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Some of my veteran friends despise the Wall, feeling that it further disgraces our collective service.  They appealed for a triumphant war memorial.  The saw the final plan as further humiliation for this terrible war. Still other vets believe that the Wall is a bulwark of miracles and hope, a site that they revere.

Both groups are my "brothers" and I respect what each has chosen to believe.

There is no doubt that the Wall, with its endless sea of names, was a harsh place for me. 

My days as a National Park Service Volunteer were never the same.  They trained me and gave me a cap that identified me to the public.  I would carry a phone book-looking computer printout with each name and its position on the wall. I found that these were useful personal disguises to hide behind.  In a matter of a few minutes, I chose to be there as something other than a Vietnam veteran. If someone asked, I would ignore the question. Graciously, no one pushed this envelope with me.

Behind each of those names is a story.  Some heroic, some not.  But they went.  When I focused on a name as I strolled down the walkway, I would invariably envisage a face as if I knew that person.  This haunted me.  The faces, as disconcerting as they were, strengthened my bonds of brotherhood with all that served but deepened a pain deep inside of me.  Soon enough, I learned to look away from the Wall as I walked my rounds.

The narrative behind each name told not only about a person, but about their family, faith, community, and, yes, how they contributed to our nation. Oh, I could say a lot about people who came to the Wall, especially about the children searching an uncle, father, or family friend.  The innocent minds of children left this sacred ground unpolluted, giving it a grace that deeply inspired me.  I often wondered how children two or three centuries from now will come to see the Wall.

The visit with the woman in the white dress had deeply affected me.  She longed to find the name of a father she largely knew through photos and from the memory of others. That day, she touched her father's name and gracefully rubbed each letter, somehow connecting with a spirit that gave her life new meaning.  As she gently stroked the granite's surface, she was connecting with a father that she barely knew.  I am quite certain that her father is now one of God's guardian angels, and that he looked down upon her that day with pride beyond measure.

"There are so many times when I sat on our porch and thought about what my father would have been like," she shared.  "I would give anything to spend just five minutes with him, just to see his smile."  With that, she turned and left.  I wanted to cry out to her, to tell her that everything would be all right.  But this was her place, not mine.

Once there was an elderly lady from Erie, Pennsylvania.  She and I found the name of her grandson, Tommy, who died as an Army private first class in 1969.  This lady was a new widow at the time of Tommy's death. The loss of her only grandchild was devastating.  This soldier's father was a trucker who had died in a collision when Tommy was very young, leaving a single mom to raise a child.  After Tommy's death, his mother fell into a depression and soon died. \

I will never forget one morning when a Cub Scout, so perfect in his freshly pressed blue uniform, came clutching his parents' hands as they located their special name.  He bravely gathered a small bouquet of flowers surrounding an American flag centerpiece from his mother.  After a few minutes, the boy and his father carefully planted their tribute at the foot of the wall. Then this young child perfectly recited the Pledge of Allegiance with confidence and pride.  That done, the boy smartly stepped back one step and gave a splendid salute. This image stayed with me for days, and I wonder if this little boy, now a young man, is one of our brave soldiers in Iraq or Afghanistan.

Each year, a few new names are chiseled into the Wall, adding to the flood of names already there.  The names belong to men who were died of injuries more than 30 years old or to the bodies of the previously missing but now confirmed dead.  The addition of these names shows us that the cost of a war continues to be paid long after the last shot is fired.

Once I heard a talking head on television explain that each name on the Wall represented a true American hero.  Really?  What could he have meant by that?  Was he just trying to be gracious?  Is it heroic to die in one's sleep when a mortar crashes down from above in a direct hit? Is it courageous to be shot between the eyes by a sniper in a mountain valley?  What bravery is involved when a young soldier literally sits down on a booby trap that blows him in half?  Oh, but they went.

Many times I have pondered what characteristic might unite each of those names. At a minimum, the unifying quality is that each cared enough about the United States to go to Vietnam.  In doing so, they demonstrated a commitment to this nation that we must never forget.  They went.  They showed a devotion that lives on today in the generation of young men and women fighting the war on terror. 

To this day, I still do not fully understand why I made those Saturday journeys of pain.  Perhaps it is to celebrate a kindred spirit with those who paid the ultimate sacrifice.  I try and worry little about the "why" shifting my energy to the what. Life goes on, and I must move forward.

It, in so many ways, was the strength of others at the wall that kept me sane.  When I let my mind focus on myself, anxiety, guilt, remorse, and grief tortured me.  When I focused on others, as was my duty, I was at peace.  I could draw upon the strength of others, particularly the families that came in charity and love for all that they had lost.  It was the families that made me strong.  It was the families that allowed me to continue.

Perhaps the wall was nothing less than a place to serve my country once again.  In no doubt, being there freshened old wounds that may never heal.  Never once did I endeavor to look up the names of a man that I knew who lost his life in Vietnam. For me, that would be too hard. I know that I live on because of what these guys did for me, and for you.  Perhaps someday I will take my children or grand children and we will look up a few and offer a prayer in their memory.  Perhaps.