Fragments

On Christmas Eve day we packed up my wife’s car, our two boys, luggage and gifts and of course, our dog. It was a short trip compared to the literally hundreds of thousands taken by families all over the country, but this one has come back to me this day after Christmas. Actually, it woke me up in the middle of the night with crazy dreams and thoughts I could not get out of my head. I guess this is one of those redefining moments in life when the inkling tugging at the back of your mind confirms a truth about yourself. Indeed, as many times as I have dismissed the notion that I could ever be a published author, tonight seals the deal for me. I know that there is a fine line between ego and humility that exists between a writer and his work; that it strays not far from a need to be heard and a need to be understood, but I have to share this with you.
As we pulled into the gravel driveway of my mother in-law’s country home, I noticed the flag pole in the back yard had been pulled down by a winter storm that had passed through the area a few days earlier. The American flag was still attached to the rope and was lying on the ground in shreds. It was a shocking site for me as I remembered losing my father in-law just over a year ago last November and how he always had a flag flying in the back yard on that very same pole. It was like losing a piece of him all over again.
After unpacking the car and wishing everyone there a Merry Christmas, I went back out outside and recovered the flag from the back yard. It was rapidly thawing out in the wicked wind storm that had begun to bring in warm air from the south west and was wreaking havoc on my brother in-law Jack as he attempted in vain to sweep thawing ice water away from our mother in-law’s flooding garage door. Just as quickly as he tried to sweep it away, another gush of water replaced it like the storm surge of a hurricane.
I went inside the garage to feel the warmth rising from the wood stove and to hang the drenched and tattered flag to dry. It looked quite pitiful hanging there as if it had seen the worst end of a battle in which all hands had been lost. There it hung to dry and somehow recover some of the indignity it had suffered in the storm, and I knew I had done the right thing to take care of it before pitching in to help Jack in his valiant effort to curb the flooding as it had seeped into the garage soaking the corner of the carpet laid down in front of the wood stove.
A day later, on Christmas afternoon; after everyone else had left, I went back out to find more fragments of the tattered flag all over the back yard. There were white strips and red threads strewn everywhere, but the amazing thing was that the blue field of stars still remained in tact and clinging to the rope on the pole. I couldn't’t help but wonder how the memories of by father in-law still lingered in my mind much like those fifty stars on a field of honor clung to the collective memories of those who had served her and those left behind to pick her up again. I am amazed at how such a natural event such as a winter storm and a tattered flag could stir such emotion in me and how I was much like those fragments lying on the ground; scattered like seeds to grow from the experience rather than be forgotten.
Now, early in the morning on the day after Christmas, I sit answering a call from who knows where to share this with you. In doing so I hope that you too can find a few tiny fragments of your life to restore whatever it is that needs mending or simply remembering. Good and bad are interchangeable gifts from God to do with whatever we wish. That is the beauty of free will and the choices we face each day; to bind our wounds and to go about our way a little stronger and perhaps a little wiser. But we do this together, clinging to those fragments and seeing the bigger picture as our faith will allow.