We drove twelve hundred
miles round trip in forty-eight hours just to sit in a room with carpet tiles
placed so the pattern was interrupted every square foot. We were not late, so I
had time to observe my surroundings before the ceremony began.
The bright canned
lighting hanging from the pitched ceiling reminded me of a surgical suite I had
been a guest of twenty years ago. The doctor had held up the baby, all nine
pounds dripping in bodily fluids, like a trophy.
I felt love and gratitude that
I could not express at that moment and showed my admiration with a beaming
smile and the words, “He’s so big!”
The pride of that moment still relevant
today in this well-lit, poorly-carpeted room and shown by the guests’
adornment: a lady with sparkly flat
shoes, a child wearing her favorite necklace, and me wearing a silver bangle
with a Marine medallion.
On other days of the week, this room would be
full of worshipers inviting the Holy Spirit to visit where two or three are
gathered. I trust He will visit today as this event is opened in prayer. A nervous
young man gives a good speech. Everything is orderly—the only way the Marine
Corp does anything. I worry that I might get emotional. When I make it past my
son’s name being called to receive his recognition without a tear, I am certain
I won’t cry today. I look for a grown man, even a half-grown man, somewhere in
the well-dressed group. They all look
like children to me.

I feel love and gratitude that I cannot
express at this moment, so I show my admiration with a beaming smile and the
memory of those words, He’s so big.
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