Tomorrow is Memorial Day.
Not the kickoff to summer. Not a mattress sale. Not a long weekend at the lake.
It's the day we remember the men who did not come home.
Not the ones who served and came back. That day is Veterans Day. This one is different. This one is heavier.
This one is for the kid who shipped out and never saw his front porch again. For the husband whose wife got a knock on the door instead of a phone call. For the father whose son will grow up looking at photographs instead of a man.
They are the reason the freedom you take for granted is still here.
Most of us will never know that kind of cost. We will go our whole lives without being asked to put our body between something we love and the people trying to destroy it. That is the bargain those men made for us. They paid in full so we wouldn't have to.
And what do we do with that gift?
Most days, not much. We complain about traffic. We scroll our phones. We treat our wives like roommates. We half-show up for our kids. We coast through work. We waste the very life those men died protecting.
That's the gut punch of Memorial Day. Not just the sorrow. The accountability.
Because if a 19-year-old kid from a small town can lay down his life so I can live mine, the least I can do is live mine like it's worth something.
Be a better husband this week. Be a better father. Build the business. Train harder. Pray more. Quit the thing you know is killing you. Love the people in your house like every day might be the last one.
That's how you honor them. Not with a Facebook post. Not with a flag emoji. With a life that was actually worth the sacrifice.
Tomorrow, raise a glass. Say their names if you know them. Take your kids to a cemetery and tell them what those small American flags mean. Make sure the next generation knows.
And then go live a life that earns it.
That's the sermon.
