New Church Life May/June 2016 | Page 96

n e w c h u r c h l i f e : m ay / j u n e 2 0 1 6 numbing power is that as the living search the wall their faces are reflected in the names of the dead. They were, after all, just like us. Such brave young men and women teach us about life – what it means to sacrifice, what it means to serve, what it means to love. Like all of the names on tombstones and plaques, they speak to sad stories of what might have been, but proud testimony to what their lives still mean to us. They died before their time but gave their lives to something they believed in that was larger than life itself. The sum of that commitment is our freedom. Their stories, their dreams, were poignantly captured in what has come to be called “The Letter” – written in 1861 by Sullivan Ballou of the 2nd Rhode Island Volunteers. It became famous in Kenneth Burns’ epic TV series on the Civil War. And it is revered as a classic expression of what such brave men risk and why – about their faith in a greater meaning to life, and about the pain of those who love and lose them. It says in part: “Dear Sarah: I have no misgivings or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not falter. I know how American civilization leans on the triumph of the government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing, perfectly willing, to lay down all my joys in this life to help maintain this government and pay that debt. “Sarah, my love for you is deathless, and yet my love of country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly to the battlefield. If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I loved you, nor that when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name. If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they love, I shall always be with you in the brightest day and the darkest night. Always. And when the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath . . . my spirit passing by. Sarah, do not mourn me dead: Think that I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again.” Sullivan Ballou died one week later in the first Battle of Bull Run. He did not live to see his sons grow or his dreams fulfilled. But he helped assure that they would grow in a free, united nation, guided by principles that are still a beacon to the world. That was worth dying for. And it is nice to think that Sarah indeed felt his presence all her life – and found him waiting. Out of the Civil War also came Abraham Lincoln’s mournful prayer that attends all our wars: “that these dead shall not have died in vain.” So how do we assure with our lives that they have not died in vain? War has always been with us. Throughout more than three centuries of recorded history, only 268 years have been without war somewhere in the world. There have been “good wars” and “bad wars,” necessary wars and inevitable wars, wars that changed history, wars of folly and wars that are 298