What a difference a day makes. Yesterday morning I awoke on the east cost in a hotel room in Arlington VA. Hotel coffee, a train station muffin and a metro ride to the Arlington National Cemetary. I am not a military girl. Born and raised with military rebellion in my soul. Regardless, nothing has stirred my sacred roots like mile after mile of headstones, all in the name of respect for the tenets of freedom as the morning I spent in the cemetary. I was in Washington DC this weekend for my daughter's We The People Constitution Competition
They kicked ass, placing third in the nation. These are the teenagers who'll rule the world in a few short years and they know the Bill of rights, Constitution, Magna Carta and every case law since 1776 better than most of the men and women running our country. Too many of the headstones I saw yesterday were dated with the brief lifespan of a soldier. 19 years. 21 years. As I watched the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, three shots rang out, signifying a burial (one of the 30 per day at this cemetary) of another soldier or one of their family. Three shots, 19 years, 30 times per day. That's just one cemetary. How many other of our blessed youth are going this route.
This morning, as I prepare to go deliver babies, I'm grateful for my daughter and her teammates who'll make their political statements with words, here in the United States. I don't know yet whose baby will be born. Last week it was a soldier, one week before deployment to Iraq. He had a week to spend with his daughter before shipping off for 15 months in the unknown.
