I
got out of our pickup just as the emergency vehicles arrived. Chief’s
SUV leading the way, The Division Chief’s SUV, directly behind it –
but he wasn’t driving it; my son was. So began the procession.
Ambulances, and firetrucks from around the area following. On the
ride down, we had already observed other responders’ vehicles along
the highway: state patrol, county, sheriff, a city cop. I suspected
they were either waiting to join the procession, or were simply there
to provide a presence and to honor a fallen brother.
It
was the day to honor and remember one of our local fire departments’
most loved and respected men.
I
had never attended a fire Line of Duty Death (LODD) ceremony before,
at least not in person. But I knew what it entailed and I knew what
it meant to these men and women who would be attending.
As
people started to gather in front of the venue, I stood there rather
awkwardly, but it wasn’t long before I began to see a lot of old
familiar faces. Hugs and recognition so appreciated. Pretty soon
someone came out and announced it would be about 30 minutes, so this
would be a good time to take care of any business before taking our
seats.
I
stood there a moment longer watching a uniformed firefighter standing
with ax in hand stoically guarding the bus, from where our friend’s
casket would be transported. It was all a part of the tradition, that
would make up this traditional moving and reverent service for a
fallen brother.
There
at the entry was the guest book, along with photos of the chief and a
copy of the poem my son had written for him when the realization of
his death had hit him. I looked around the auditorium and noticed how
beautifully the stage held a few remnants of this man’s life.
Obviously this had been done with much love and understanding.
At
precisely 1100 hours the bagpipes began to play “Going Home” in
the distance. I didn’t understand at the time, but fire personnel
lined the walkway as the casket was brought from the ambulance to the
building. The uniformed first responders, were then instructed to
find their seats before the casket was presented.
As
the flag-draped casket was brought to the forefront of the stage, my
husband was first to stand. And I was grateful. The room was filled
with silence with the only sound being a creaking leather shoe, or a
sole landing on the surface of the stage.
There
would be a beautiful presentation of colors, while everyone stood
silently in respect. Only the voice of the commander filled the room
with his instruction for the march. So continued the solemnity of
this event.
Throughout
the service the casket was guarded with the men who held the ax,
changing guard periodically throughout. The service is rich with
symbolism and tradition, which adds to not only the respect, but the
beauty. It is a reminder of all that our lost loved one has given in
the line of duty - a time of thanks, recognition and honor. Above all
of that, the service is a healing salve for those who remain.
We
watched a beautiful video of our friend’s life and then his
daughter spoke eloquently, with words deep within her. Sharing a part
of her dad, continuing as she always had; sharing him through this
man’s service to his community.
One
of the most poignant parts in her sharing, was when she told of a
time, that she was deep in despair. She told her dad, Daddy, you have
prepared me well. You taught me to even be able to fight off the
apocalypse, but I was not prepared for this. What do I do? His answer
was pretty simple but often lost on most. “Just pray,” he
responded, “read your Bible, and find something to laugh at every
day.”
Pretty
cogent advice, I would say.
Certainly
the most moving part of the ceremony is the Ringing of the Bell and
last call. And then the bagpipes said good-bye.
One
thing I know, this man was always there, as many
would attest to, throughout the day. One fellow firefighter took
opportunity to tell us, “It was more unusual to be on a call when
Chief wasn’t there, than be on a call when he
was.” And he was the first to be in the mess of it all, tending to
whatever was required.
From
the time of his death, there was a lingering of his presence, but
suddenly one would feel, and realize, “Oh wait, no.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There
is a magical beauty in the way these services bring all first
responders together. There was both police and fire there. The often
fun rivalry between the red and blue come together at moments like
this.
It
took my breath away as we joined the final procession leaving the
area to see two ladder trucks making an arch across the road way to
fly the flag in honor of this civil servant. I was deeply moved that
for most of the 20 mile trek back to burial, city cops, state cops,
sheriff, whomever it took, blocked the side streets to prevent
traffic from disrupting the funeral procession. What a wonderful
city, county, state, nation we reside to know that this kind of
service would be provided.
I
don’t know if it was arranged or not, but a local tow truck
straddled the center lane of the highway to prevent impatient
motorists trying to enter the procession. He wasn’t about to allow
it. As one tried, he simply moved to the right lane and stopped dead
in his tracks to stop the disrespectful motorist from moving any
further, forcing them to pull over as they should. One person in a
brand new expensive car without a license made it into the
procession. He eventually moved into the left lane where the
procession traveled and turned on his flashers like the rest of us.
But soon, that wasn’t even enough for him, and he turned off his
flashers and hopped back to the right lane hoping to make an inside
pass. I actually had to laugh when I saw this tow truck block his
path any further. He had no choice but to move over to the side of
the road. It was the only negative moment in the day, but Chief would
find a silver lining in that. Of course, respect cannot be forced;
but stopping disrespect can.
As
we arrived at the burial site, the sun had come out revealing a
beautiful blue sky on a wondrous winter day. The sun shone through
the pine trees and as drops of water fell from the warming of snow on
the trees, it felt like tears raining from heaven. As I looked up,
there was a fine mist of water revealed in the sunlight. Just a
sprinkling of tears and love, that didn’t present sadness, but
rather hope. I think Chief would have liked that and he would say:
“Carry on. You are ‘hope’ in the worst case scenarios. That’s
your job.”
Pretty
sure, there is not many who did it better.
He
will not only be missed by his family and friends, he will be missed
by an entire community. Here’s to those who carry on.
