As many of us in the West return to work after the long weekend that comprises Memorial Day, we realize that for many of us, the weekend was a time of gratitude; for others, one of immense grief.  For others, perhaps it was a bittersweet blend of both.
     I had a great aunt who, I was told (she died before I was born), had four sons, all of whom were draft eligible during World War II.  Three of her sons were indeed drafted, shipped to the Pacific Theater and, unfortunately, perished.  She never saw them again. When her fourth son was drafted, however, my great aunt, though she believed in the U. S. war effort, spoke up and asked, through her congressman, that her son be spared overseas combat.  In an action reminiscent of the movie Saving Private Ryan, the military granted her request.
     Memory can be supernally wonderful, or it can be enormously painful.  Or both.  As those of us in the West remember people we knew (and those we never knew) who have fallen in war time combat, we can also remember that even if it does not bring anyone back, remembering nurtures hope.  It enables us to look beyond ourselves, to see and experience the enduring grace of existence, to realize anew that life is something bigger than we can ever make it to be.  Life has a life of its own, a purpose, a future.  Life is a drama, a drama of space and time infused with transcendent meaning.