We just celebrated Veterans Day this past week, and this year, it holds special meaning for me. My father-in-law died in late October at the age of 86. Frederick William Burns was a World War II vet and a retired electrician. He had been sick for a while, and when he had a stroke, we knew it would be unlikely that he would recover. He is the third man I loved that I watched die. I was with my maternal grandfather, my father, and now, my father-in-law. There is something so intimate and so human to be in the presence of the dying. It is one of the moments that defines humanity and comes in second only to birth in importance.

Fred lived in Peotone, Ill., a far southern suburb of Chicago. Peotone is a small town, of roughly 3,500 people. There is one funeral director in town, Steve Cross. He also owns a furniture store that is connected to the funeral home by a common door. When my sister in law, Sandie, called Mr. Cross, he said he would meet us in either the funeral home or the furniture store. As we pulled up to the funeral home, I remarked that he must be there because I could see a light burning. Sandie, who also lives in Peotone, stated he could be in either place because Steve always keeps the light on when someone in Peotone dies. That way, everyone knows there has been a death in their town. People can then go to the Post Office to find out who died.

Pastor Jonathan, from the First Presbyterian Church, met us at the funeral home. He stayed in the background, but listened as we composed the obituary, and used those stories to compose a eulogy. When fees were discussed, he said there would be no charge because Fred was a member of the church. I was impressed. My experiences with clergy have not always been that positive and I have never had the experience of having one offer to forgo payment.

The Peotone American Legion, of which Fred has been a member, paid tribute to him with a color guard, and solemn procession past the casket. Fred had attended many funerals of his friends in the same fashion and was buried in his American Legion uniform. There was a strong sense of respect that resonated as these men saluted a fellow legionnaire.

Fred was buried at Abraham Lincoln National Cemetery in Joliet, as he wished. The only other national cemetery I had ever seen was Arlington Cemetery in Washington, D.C. It was smaller, of course, but still had row after row of gravesites, marked here by identical small white headstones, instead of identical small white crosses. We were met by a full color guard and seven American flags to mark the pavilion where the outside ceremony was to take place. It was very bare, and circular in shape. An emblem from each of the Armed Services was embedded in the half circle that embraced the casket, still covered in an American flag.

Two young service persons, a man and a woman, performed the precise and silent ritual of flag folding. Upon completion, it was handed to my mother in law, “On behalf of the President of the United States,” as explained by the service man. Funny, I cannot remember if the flag folding followed or was preceded by the 21-gun salute, and the somber playing of taps. I could not help but think of how many times this ritual has been repeated in the course of our history, yet it was so personal, private, and American for us, the Burns family.

As I reflect on Fred’s passing I think about the comfort of being in a small town, where the family is well known. The outpouring of help from the church members who made the funeral lunch and the friends of Sandie’s who brought all the food for the wake demonstrated both Christianity and community, and actually made this deeply sad event bearable.

I have always been a little put off by a show of military presence, but this time, both the Legion and the Navy representatives at the cemetery treated Fred like family. The naval officer that spoke at the cemetery said that very thing, that Fred was part of our family, but also of his. He said that the gates of heaven are guarded by Marines, but that he had notified them to let Fred pass through the gates. I learned a lot through this experience, but that is not unusual. Every time I was with Fred, he taught me something.

He will be sorely missed this holiday season.