Kathy and I are in Washington D.C. (with Kathy’s dad) for the next several days.  We just arrived late this morning but already there is something for me to blog about.   Of all of the things we hoped to see here, nothing was more important to us than Arlington National Cemetery.  (I have been to DC twice, but neither time did I visit Arlington, and Kathy has never been here at all, so obviously this was new to her as well.)  But for Kathy’s dad this was a very moving return visit, since he had come here a number of times with his boy’s choir- and they had even performed on the grounds.  (What a powerful experience that must have been.)

Arlington National Cemetery is not your usual tourist destination.  It is a fairly quiet and reverent place, although most people visiting do not seem to be walking around in stunned silence the way they might at Dachau.  People tend to walk around with smiles on their faces, as though it is a place from which to draw inspiration and hope.  It is that, although for me it is also a place where everywhere you look is another sign of terrible and irretrievable LOSS.

One of the first important sites we saw was the grave of JFK – and Jackie’s grave beside it.  That was tremendously powerful. . . and I was especially struck by the radiant words from his inaugural address, which are carved into the wall facing his grave. I know the words well but it was very moving to re-experience them in this way and in this place.

It’s very interesting to see how so much of America is represented here. We made a point of finding the memorial to the astronauts killed aboard the space shuttle Columbia- including Racine’s own Laurel Clark.  Just a few feet from that is a memorial to some of the Americans who killed when the U.S.S. Maine was sunk in Havana harbor – the event which touched off the Spanish American War.  (The mast and anchor of the Maine itself is there.)  It’s especially interesting to see how the names of the dead are listed on that particular memorial, with some as “sailors” while others are “blacksmiths” or “coal passers” – all playing different roles.  Right beside it is a tablet commemorating the spot where Polish composer, pianist and statesman Ignaz Jan Paderewski was buried for years until his body was reburied in his homeland.  And not far from there was the grave of boxer Joe Louis, just down the hill from one of the most decorated soldiers of World War II, Audie Murphy.  (His marker is small and simple, as though he were just another fallen soldier.)  And still further up the hill, in a quiet and largely unvisited corner of the cemetery, is a section reserved for soldiers of the Confederacy.  I find it amazing and moving that such a gesture of good will was extended to those who fought against the U.S. in the Civil War.

The most extraordinary thing of all was to see the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier – and to experience the changing of the guard.  There was some sound of the boots against the ground, and of the rifle being handled with assured hands, and the occasional orders barked by the presiding officer.   But what was most unforgettable was the utter, complete silence of the crowd gathered  –  young and old alike.  It was as though everyone there was transfixed as one – not only by the mesmerizing precision and care of the changing of the guard  – and by the beautiful monument itself – but also transfixed by the words before them and the meaning behind them:    Here rests in Honored Glory an American Soldier known but to God.

It was a potent demonstration that Silence is sometimes the greatest gesture of respect – the greatest tribute – the greatest gift – which one can give.