The crosses that once stood in a flat, often rain-saturated, Belgian field; a field that saw some of the worst carnage of World War 1, are now headstones. Some of the headstones list the names and ages of the dead; some do not. The youngest age recorded there is 14; a boy who enlisted when he was 11.

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One of the headstones is that of 22 year old Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, killed when a six inch canon shell exploded near him as he was running to check on others in his unit. On the evening after his burial, May 3rd 1915, his closest friend was overcome with grief. He penned these words:

In Flanders Fields....
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

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This poem is written by Helmer’s friend and teacher John McCrae. The words are a reflection on the devastation of war.  McCrae believed the dead were speaking to us. They were telling us to not let death be an ending but rather a continuing. The dead were passing the baton. They were handing off the work they were doing before they died; the work of living. The dead expect us to feel, to fight, and eventually, to also fall. We are to love and know love and then pass on the work of loving before we, ourselves, pass on to the next life.

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Do you agree?