I was 20 years old when my grandfather passed away and it was the first time someone close to me had died. I was not ready for the burial. My grandfather dedicated his entire life to the unselfish service of God, so I knew he was in heaven. That was not in question and made it much easier to deal with his passing. I handled his death OK, I handled the viewings OK, and I handled the funeral OK. It was the burial that got me.

The first image, which will forever stick with me, occurred as we entered Arlington National Cemetery. I was traveling directly behind the hearse, looking toward the Cemetery. Out in front of the entrance stood a pair of uniformed military personnel who were directing traffic with directing batons. As the long convoy approached the cemetery border, they halted all cars and pedestrians, stood at attention, and slowly saluted the hearse as it passed them by. This honor continued throughout the procession. No matter who we passed, from a general to a private, they stood at attention and saluted my grandfather only relaxing when he was well out of sight.

Upon arrival, the funeral was performed flawlessly by The 3rd Infantry ("The Old Guard.") which took control of the proceedings. I was overwhelmed by the rigid precision of every movement and action. The attention paid to detail was extreme. The degree of honor showed to my grandfather that day made me feel as if I had really lost someone great in my life. I mean, I knew he was a great man and I loved him dearly, but to see the passion with which this band of total strangers paid him tribute, brought tears to my eyes. It was like they too had lost an important part of themselves. It was not an act. It was not manufactured. My grandfather seemed like part of something bigger that day. He seemed part of "America." And America’s representatives were mourning their loss.

I was amazed at how many servicemen were at the burial. There was a military band. He had just about every honor there was to have that day: the American flag carefully draped over his coffin, horse-drawn wagon, 21 gun salute, taps. Taps in particular choked me up. I don't think I will ever listen to that simple melody again without thinking back to that day.

Several years later I can say it feels good to have my grandfather buried in Arlington. It seems quite fitting. And anytime I show people around Washington DC, I love to take them to his grave site, brag of his accomplishments, and remember his great worth. But, if I live to be a hundred years old, that day- that poignant, moving day - will be fresh in my mind and vivid in my memories forever.