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The way we remember things is odd sometimes. Eight or so years ago, I was on my way to the Baptist Bookstore in Chesapeake, Virginia to pick up copies of “Experiencing God” for a study group that was starting the next day, when the transmission on my Ford Ranger decided to stop functioning properly. Patti was down in Norfolk doing something with the Lutherans and the boys and I were stranded on the side of the road a fair piece from home. A kind gentleman in a Jeep Wrangler gave us a lift to a service station.
The lift to the station was helpful even if the station itself was not. They did not have a mechanic on duty that late in the evening on a Saturday. The boys were starting to get a little panicky, especially Will. Frankly, I was getting a little worried myself. I had no idea how to get in touch with Patti and wasn’t sure if a church member could get all the way from Holland, Virginia where we lived and get us back in time for the game. Did I mention it was a Saturday; a football Saturday; a Florida football Saturday?
I had to act and I had to act quickly. I made two phone calls. First, I called a towing service. As best I could, I told him where my truck was and told him to take it to the closest Ford dealer. I was fairly certain that I would be able to figure where that was on Monday. Second, I called a taxi. At the time, that taxi ride was both the cheapest and most expensive taxi ride that I had ever taken because it was the only taxi ride that I had ever taken. It is still the most expensive.
Oh, but was it money well spent? You better believe it was. We were home in time for the kickoff. Florida missed a field goal and the Volunteers went on to win a national championship. That made replacing that transmission a little easier.
Well, it is a Florida football Saturday again and I am on the rode early -- real early. You might say too early except that it is for a good cause. It turns out that today is a national test date for the ACT test. However, there are a handful of states where the test will not be administered. Tennessee is one of those states. Georgia is not. So we are on our way to LaFayette High School in LaFayette, Georgia, home of the Ramblers. Did I say it was early? We had to wait for Hardees to open so we could get breakfast! If I am up before the Hardees people, then I am up way too early.
It is dark all the way to Chattanooga and I am fighting, successfully for the most part, some incredible urges to go back to sleep. My traveling companion did not even put up a fight. That’s fine as he has a four-hour test waiting on him at the end of our journey. All I have to do is sit at the Huddle House and listen to the good men of LaFayette discuss the important matters of the day. More to the point, he is not driving. I am. I am not even sure if he knows how to drive in his sleep.
We take the Rossville/Fort Olgethorpe exit. Now all that is between us and LaFayette is the Chickamauga National Battlefield. The dawn of a new day is just moments away. The light is starting to come, but mostly it is still dark. The mist hugs the ground. In the hazy dimness of the breaking morning there are shapes. They are monuments to the armies that fought here; monuments to the men that died here.
The effect is chilling, in part because of the time of the day and the visual effect. Then there is the number of monuments. There is not just one, two, or even a dozen, but more than I can count. Each one represents a group of soldiers from somewhere in our country. Each one was placed there by people who missed them greatly. They are silent reminders of the cost of war and they do their job with power and clarity this morning. The road we are on seems to split the battlefield. In every direction, they stare wordlessly at us as we pass by telling the stories of failed diplomacy, recalcitrant politicians and the working class men who always seem to be the ones who fight and die in their wars.
The round bales of hay serve as another kind of monument. They are monuments to the people who were living and working here when these two great armies decided to give this little creek a place in the history books. What was it like for them to live in the midst of war? Today the battlefield gives off a poignant aroma of sacrifice and devotion to country and cause. For those who lived through it, I imagine the aroma was more troubling and urgent.
The road leaves the park and comes back to 2006 all too quickly. The sign in front of the Assembly of God church welcomes Sergeant Mark McGuire home. I assume he is being welcomed home from Iraq and that he is coming home alive. I pray for his safe arrival and I pray for a world that will have no further need for monuments.
Joy and peace,
Ed
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