On Saturday night, my nameless cohort, our St. Louis colleague and I tagged along with the Canadian contingent as they toured the sights of our nation's capital -- National Mall, Washington Monument, Jefferson Memorial, Vietnam Wall, Lincoln Memorial -- some I had seen before, some I hadn't.
They are impressively beautiful, but even though all I had done all day was sit in a conference room, I was pretty beat. The topics were heavy (Guild communications, organizing drives, collective bargaining and human rights and equity), and I already felt overwhelmed and terrified of the responsibility at hand. Plus, it was frost-bite cold and I'm a Southern Cali kinda gal; anything below 50 is f-r-e-e-z-i-n-g. Did I mention that we had the great pleasure of trailing three busloads of high school students? Like, OMG, how annoying!
My Canadian sisters marveled at the grandeur, at our founding fathers' words of promise, at the dreams for a newly born nation. It was awe inspiring.
This was America in a pure state -- its ideals intact, its virtue untainted, its intent uncompromised.
When we descended the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, it couldn't have been more perfect-perfect: As snow swirled about, a Marine in full dress blues got down on one knee and proposed to the beautiful lady at his side. A crowd surged around them, asking for his autograph, stealing glances at her ring.
It was no doubt a very happy scene. But, it was also a very sad scene. Everyone knew that a too young, too brave, too honorable man would soon go to war. It was too much to bear.
Why bother, right?
Because.
Because even if you can feel the caress of death in everything you do, even if you know that your duty called you to knock upon death's door, if you have something to live for, you are willing to make that sacrifice.
It's called hope. And in the name of hope, we are willing to do extraordinary things. Because without hope, we have nothing.
I have hope.
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