backfires would trigger immediate reactions: ducking, covering, instinctual fear. But as he aged, some of the harder parts softened. The gun disappeared. The shadows receded a bit.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve grown prouder of his service—especially now, when I look around at today’s fractured political landscape. My father risked his life to fight fascism. He volunteered to stand on the side of freedom. With the world as it is today, I find some comfort in knowing he doesn’t have to witness it. That may sound harsh, but I believe it would have broken his heart.
I often wonder what it means to “show up” now. He did his part with bravery, action, and sacrifice. My way may not look the same, but I’ve decided that voting—showing up at the polls—is how I continue his legacy. As long as I’m allowed to vote, I will. It’s one way I can honor those who fought for the freedoms we still have, and hopefully protect them for others.
So this Memorial Day, I hold space for my father, for his comrades, for the families affected by war and for the quiet, painful courage of those who came home and carried on. And I remind myself—and all of us—that freedom is fragile, and voting is one small but mighty act to keep it alive.
