We had a lovely Memorial Day weekend this year.
It began with a picnic in Memory Grove (how appropriate, right?) with Grandma, Grandpa, Aunt Kelly and our favorite Atwood family, visiting from Portland.
It could not have been a more beautiful day to eat lunch on the grass, stroll along the waterfront and pay homage to those who died serving our country.
Oh, and there was some serious rock skipping too.
There is an area in the park that houses dozens of plaques, one for each Utah soldier who died during World War II. The plaques list the person's name, date of birth, date of death and place of death. Most of them were in their early 20s when they died -- some just teenagers.
We saw several elderly people making their way up the steps to honor those they loved and lost. Though I didn't want to interrupt such a sacred moment, I wanted so badly to ask these people to share their story. More than anything, I wish I could have thanked them somehow, for giving up someone they cared about in behalf of my freedom.
I've always looked at Memorial Day as a great three-day weekend, a chance to spend an extra day with Reece. But this year, thanks to our visit to Memory Grove, I've gained a renewed appreciation for what this day represents, and more importantly, for the people it honors.