When the Anthem Brings Tears—I Love This Song
I fought back tears as we were told to stand, listening to instructions to place our right hand over our heart—and that military, in and out of uniform, could salute.
I was overcome with emotion as I turned to the flag, noticing the Marine flag hanging next to the American flag. My dad was a proud Marine after all. Semper Fi.
He was a patriot. I am too. I learned early to love and respect our country. I didn’t come from privilege, but I was taught that freedom is a privilege and a gift—and to honor those who protect it.
I wonder how often I take it for granted.
For as long as I can remember, I have fought back tears during this song. It started when I was a little girl, watching my dad—Phillies hat in hand, over his heart. I never did see him salute, but I know he did in his heart.
Those tears have returned again and again.
At every baseball or football game.
At the start of every school year.
At every event where our eyes and hearts turned toward the flag.
What a treasure this is. I know it came at a cost to many.
“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”
john 15:13
I am sure we cannot comprehend all who are—or were—affected by the freedoms we are given. I know God gives that same kind of freedom: free will.
For love of Country and God—for me—while understanding and holding space for those who have long stood up for both.
“Freedom consists not in doing what we like, but in having the right to do what we ought.”
St. pope John Paul II
America the Beautiful.
Home of the Brave.
Speaking of brave.
But on this day, as my second child graduated from college, I was overcome by more emotion than I could hold. So incredibly proud of my son who fought his own battles since his senior year in high school, where his dad stood next to him with his cap and gown and a terminal diagnosis looming over all of us.
Their dad would be buried just 10 days before our first college graduate would somehow muster the courage and strength to walk across that stage to receive her diploma. I hardly remember the moment we sang the National Anthem. She would do the same again a year later, just several days after her dad’s first anniversary of his passing. I don’t remember much about that day either. It’s been an understandable blur for all of us.
But this one—where the fog of immediate loss and grief has allowed us to see and feel things a bit differently, a bit more intensely—the song and voices bellowed through the field house. I imagined my young self watching my dad with so much love for how much he loved this country. I think he saw things. He never went to war; I know he had family members who may have seen a bit more than he did. He shared stories with me and always listened if he encountered a serviceman who wanted to share his war-torn memories, then thanked them for their memories.
As we drove south last week, we passed Parris Island, where my dad went through boot camp and thumbed his way home, I thought of him and the stories he shared. These are stories for a different time.
But on this day, the tears were not just about the moments and memories I recall about my dad. No, they were something quite different. They took me back to a more precious and painful moment. My eyes filled and my body shook, trying to fight the emotions rising up just as “rockets’ red glare” and “bombs bursting in air” echoed through the field house.
At first, I didn’t fully understand the emotion rising up—but it was proof that a memory of my late husband was suddenly with me in that moment.
All I could see was his face. All I could hear was his voice singing.
Then I remembered and understood.
Not only will I always remember my dad singing this song and tearing up at the gift of freedom we have found in this lifetime, but I will always and forever think of Jon—the father to my kids—who would never see our children graduate from college and never see the younger ones graduate even from high school. He would never honor another Memorial Day or stand flipping burgers on our grill.
It wasn’t just the emotion of that reality; it was the memory of the very last NFL football game he would watch with the kids and me. The year the Eagles were in the Super Bowl. The year Chris Stapleton sang the most stunning and reverent rendition of the National Anthem I think I’ve ever heard—maybe save for Whitney Houston (sorry, not sorry).
“Oh, Say Can You See” piped through the speakers as our eyes were fixed on the screen, with all four kids, including the college kids who drove from Ohio for the weekend to watch this Super Bowl game with their dad. It was that important to make the drive.
We knew time was not on our side, and while it was unlikely the Birds would take home the prize, it was very likely we’d never see another football season with Jon. We had already been blessed to defy the odds in this battle.
But we never did. The Birds did give us a huge win this past season.
I won’t soon forget the moment Jon rose from the sofa with his cane in hand. (Not this picture, that was our last July 4th together.) He put his left hand on his heart—he could never lift his right hand again—with the most fervor and love I have ever seen. Even as we were bursting with excitement for the Super Bowl game.
We both always teared up at the song, no matter how many times we heard it. Call us what you want—saps or sentimental—we both cried. I will never forget the tears streaming down our faces on July 4th, 2001, the first celebration after the 9/11 tragedy. It’s how I felt at the graduation this year on May 10th.
Seeing Jon standing in our family room broke me, knowing he was not getting stronger and he was fighting harder. Even through his second surgery and stroke, he never stopped trying to be the best version of himself. He slept through much of the game.
That Super Bowl moment will forever be imprinted on my mind, my heart, and the kids’ memories. Despite the outcome, that moment WAS the biggest win of the game for us.
Tears filled my eyes as Chris Stapleton strummed his guitar and belted out the Rockets’ red glare. The cameraman panned to the Eagles’ coach, Nick Sirriani, tears falling down his face.
We were locked into the screen, mesmerized by the piece until Jon boldly shouted, “I love this song.”
His voice cracked, and tears spilled down his face, too.
I think it surprised him. He laughed a little sheepishly, unsure where the emotion came from.
I suspected the tears were falling for so many reasons. Reality hurts.
The reality: we’d never see another football game, we did get to see a few Phillies games with him.
Time was not on our side.
My kids would be unable to celebrate wins, graduations, future birthdays, weddings, another football or baseball game, or holidays with their dad.
He didn’t live past April or long enough to see another Memorial Day. He was gone before summer appeared and wouldn’t see our firstborn’s college graduation or the two youngest graduation from high school either.
Memorial Day will always be the start of our summer festivities while honoring those who walked the land—”sea to shining sea”—before us and protected and served to give us the freedoms we hold dear today. Holidays—just like vacations or respite trips—are tricky once you lose someone you love. It all comes with a cost. Honoring Memorial Day and celebrating our freedom comes with a cost too.
Grief is complicated. And honoring freedom after loss can feel just as complex.
Heather Lebano
Grief is complicated. And honoring life events and freedom after loss can feel just as complex. I know the kind of ache that comes with holding joy and pain in the same breath. I know what it is to lose someone who shaped our lives—the life of a good and beautiful man who stood with honor, who loved and served without applause. The life of my dad, who taught me to remember those who sacrificed. And Jon, who would be standing at the grill on Memorial Day, flipping burgers or steaks, serving the family he loved and protected so well.
It was all still with me as I stood in that field house. So it’s no wonder that at the graduation ceremony, when the Star-Spangled Banner began to play, I shook as I fought back the overwhelming wave of emotion.
Whenever we’re asked to face the flag and I hear the National Anthem, I’ll always think of my dad—who loved his country—and I will remember the man I loved, the father of my kids, who loved that song too.
May we never forget the ones who stood quietly with love—and the songs that still carry them home to us.
