
I remember first looking out across the Cemetery at Normandy when I was sixteen years old, stunned at the sheer number of graves that stretched out before me. They shone, bright white in the bright June sunlight and crisp against the green grass. Music from the chapel swelled over the grounds as people walked peacefully and respectfully about the graves. Peppered throughout the crosses were a handful of Jewish Stars of David--a brief reminder of the atrocities that were occurring across boarders in numbers even more vast. But I didn't fully understand what I was seeing.

At eighteen, I found myself in Normandy yet again and more knowledgeable. I understood the seemingly insurmountable odds faced by this international group of men, all fighting to free France from the terrifying grip of Nazi Germany. As we stood by the Reflecting Pool at Omaha Beach, the graves yet again stretched before me, I realized that I would never fully understand what had happened on the beaches of Normandy when brave men gave their lives for a country not their own, and for a principle that we have managed to uphold to this day.

At sixteen I gave my grandfather, a World War II veteran stationed in France and Belgium, a small film canister. It was filled with sand from Omaha Beach. I had never and have never since seen that particular look on his face. A mixture of great sadness, great thought, and great pride.

historical picture credit to army.mil at Flickr, American Cemetery picture credit to Tricherson at Flickr,
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