Honoring Those Who Served in Silence

Veterans Day — November 11, 2026

Today, on Veterans Day, we honor the men and women who have served in the United States Armed Forces. We remember their sacrifices, their courage, and their willingness to serve a country whose freedoms have often come at a tremendous cost. However, among those veterans are countless LGBTQ+ Americans whose service has too often been overlooked, erased, or deliberately hidden. Today, I want to take a moment to honor them.

Throughout American history, LGBTQ+ individuals have served in every branch of the military, in every major conflict, and in virtually every capacity imaginable. They have fought in trenches, stormed beaches, flown combat missions, tended the wounded, and stood beside their fellow service members in moments of extraordinary danger. They have earned medals, received commendations, and made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. Yet, for much of our history, these same individuals were forced to conceal an essential part of who they were.

Imagine being willing to die for your country while knowing that the very institution you served could destroy your career simply because of whom you loved. Imagine fighting for freedom overseas while being denied the freedom to live openly at home.

For generations, that was the reality of LGBTQ+ military service.

During World War II, thousands of gay and lesbian Americans served with distinction, even as military policies treated homosexuality as grounds for exclusion and discharge. Some found a sense of belonging and community within the military that they had never experienced before, while others lived in constant fear of discovery. Their courage was no less remarkable because their country refused to acknowledge their identities.

One of the most notable examples was , a decorated Vietnam War veteran who earned a Purple Heart and Bronze Star. In 1975, Matlovich publicly challenged the military’s ban on gay service members. His photograph appeared on the cover of Time magazine beneath the words, “I Am a Homosexual.” His willingness to stand openly against discrimination helped bring national attention to the injustice faced by LGBTQ+ veterans.

Matlovich’s gravestone at Congressional Cemetery in Washington, D.C., bears a particularly powerful inscription: “When I was in the military, they gave me a medal for killing two men and a discharge for loving one.”

Those words capture the painful contradiction that defined military service for generations of gay Americans.

Even after the adoption of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” in 1993, LGBTQ+ service members were still required to hide their identities. The policy was presented as a compromise, but in practice, it meant that gay, lesbian, and bisexual Americans could serve only so long as they remained silent about who they were. Thousands were discharged under the policy before its repeal took effect in 2011.

Transgender Americans have faced their own struggles for the right to serve openly, with military policies repeatedly changing and their ability to serve becoming a political battleground. In 2026, transgender service members and veterans continue to confront discrimination and uncertainty over whether their service and sacrifices will be respected.

What troubles me most is the fundamental injustice of asking someone to defend the freedoms of others while denying that person the same freedoms. Military service demands sacrifice, discipline, loyalty, and courage. None of those qualities depends upon sexual orientation or gender identity. A bullet does not distinguish between gay and straight. Neither does an enemy on the battlefield. The sacrifices made by LGBTQ+ service members are every bit as real as those made by their heterosexual and cisgender comrades.

As someone who works in a military history museum, I believe that preserving history means telling the stories of everyone who helped shape it. We cannot tell an honest history of the American military while ignoring the LGBTQ+ men and women who served within its ranks. Their stories belong alongside those of every other veteran, not separated into some footnote or treated as an uncomfortable exception.

We also owe a particular debt to those who served in silence. Many never had the opportunity to live openly. Some carried their secrets to their graves. Others were dishonorably or otherwise unjustly discharged, losing careers, benefits, and reputations because of prejudice rather than any failure of duty. Their service deserves recognition, and the injustices they endured should never be forgotten.

Veterans Day originated in the armistice that ended the fighting of World War I on November 11, 1918. It was intended as a day to remember the terrible human cost of war and to honor those who served. Over time, its meaning expanded to recognize all American veterans, living and dead.

That recognition must include LGBTQ+ veterans without qualification or hesitation.

Today, I honor the gay soldier who fought in the trenches of France, the lesbian nurse who cared for the wounded during World War II, the bisexual sailor who served during the Cold War, the gay Marine who fought in Vietnam, and the transgender service member who answered the call to serve despite knowing that their own government might reject them. I honor those who served openly and those who could not. I honor those who returned home and those who never did.

Above all, I honor their courage, not only in the face of the enemy, but also in the face of a society that too often refused to recognize their humanity.

Patriotism does not require silence in the face of injustice. In fact, I believe that loving one’s country means wanting it to live up to its highest ideals. The promise of liberty and equality is meaningless if we reserve it only for those who conform to someone else’s expectations.

On this Veterans Day, let us remember that LGBTQ+ veterans did not serve a different country, fight different wars, or make lesser sacrifices. They served the same flag, defended the same Constitution, and helped preserve the same freedoms that all Americans enjoy.

Their service was honorable. Their sacrifices were real. Their stories deserve to be told.

To every LGBTQ+ veteran, whether you served openly, in silence, or at great personal cost: thank you for your service. Thank you for your courage. And thank you for helping make this country a place worth fighting for.

You have always been part of America’s military history, and you deserve to be remembered as such.

Pic of the Day

From Glory to Horror: Three Voices of the Great War

Tomorrow is Veterans Day in the United States, a day originally commemorating the armistice that brought an end to the fighting of World War I. On November 11, 1918, at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the guns along the Western Front finally fell silent. After more than four years of unimaginable destruction, the Great War had come to an end, though the suffering and consequences of that conflict would continue for generations.

Every year around Veterans Day, I like to feature poetry from World War I. This year, rather than choosing a single poem, I want to share three that, when read together, illustrate the transformation in how the war was understood and portrayed. Each represents a different perspective: the patriotic idealism of Rupert Brooke, the grief and solemn determination of John McCrae, and the bitter disillusionment of Wilfred Owen.

These poems are not simply reflections on war. They are a progression from the romantic belief that dying for one’s country is noble and beautiful to the terrible realization that there is nothing beautiful about a young man choking to death in the mud of a battlefield.

The Soldier — Rupert Brooke (1887–1915)

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Reflection: The Romance of Sacrifice

Rupert Brooke’s “The Soldier,” written in 1914, captures the patriotic idealism that characterized much of the early enthusiasm for the Great War. For Brooke, death in battle is not something to fear. It is an almost sacred act of devotion to one’s homeland. The soldier’s body becomes part of England itself, transforming even a foreign battlefield into a piece of home.

There is no blood, no mud, no shattered bodies, and no screaming wounded in Brooke’s poem. Instead, there are flowers, rivers, sunshine, laughter, and an eternal English heaven. Death is presented as peaceful, meaningful, and even beautiful.

Brooke was not entirely naive about war, but his poetry reflects a generation raised on ideals of patriotism, duty, honor, and sacrifice. For many young men in 1914, military service offered an opportunity to demonstrate courage and devotion to their country. The reality of mechanized warfare had not yet fully destroyed those romantic notions.

Brooke himself would never experience the horrors of the Western Front. He died of an infection in April 1915 while serving with the Royal Naval Division, before reaching the Gallipoli battlefield. He was only twenty-seven.

His poem remains one of the most famous expressions of patriotic sacrifice in English literature. Yet, when placed beside the poetry that followed, its beautiful imagery takes on an almost tragic innocence.

In Flanders Fields — John McCrae (1872–1918)

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.

Reflection: The Sorrow of Sacrifice

By the time Canadian physician and military officer John McCrae wrote “In Flanders Fields” in May 1915, the war had already begun to reveal its terrible cost. McCrae served as a medical officer during the Second Battle of Ypres, where he witnessed the suffering and death of countless soldiers. The death of his friend, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, is traditionally associated with the poem’s creation.

Unlike Brooke’s peaceful vision of a soldier becoming part of the homeland, McCrae places us in a cemetery. The crosses stand in rows, marking the graves of men who, only days before, had been alive, loved, and capable of enjoying the simplest pleasures of life.

The contrast is heartbreaking. Above the graves, poppies bloom and birds continue to sing, but their songs are nearly drowned out by the guns. Nature continues its cycle of life while humanity destroys itself.

Yet McCrae does not reject the war. Instead, the dead call upon the living to continue the struggle. They pass the torch to those who remain, insisting that their sacrifice must not be forgotten or rendered meaningless.

This is what makes “In Flanders Fields” such an important bridge between Brooke and Owen. McCrae recognizes the sorrow and terrible human cost of war, but he continues to believe in the cause for which the soldiers died.

There is grief here, but not yet repudiation. The dead are mourned, but their deaths are still understood as sacrifices that demand continued commitment.

McCrae died of pneumonia in January 1918, never living to see the armistice. His poem would help establish the red poppy as one of the most enduring symbols of remembrance for those killed in war.

Dulce et Decorum Est — Wilfred Owen (1893–1918)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Reflection: The Destruction of an Illusion

If Brooke’s “The Soldier” represents the romantic ideal of dying for one’s country, Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est” is its devastating repudiation.

There is no peaceful English heaven here. There are no gentle memories of home or beautiful visions of sacrifice. Instead, Owen presents exhausted soldiers stumbling through mud, their bodies broken by fatigue, their senses dulled by relentless bombardment. Then comes the gas attack.

Owen forces us to witness a soldier dying in agony, choking as poison gas destroys his lungs. The image is so horrifying that it haunts the speaker’s dreams. The soldier is not transformed into something noble or eternal. He suffers, and he dies.

The poem concludes with the Latin phrase Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, taken from the Roman poet Horace. It translates as “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.”

Owen calls it “The old Lie.”

Those three words fundamentally challenge the patriotic idealism expressed in Brooke’s poem. Where Brooke imagined a soldier’s death as beautiful and sacred, Owen demands that we confront what such a death actually looks like. Where Brooke offered consolation, Owen offers accusation.

Owen is not simply describing the horrors of war. He is condemning those who glorify it, particularly those who encourage young men to seek honor and glory in battle without understanding the suffering they are being asked to endure.

That distinction matters. Owen was himself a soldier, and his poetry demonstrates profound compassion for the men who fought beside him. His anger was directed not at their courage or sacrifice, but at the romantic mythology that made their suffering seem desirable.

Perhaps the cruelest irony is that Owen did not survive the war. He was killed in action on November 4, 1918, just one week before the armistice. He was twenty-five years old. His mother reportedly received the telegram announcing his death on November 11, as the church bells rang to celebrate the end of the fighting.

Three Poets, Three Perspectives, One War

Reading these three poems together reveals something that reading them individually cannot.

Brooke asks us to see the beauty in dying for one’s country. McCrae asks us to remember the dead and carry on their struggle. Owen asks us to look directly at the suffering of those who die and question the very language used to glorify their deaths.

They are not simply three poems written at different moments in the war. They represent three different ways of understanding sacrifice, patriotism, and the human cost of conflict.

There is a particularly powerful contrast between Brooke’s opening line, “If I should die, think only this of me,” and Owen’s concluding accusation, “The old Lie.” Brooke tells us what he hopes others will think of his death. Owen challenges what others have been taught to think about death in war.

And between them stands McCrae, surrounded by graves, mourning those who have fallen while still urging the living to continue the fight.

Of course, public attitudes toward the war were never uniform, and these perspectives overlapped throughout the conflict. Not everyone greeted the war enthusiastically in 1914, nor did everyone reject patriotic sacrifice by 1918. Nevertheless, the progression from Brooke to McCrae to Owen illustrates the growing tension between the ideals used to justify war and the terrible realities experienced by those who fought it.

There is another tragedy connecting these three men: none lived to see the peace that followed the armistice. Brooke died in 1915, McCrae in January 1918, and Owen just seven days before the fighting ended.

Tomorrow, on Veterans Day, we honor those who have served in the armed forces. We remember their courage, their sacrifices, and the burdens they carried, both during their service and long after returning home. But honoring veterans should never require us to romanticize war.

We can admire the courage of soldiers without celebrating the violence they endured. We can recognize sacrifice without pretending that suffering is glorious. We can honor those who served while still questioning the decisions that sent them into battle.

Perhaps that is the most important lesson these three poets leave us.

To remember the dead is not enough. We must also remember what killed them, what they suffered, and why peace is worth preserving.

On November 11, 1918, the guns finally fell silent. More than a century later, we would do well to listen to the voices of those who never heard that silence.

Pic of the Day

It Doesn’t Feel Like Monday

I know it’s Monday, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel like Monday. Everything seems unusually quiet this morning. Even Isabella let me sleep a little later than usual, which is certainly a welcome change. There’s something about the stillness of the morning that makes it difficult to believe another workweek is beginning.

I wish I were still in bed, sound asleep, putting off the responsibilities of a new week for just a few more hours. Unfortunately, wishing won’t make it happen. The weekend is over, the alarm has gone off, and Monday has arrived whether I’m ready for it or not.

So, I’ll drink my coffee, try to shake off the lingering desire to crawl back under the covers, and get ready for work. Maybe by the time I finish my coffee, I’ll feel a little more enthusiastic about the day ahead.

A new workweek begins. There’s no putting it off, no matter how much I’d like to.

Happy Monday, everyone! I hope your coffee is strong and your week gets off to a good start.

Pic of the Day

The Courage to Hope

Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.

—Galatians 6:2

There are times in our lives when hope comes easily. We feel loved, appreciated, and confident that good things lie ahead. Then there are those times when hope seems almost impossible. We pray, we wait, we try to remain faithful, but the things our hearts long for seem perpetually beyond our reach. For many LGBTQ+ people, particularly those of us who grew up in religious traditions that taught us to question or condemn who we are, hope can be especially complicated.

We are often told to be patient, to trust God’s timing, and to believe that everything happens for a reason. Those words may be offered with good intentions, but they can ring hollow when spoken to someone who has spent years waiting to feel accepted, to find companionship, or simply to be loved without conditions. Sometimes, what we need most is not another reminder to be patient but the reassurance that our hopes and desires are neither shameful nor unworthy of God’s attention.

Psalm 37:4 tells us, “Take delight in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” I do not believe this means that God grants every wish or that faithfulness guarantees we will receive everything we want. Life has taught me otherwise. Rather, I understand this verse as an invitation to recognize that our deepest longings can be part of our relationship with God. The desire to love and be loved, to share our lives with someone, to experience genuine companionship, and to live authentically should not be dismissed simply because those desires do not conform to someone else’s expectations.

For LGBTQ+ Christians, this distinction matters. Too often, we have been told that our love is something to resist rather than celebrate. We have heard that accepting ourselves means turning away from God. Yet I cannot reconcile that message with a God whose very nature is love. If we believe that human beings are created in God’s image, then surely we must recognize the dignity and worth of LGBTQ+ people as part of that creation. Our capacity to love is not something that separates us from God. It can be one of the ways we experience God’s presence.

Still, believing that we are worthy of love does not mean that love always comes when we want it. Psalm 27:14 encourages us, “Wait for the LORD; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the LORD!” Waiting, however, is not the same as surrendering to despair. Nor should it mean putting our lives on hold while hoping that someday everything will fall into place.

There is courage in continuing to live fully even when our hearts are waiting for something more. There is courage in remaining open to love after disappointment, in seeking friendship after rejection, and in believing that tomorrow might hold possibilities we cannot yet imagine. Faith does not eliminate uncertainty, but it can help us face that uncertainty without allowing it to define us.

And sometimes, the strength we need comes through other people.

Proverbs 15:23 reminds us, “A person finds joy in giving an apt reply—and how good is a timely word!” We may never know how much a simple expression of kindness can mean to someone who is struggling. For an LGBTQ+ teenager afraid to come out, hearing that God loves them exactly as they are can be life-changing. For someone rejected by their family or church, a sincere welcome can begin to heal wounds that have remained open for years. For someone who feels lonely or forgotten, a phone call, a conversation, or a few words of encouragement can make the difference between another day of despair and a renewed sense of hope.

Words matter. They can wound, but they can also heal. Unfortunately, many LGBTQ+ people know all too well how Scripture has been used as a weapon. Words that should communicate God’s love have instead been used to justify exclusion, shame, and rejection. That makes our responsibility to speak with compassion all the more important. We cannot undo every hurtful word someone has heard, but we can offer words that affirm their dignity and remind them they are not alone.

Paul takes this responsibility a step further in Galatians 6:2 when he instructs us to “Bear one another’s burdens.” Christianity was never intended to be a solitary journey. We are called to care for one another, not merely when doing so is convenient or comfortable, but especially when someone is struggling under a burden too heavy to carry alone.

For LGBTQ+ Christians and our allies, bearing one another’s burdens means more than offering sympathy. It means standing beside those who face discrimination, defending those whose dignity is denied, welcoming those who have been excluded, and refusing to remain silent when religion is used to justify cruelty. It means recognizing that another person’s suffering is not simply their problem but a call for us to put Christ’s teachings into action.

It also means allowing others to help carry our burdens. That can be difficult, especially for those of us who have learned to be self-reliant. We may convince ourselves that we should be strong enough to handle everything alone. Yet there is no weakness in admitting that we need companionship, encouragement, or someone who will simply listen. We were not created to live without human connection.

What strikes me about these four passages is how naturally they complement one another. Proverbs reminds us to offer encouragement. Psalm 37 reminds us that our hearts’ desires matter. Psalm 27 teaches us to remain courageous through uncertainty. Galatians calls us to turn that encouragement, hope, and courage into tangible acts of love.

Together, they remind us that hope is not merely something we wait to receive. It is also something we can give.

We cannot promise someone that their loneliness will end tomorrow, that their family will accept them, or that every injustice will be corrected in their lifetime. We cannot promise ourselves those things either. But we can refuse to let disappointment extinguish our compassion. We can create communities where people are welcomed without conditions, where love is celebrated rather than condemned, and where no one is expected to carry life’s burdens alone.

Perhaps that is one of the most meaningful ways we can live out our faith: by becoming the encouragement someone else needs while remaining open to receiving that same encouragement ourselves.

God’s love is not diminished by whom we love, nor is our worth determined by whether we have found someone to share our lives with. We are worthy of love now, in the midst of our waiting, our uncertainty, and our imperfect lives.

Reflection

What desire of your heart have you been afraid to acknowledge, perhaps because someone once told you it was wrong or unworthy? Have you allowed disappointment to convince you that hope is foolish? And who in your life might need a timely word of encouragement or someone willing to help carry their burdens?

This week, reach out to someone who may be struggling. Offer kindness without judgment, encouragement without empty promises, and companionship without conditions. And if you are the one who needs support, allow yourself the courage to ask for it.

Above all, remember that waiting for something good does not mean your life is incomplete today. Love is already present in the kindness we offer, the friendships we nurture, and the compassion we show. Sometimes, the very hope we are searching for begins when we become a source of hope for someone else.

Pic of the Day

Moment of Zen: Couples

It’s been years since I was part of a couple, but I still miss that special connection of having someone who is both a companion and a lover—someone to turn to in difficult times, to share exciting news with first, to enjoy meaningful conversations, or simply to be together without needing a reason. And while that connection has been absent from my life for some time, I still believe in the beauty of finding it again, perhaps when I least expect it.