Let me guess, because I have no way of knowing. I found this cross in an American war dead cemetery far south in Holland. It's not a particularly familiar name to me, but I'm guessing he was from Marion County, maybe somewhere around Pella, which means that sometime back 100 years before he died--somewhere on his way to Berlin--some of his ancestors left Holland with Dominie Scholte, when that Leiden intellectual took off for the prairies of Iowa with a significant flock of followers, pious folks all.
Sgt. John Van Ooyen may well have died here, someplace close, maybe even not all that far from the neighborhoods his ancestors left behind. Something got him--a bullet maybe, some anti-aircraft, maybe fire from a tank. All I know is his rank, his company, his Dutch name, and the fact that he's one of 8000 commemorated here, even those what's left of his bones may well be elsewhere.
It's stunning to stand there amid all those white crosses and to realize that what's there--row after row after row--is barely a decimal point to the many others who also never came back to Pella or Brooklyn or San Benadino. There were thousands and thousands and thousands--and thousands more.
For what? For freedom. For righteousness. For peace. For an end to the thoughtless slaughter of millions the Nazis thought not good enough for their stupid master race.
My goodness it cost a lot.
And then there's this. Look closely.
There beyond his cross, just a couple more back in a row to the right, is a white star of David--a Jewish guy.
I wonder if this Dutch kid from some place around Pella ever thought about the fact that his dying was for New York Jewish guy too. I wonder whether that thought was in his head when he enlisted, or was drafted. I wonder if it was something a nice Dutch boy from Marion County, Iowa, ever thought about much at all.
I doubt it.
But I did. Just today, when I stopped and paid my respects to someone named John Van Ooyen, thanked him for what he gave up for me and my kids and my grandkids and some Jewish guy named Rudolph Nadel, a New Yorker, who died just two months later and who's remembered just a couple of yards down the row.
Maybe they knew each other.
Maybe not.
Doesn't matter, really. Jew and Gentile, New Yorker and cornhusker, they both gave us what we have. They died for a ton of reasons.
And I'm one of them.
So are you.
This morning, I'm thankful for both of them.
Sgt. John Van Ooyen may well have died here, someplace close, maybe even not all that far from the neighborhoods his ancestors left behind. Something got him--a bullet maybe, some anti-aircraft, maybe fire from a tank. All I know is his rank, his company, his Dutch name, and the fact that he's one of 8000 commemorated here, even those what's left of his bones may well be elsewhere.
It's stunning to stand there amid all those white crosses and to realize that what's there--row after row after row--is barely a decimal point to the many others who also never came back to Pella or Brooklyn or San Benadino. There were thousands and thousands and thousands--and thousands more.
For what? For freedom. For righteousness. For peace. For an end to the thoughtless slaughter of millions the Nazis thought not good enough for their stupid master race.
My goodness it cost a lot.
And then there's this. Look closely.
There beyond his cross, just a couple more back in a row to the right, is a white star of David--a Jewish guy.I wonder if this Dutch kid from some place around Pella ever thought about the fact that his dying was for New York Jewish guy too. I wonder whether that thought was in his head when he enlisted, or was drafted. I wonder if it was something a nice Dutch boy from Marion County, Iowa, ever thought about much at all.
I doubt it.
But I did. Just today, when I stopped and paid my respects to someone named John Van Ooyen, thanked him for what he gave up for me and my kids and my grandkids and some Jewish guy named Rudolph Nadel, a New Yorker, who died just two months later and who's remembered just a couple of yards down the row.
Maybe they knew each other.
Maybe not.
Doesn't matter, really. Jew and Gentile, New Yorker and cornhusker, they both gave us what we have. They died for a ton of reasons.
And I'm one of them.
So are you.
This morning, I'm thankful for both of them.
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