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r On May 26, I watched American citizens of all ages line up in the Spanish Fork Cemetery to have small white crosses made of metal passed into their arms.rThe day was already beautiful, but the sound of a teenager’s voice asking for “just another handful; it’s not too heavy. Please.” In that voice of politely asking was more beauty than seen in the snow-capped peaks wrapping round the scene and towering just to the east.rArms young, old, black, white and brown took four, 10, 20 and some even more of the crosses into their arms. And with each taking, the field of white rows, topped with Betsy Ross’ pride, snapped to attention in the unseen – but always felt – Spanish Fork Bench legendary wind, and the taking saw the field grow bigger. And despite the beauty and the camaraderie, inside you were screaming for that growth of beauty to stop.
Because why? The question so often uttered by a child and in mind still quietly thought by an adult. Why. Because, in the question turned round was the answer. You see, on each cross is a name plate. A very life pressed into a plate that declares them a passed warrior of Spanish Fork whose home, still standing or roots of foundations still there, is sacred ground.rLike the most beautiful stand of corn in Lake Shore, the field continued to grow. And scanning the crop, I knew among the stalks were names carried in my heart and DNA.rCaras, Young, Harrison, Sorenson, Bills, Page and too many others to bear.rFor those not there that day but know they too are part of the crop now proudly standing at attention, guarding all still in our community upon the bench we all love: know that the crop was reverently handed out by warriors still with us, Legionnaires who make sure we remember. And it was planted into the very soil of our town, amid laughter of youth, solemnity of pride for family, thoughtfulness of those who passionately trace the roots of the crop, tears of those who remember and the stern gaze of those who stand tall still but know someday they too will be in a row among the field.rGod bless this field of men and women who as warriors carried the name of their home, Spanish Fork, to the four corners of our earth. And God, bless us too, that someday, yes someday, the field’s width, girth and length – bless us all that it will be contained.rAnd Lord. We thank you for our Legionaries and veterans who as those who served with Caesar of old came home and stood guard over the resting places of their brothers. And who, by symbolism and story, make sure none are forgotten.
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r On May 26, I watched American citizens of all ages line up in the Spanish Fork Cemetery to have small white crosses made of metal passed into their arms.rThe day was already beautiful, but the sound of a teenager’s voice asking for “just another handful; it’s not too heavy. Please.” In that voice of politely asking was more beauty than seen in the snow-capped peaks wrapping round the scene and towering just to the east.rArms young, old, black, white and brown took four, 10, 20 and some even more of the crosses into their arms. And with each taking, the field of white rows, topped with Betsy Ross’ pride, snapped to attention in the unseen – but always felt – Spanish Fork Bench legendary wind, and the taking saw the field grow bigger. And despite the beauty and the camaraderie, inside you were screaming for that growth of beauty to stop.
Because why? The question so often uttered by a child and in mind still quietly thought by an adult. Why. Because, in the question turned round was the answer. You see, on each cross is a name plate. A very life pressed into a plate that declares them a passed warrior of Spanish Fork whose home, still standing or roots of foundations still there, is sacred ground.rLike the most beautiful stand of corn in Lake Shore, the field continued to grow. And scanning the crop, I knew among the stalks were names carried in my heart and DNA.rCaras, Young, Harrison, Sorenson, Bills, Page and too many others to bear.rFor those not there that day but know they too are part of the crop now proudly standing at attention, guarding all still in our community upon the bench we all love: know that the crop was reverently handed out by warriors still with us, Legionnaires who make sure we remember. And it was planted into the very soil of our town, amid laughter of youth, solemnity of pride for family, thoughtfulness of those who passionately trace the roots of the crop, tears of those who remember and the stern gaze of those who stand tall still but know someday they too will be in a row among the field.rGod bless this field of men and women who as warriors carried the name of their home, Spanish Fork, to the four corners of our earth. And God, bless us too, that someday, yes someday, the field’s width, girth and length – bless us all that it will be contained.rAnd Lord. We thank you for our Legionaries and veterans who as those who served with Caesar of old came home and stood guard over the resting places of their brothers. And who, by symbolism and story, make sure none are forgotten.
