Remembrance.

Here in the States, it's Veteran's Day. In Canada, it's Remembrance Day.

re·mem·brance
n.
1. The act or process of remembering.
2. The state of being remembered: holds him in fond rememberance.
3. Something serving to celebrate or honor the memory of a person or event; a memorial.
4. The length of time over which one's memory extends.
5. Something remembered; a reminiscence.
6. A souvenir.
7. A greeting or token expressive of affection.


Either way, it is a day for sorrow. A day to count and mourn our dead, to hold tenderly the boys (and now girls) we sent away to be mangled inside and out, whether they came home or not. To cry out for the end of war, and the end of blood.

When I was a little girl in Canada we handed out and pinned little red felt poppies to our coats. They still do that there. I'd see all the people go by with the festive red spot on their lapel and know it was solemn, but not quite why. At school we learned by heart and recited this poem:

In Flander's field, the poppies grow
between the crosses, row on row,
which mark our place - and in the sky,
the larks, still bravely singing, fly
scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago,
we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset's glow,
loved and were loved, and now we lie
in Flander's field.

Take up our quarrel with the foe
to you, from failing hands, we throw
the torch - be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die,
we shall not sleep, though poppies blow
on Flander's field.

I guess I've never really thought about the poem until now. As a little girl, I felt a cold shiver at "We are the Dead." I trembled with sadness at the thought that short days ago they loved and were loved, and now, they're dead. The words seemed weighty with importance and grief. Though it was heavy, I'm afraid that the sorrow I felt for the poor Dead soldiers wasn't actually all that different from the sorrow I felt for the Velveteen Rabbit or Old Yeller. Deep, but largely imaginary.

When I read the poem again this year, remembering, I was startled at what sounded like a call for revenge. At what seemed like a threat.

I was shaken for a moment. How could this poem that my heart thrilled to recite at 8 years old be so blood-thirsty? And then I was quiet and listened, and I felt a deep sadness in understanding. It was not a threat. It was a promise.

The foe is the dehumanizing of our fellow children of God. The foe is the hideous disregard that we as a nation have felt for the precious souls of God that we mow down in the interest of our own "interests" and our callous turning away from the sufferings of the "collateral damage".

Tonight I realized that the souls in the poem have kept their promise. The Dead are swelling their numbers every day, and they do not sleep.

I've been opened tonight by the realization that I can only look at death in old black-and-white photos (that's a real, dead man up there. Why don't I wince?), and I turn my face from images of the real-live horror of the Dead. The babies with eyes full of flies dying of AIDS in Ethiopia. The Sundanese mother wasting with intestinal parisites, unable to feed her shrivelling newborn. The Afghani child with two bloody stumps where her feet once were. The trembling, desperate Iraqi teenager with a vest full of vengance, ready to die for what's "right". The trembling, desperate American teenager from South Carolina, with an armful of M-16, ready to die for what's "right".

And I'm sick at the thought that this useless little blog post sounds like just another cliche Quaker squalling about peace. That I had to wait until the arbirary date of 11/11, to be stirred by a dusty old worn-out poem, to think very much more about it than pinning a little plastic poppy to my coat. Tonight I don't know what God wants me to do about it, besides remember. What happened then, but mostly, what's happening right now this very minute.


Then the Lord said to Cain, "Where is your brother Abel?" "I don't know," he replied. "Am I my brother's keeper?"

The Lord said, "What have you done? Listen! Your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground.

Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother's blood from your hand.

When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth."
Gen 4:9-12