in Flanders Fields...

In Flanders fields where poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row on row...

We have men and woman who have sacrificed for the cause of freedom in our family.
Great Grandpa Chase - a veteran of WW1. My side. Lost most of his ability to talk due to the effects of mustard gas.
Grandpa Mcleod - a veteran of WW2. My side. A navigator on the wellington bombers.
Grandpa Moe - Trace's side. A veteran of WW2. Spent time as a POW in the pacific war theater.

That mark our place: and in the sky the larks still bravely singing, fly
scarce heard amid the guns below...

I am an old man compared to the youth they gambled with when they headed to war.

We are the dead. Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
loved and were loved and now we lie,
In Flanders fields...

I would have loved to have talked to them as young men. To look in their eyes. To probe the young passion and understand their courage and character. To romp and roll, as young men are apt to do, before the years and pain steal the joy of a hope-filled tomorrow.
What was the world they dreamt of? What was the future they lived for? What was the tomorrow they sacrificed for?

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw the torch: be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields...

What would they say to me now? What battlefield would they call me to? What life would they beckon me to live?

Courage.
Faith.
Hope.
Sacrifice.
Love.

Let me live. And fully live. That my life would honour the seeds sown,
in Flanders fields...