Veterans Affairs Secretary Doug Collins reflects on the cost of war and service members’ sacrifices. He stresses the importance of remembering those who didn’t return home.
On November 2, 2023, I lost my husband, Andy, in a Humvee accident during an Army Reserve training exercise in Virginia. He was a captain, close to his 28th birthday. We had a 17-month-old daughter named Adalyn and were building a home. We had just received pre-approval for a 200-acre farm, a cherished dream. That afternoon, a call from his commanding officer shattered everything.
Three days later, I drove to Virginia Commonwealth University trauma center with family to bring Andy home. A hearse from the funeral home in Edinburg met us. Andy’s commanding officer, in uniform, greeted me with a hug, his composure breaking as he knelt.
I expected a quiet drive home following the white hearse, led by my brother-in-law. Instead, the journey paid homage to Andy, starting with a fire engine on an overpass displaying an American flag.
This is for Andy, I realized. This is for us.
The sight of firefighters saluting with a massive flag over another overpass was awe-inspiring. By journey’s end, we passed under around 35 overpasses with American heroes saluting Andy. Strangers lined the highway shoulder, saluting as we passed.
Josh, a volunteer firefighter and friend, had organized it. I’d asked him to arrange a small homecoming on Main Street in Woodstock. Unexpectedly, it extended the entire drive home.
Mike, a member of Andy’s unit and a police officer in Richmond, led the procession onto I-95. Local and state police took turns guiding us along the highway. At one point, interstate access was closed to allow our procession to pass smoothly.
The journey had memorable tributes, like a giant American flag suspended between cranes over Route 81, supported by waving strangers. Near home, farmers parked equipment by the road, standing in sad stoicism. Andy serviced them and considered them family. Their presence honored him.
The entire trip, filled with tributes, took four hours. Our procession entered Woodstock, escorted by police. Neighbors lined the road, waving flags. Pastor Nate wept on the roadside, holding the Emanuel Church flag.
Andy died in a line-of-duty accident. At his funeral, I received a ceremonial folded flag. Though he didn’t die in combat, the road home taught me this country values service beyond the battlefield.
On Memorial Day, I reflect on the firefighters, farmers, and neighbors who honored Andy. None knew him, but all stood for him.
That’s what Memorial Day is about: ordinary people choosing to salute those in uniform.