I write about things I’m right smack in the middle of, thus perspective is unapologetically mine and on-purpose, and the birds-eye-view big picture is wittingly personal. I make no excuses for this, but don’t claim what I do is reporting in the true sense. It is the truth as best I see, feel it, hear it.
The funeral I wrote about two weeks ago – Sergeant Nicholas Walsh’s – was for the son of my heart-close-dear friend. It’s a muddle when you know the people. A funeral is the most public of rituals for the most private of losses.
But, there is one picture left to show the public. It begins with the flim-flam nonsense of a group of people that call themselves the Westboro Baptist church (though every Baptist church I’ve ever heard of denounces them). They picket military funerals, gathering near grieving families and waving signs that say “Thank God for IED’s” and “Thank God for Dead Soldiers” and worse.
They believe that when any symbol of America is blown up, be it the twin towers or someone’s child, it is because God is avenging himself. They believe God is mad at us for tolerance of homosexuals, Catholics, Muslims, Jews, and more.
I want you to see what else happened next.
Friday night, people in Fort Collins learned that the leader of the WestboroChurch had sent out a press release calling for his followers to gather Saturday at Sergeant Walsh’s funeral. He wanted them to celebrate that another young man had died, to warn of God’s wrath, and to wave their banners of disturbance, disruption, profane intrusion.
In the morning, legitimate funeral attendees arrived and waited. Though ineffective in our heels and suits, we tried to stand like lions at the gate, dreading a fracas would arise.
Then, red jacketed VFW’s, and Marine Corps League members stood beside us. And kept coming.
Then 100 motorcycles came, one by one, up the street. Loud, bursting, combustive – powerful men and women got off the bikes, lined them up, stood like movie extras in black leather, tattoos, skullcaps. The Patriot Guard.
Next came people with broomsticks and bed sheets. 10, 20, 40, more. Silent save the click of their sticks on the concrete, they balanced the brooms and tied the tips of the sheets tight.
Next came the Episcopalian priest, in full clericals – black robe, white collar, a tall sign of peace on a pole.
A warning call had been made the night before, and then another, and another. Emails did an electronic dot-to-dot across town, and then across the entire state of Colorado. Almost none of the people knew the Walsh family, but they came.
Hardly anyone spoke, but each quickly figured out “We’re the Good Guys. Stand at attention. Head-on-a-swivel. Watch. Guard.”
And they did – every kind of person imaginable – gay, straight, republican, democrat, young, old, man, woman, child – stood on every corner, on the grass edged trolley tracks, at each flank of the church, each door, all around – a wall of peace. The hearse arrived, and the family.
Up and down the street, American flags tied with yellow ribbons were lifted. The broomstick sheet-shields were lifted. If reverence has a sound, it is bed sheets and flags barely moving, the tiny clink of metal rivets and halyard clips on poles.
Someone told me the protesters were spotted blocks away, in retreat before ever getting close.
Someone told me that outside, no one left, or spoke much at all, during the two hour mass. They simply waited until the Marine Honor Guard carried Nick’s casket out, the family followed, and the church emptied.
Then they waited through the 21-gun salute, the flag folding, the awarding of the Purple Heart.
They waited as the casket was loaded in the hearse and driven away. They waited as the single bagpiper played Amazing Grace. They waited until all the family had gone. And only then did they go.
They left something behind, those people – lingerings from each of them dropped and settled – like the swirled leavings of a small parade – their prayers and peace. They left them falling on the holy ground of a common street full of decent people.
