Glimpses of Grace

The year is 2003. I attended the funeral of the father of my closest college friend James. I gave him a ride to Waco, Texas and then out into the country cemetery where his father would be interred. His brother, his sister Samantha and their grandmother were also present.

The funeral ended, not so much with a bang, but a whimper. It was a hot day, the kind of day that always accompanies central Texas and summer months. The wind blew hard and the sun and sand would sting your eyes if you didn’t squint hard enough. Mr. Roberts was an air force veteran. The high point of the service was the military salute to Mr. Roberts. First was the incredibly intricate, incredibly solemn, folding of the American flag which had been draped across the casket. Following this careful choreography, the two airmen who had performed this delicate dance carried the flag to their commanding officer. He gently cradled the flag in his arms, and then carried it over to James, Mr. Roberts’ son. The soldier knelt in front of James and said “On behalf of the President of the United States, a grateful nation, and a proud Air Force, this flag is presented as a token of our appreciation for the honorable and faithful service rendered by your loved one to his country."

Following these words, a series of salutes and stances were taken by the soldiers and the requisite twenty and one shots were fired. As the first volley was fired, everyone in the funeral gathering flinched, many as if they themselves had been shot. By the third time, we were accustomed to it and across the central Texas hill country, the shots echoed for a few brief seconds before passing away.

After the salute, casings from the bullets were given to the three surviving children and the veteran’s mother. Then we paused for the end of the service. Although I had not attended a service like this before, even I knew what would be the conclusion. We began to wait for the plaintive wail of the trumpet player, performing Taps. The bugler was a large woman who had stayed away from the others as they prepared to begin the service. I had seen her steal away silently during the funeral and now, as I looked around I saw her nowhere. Safely out of sight, I knew that she was preparing to play. As the commanding officer waited patiently, the hot day grew even hotter as beads of sweat formed on his forehead and dropped down to stain his uniform.

And we waited, all the while hearing nothing but the rustle of the wind across the desolate area. A few of us moved toward one of the gnarled Mesquite trees, seeking a semblance of shade. We continued to wait for Taps to begin. The sons, the daughter, and Mr. Roberts’ mother waited silently, and eventually began weeping. Finally, after an excruciating length of time (though probably no more that five or six minutes), the commanding officer left the grave side and began searching for the lost bugler. Several minutes later, he returned and apologized as he announced that due to the extreme heat, the bugler would be unable to play. The service ended awkwardly.

As we filed back to our cars, I noticed that the heavyset woman with the trumpet was breathing hard by the military vehicle that had brought them out to this country graveyard. She was plainly overcome by the heat and was gasping to catch her breath. I overheard two older men making snide remarks about women not being able to take the heat and wondering “How hot it must be right now in Afghanistan.” Their derision and scorn provided a depressing coda for the ceremony.

But as we passed by the bugler, James’ sister Samantha lingered by the bugler for a moment. Samantha was concerned about the woman’s health and wanted to make sure that she would be alright. The woman began to weep and apologize to Samantha for “Ruining your father’s funeral.” The woman then told Samantha that she was seven months pregnant, but was the only one in the honor guard who could play Taps and she wanted to be there. Samantha hugged her and told her that it was alright, that she understood. I’ll always remember the sight of the two of them crying together as they embraced.

I’ve always been touched by that glimpse of grace. The bugler found out a bit about grace that day as the woman whose father had died so suddenly ministered to another. The bugler too was motivated by grace as she sacrificially gave up comfort and even safety, enduring intense heat for another. C. S. Lewis says that God speaks to us in our pleasures, but shouts at us in our pains. God gently reminded me that hot, summer day, of his sacrificial love for us through these two graceful women.