Flanders Fields... credit?
Sadly, I haven’t been able to find proper credit or even a title for this beautiful image. I’ll add it if I can.

As a Canadian I am proud of our military hitory and the men and women who have fought to defend us and more often, other, weaker nations and people. It is such a noble thing to choose to put your life on the line for your country or for the people of other nations because someone has to do it and it is the Right thing to do.

Today, I didn’t go to a Remembrance Day service and I didn’t watch the service in Ottawa on tv. Instead I sat alone and in silence with my knitting in my lap, looking out through the rain drops on the window pane. I imagined sending my child off to war. I can’t imagine it. I can’t. I get some comfort from the thought that my child is not the military-type. But that’s a guilty comfort and one I don’t really feel I’m entitled to. It can’t be ok to expect other families to send their children away so that I can hold tight to mine while beaming with pride over ‘our’ soldiers. Besides, I wouldn’t be the first parent taken completely by surprise by a child’s decision to join the armed forces, would I?

I thought about my grandfathers who both fought in the Second World War. One left a wife and two babies behind to go overseas, the other his sweetheart who he married when he returned four years later. Four years. That is such a long time. The things they saw… I think about our current soldiers and I’m afraid for them, as is reasonable. But I’m also proud. And humbled.

My thoughts went back to my grandfathers. Their sacrifices, their choices. They were at the prime of their lives and neither was in the military, yet they chose to enlist to fight to protect Europe. Was it in vain? Of course not. Not even close. But am I doing enough to honour them, their sacrifices and their values? No. Is it even possible?

How do I honour them? I try to be grateful for the things and the ideas that they were willing to lay down their lives for. There are the everyday things: I treasure my family and (failing miserably at every turn) try to show it. I am grateful for the ease with which I can live my life. Compared to 90% of the world, there is so little fear and danger in my personal world. I have to remember that. In general I simply look for the joy in every day – those moments of deep gratitude or connection with other souls.
And then there is the world at large. I try to be concious of what a fragile condition Peace is. I try to remember those who are living those lives of fear and sorrow and hardship. Remembering is important – but only if it brings positive action. My actions are small: some letter writing for Amnesty International, buying Fair Trade when available (yes, this speaks to Peace), speaking up to my government representatives about our responsibilities to those less fortunate all over the world – and at home. .. because I believe that Peace comes from security and contentment and that armed conflict, while horrific and tragic, is sometimes, sadly, necessary. I think that “I’m a lover not a fighter” is a cop-out because some things are worth fighting for – people are worth fighting for – and that we are obligated to take care of each other.

My grandfathers were not fighters. But they were men who made the choice to stand up and fight for others. I doubt that in my lifetime I will ever do something as selfless and noble and terrifying as that, but I can do more to honour them and all that they fought for. And I will. Because we are all obligated to each other.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
that mark our place; and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amidst the guns below.

We are the dead.
Short days ago, we lived, felt dawn,
saw sunsets glow, Loved and were loved,
and now we lie in Flanders fields.

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 grow
in Flanders fields.

- Lt.Col John McCrae 1915