The morning after a storm that snapped tree branches, sent people to their basements and trash cans to the curbs, I was sitting in a line of traffic adjacent to a small family-owned garden store.

A woman out front of the garden shop struggled to untangle flagpole ropes twisted in the storm. Hunched over in an awkward position, she couldn’t seem to get a grip on them. I wondered why she wasn’t using both hands when a swatch of red and white peeked out from under her arm. She was holding a folded flag beneath her elbow pressed tightly to her side.

With the flagpole lines finally free, she attached the flag, taking care that it didn’t touch the ground. Old Glory was halfway up the pole when the traffic resumed moving.

The woman who raised the flag has probably done that hundreds of times, but I was glad to be there at that particular time, to see her respectful handling of Old Glory and to watch the stars and stripes reach for the sky.

My dad fought under that flag, as did two of his brothers, one who never made it home. I have a total of six uncles who served under that flag. Two made the military a career. My mother-in-law, brother-in-law and our son-in-law all served under that flag.

“Served” sounds so easy. Combat, bombs, gunfire, tanks, makeshift hospitals, sleeping in tents, land mines, Agent Orange, suicide bombers and open burn pits.

Nobody ever comes home the same.

Some never come home.

The lives of those who serve are upended just like the lives of everyone who loves them, prays for them and waits for them.

We fly the flag from our front porch almost every day. To us, it is a reminder of the long and bloody road to freedom and a nod of gratitude to all who have served.

Those red and white stripes and stars on a field of blue are so powerful they can temporarily unite opposing teams on football fields, baseball fields, soccer fields and basketball courts.

That flag can trigger the roar of the crowd at the Indy 500 and NASCAR races.

In rare moments, that flag can even still warring political factions at our nation’s capital.

Old Glory represents our shared history as well as our shared hope for the future.

I called the garden shop and told the man who answered the phone that I’d watched someone raise the flag in front of their business that morning and appreciated it.

“You know why we have that done every day?” he asked. “My dad served in World War II.”

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