by 
When I was in college, I had the honor of visiting Normandy, France where the Allied landing took place on June 6, 1944. I’ve been thinking about that lately, as our own Wendy Rush is traveling there this week. It was one of the most moving experiences of my entire life. First we went to the Visitor’s Center at Arromanches. While the exhibits were helpful and meaningful, what was truly amazing were the remains of the artificial harbor created for the Allied ships still out there in the water. They are ghostly but impressive reminders of the enormous war effort.
After touring the Visitor’s Center, we made our way up the hillside to the bunkers used by the German machine gunners. What you’ve always seen in movies is true. The Germans had all the advantages—except for surprise, of course. The bunkers have a commanding view of the entire beachfront. I ran my hand through the tracks on the floor where the guns could swivel for a near-180º assault. How did anyone survive the landing?
By far, the most sacred part of the day was our visit to the Normandy American Cemetery. This piece of earth overlooking Omaha Beach is officially American soil. The French people gave it to the United States in gratitude for our role in liberating their country from the Nazis. It felt different just walking through the gates. Of course at first we were fixated on the little touches of home—we were twenty-year-old kids, after all. After spending a week in Paris with six more to go in France, this little piece of America was a welcome respite. The American flag was flying, the guides spoke English, the signs were in English, the water fountain worked, and the bathrooms were American-style. (I don’t mean to be shallow here, but oh, the bliss!) I think our teacher was a little disappointed in our attitude at first, but she needn’t have worried. The power of that place soon turned our goofing off into silent reverence.
The cemetery looks much like a smaller version of Arlington National Cemetery. Rows and rows of white crosses, with an occasional Star of David to mark the graves of Jewish servicemen. We just walked and walked down the rows—not talking, just reading the grave markers, one after another after another. I remember thinking, “These men died here. Just below from where we are standing. This cliff may have been the last thing they saw.” The experience took my breath away. I have always found cemeteries to be such peaceful places; the Normandy American Cemetery is no different in that respect. But what makes it stand apart is the blood—blood spilled on that very soil, blood spilled for the deliverance of millions. After awhile, I couldn’t even walk anymore. The power of that place stopped me, stilled me. I just stood there with the sea breezes flowing past me.
I just stood there looking out over the English Channel in humbled awe. The courage. The determination. The sacrifice. May we be worthy.
