Military widow reveals what Memorial Day means after husband’s final return home

On November 2, 2023, I lost my husband, Andy, in a Humvee crash during an Army Reserve Training exercise in Virginia. He was a captain. He was four months away from his twenty-eighth birthday. We had a 17-month-old daughter named Adalyn, were in the process of building a house, and had just gotten pre-approved for a 200-acre farm we had been dreaming of for years. None of it mattered when I picked up the phone at 2:20 that afternoon and heard what his commander said, so I asked him to text me because my ears were ringing and I felt like the walls were collapsing.

Three days later, my family and I went to Virginia Commonwealth University’s trauma center in Richmond to bring Andy home. There we were met by a hearse from the funeral home in Edinburgh. Andy’s commander was waiting, in uniform, with the upright stance and stoic features you’d expect from an Army officer. She gave me the tightest hug of my life and as we parted her legs bent and she got down on her knees.

I figured the ride home would take a quiet two and a half hours. A small procession behind a white hearse with green markings, my brother-in-law at the wheel, my parents, Andy’s siblings and a few friends following behind. I was seriously expecting it. I was waiting without incident.

I was wrong about all this.

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The first overpass should have been a clue. I looked up from the message on my phone and saw a fire truck parked across the bridge, an American flag draped next to it, and as we approached I saw three uniformed firefighters saluting. I realized this was for Andy. This is for us.

A few kilometers further down another overpass appeared and above it another fire truck; he had this ladder up and maybe a dozen uniformed firefighters were standing on a giant American flag hanging over the railing. Hi. The sight was both awe-inspiring and emotionally wrenching at the same time. Touched by the kindness of strangers and wishing I had thought to take a photo, I kept my gaze on that overpass until it disappeared through the back window.

Looks like I would have a much better chance.

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I could see the next overpass coming in the distance; What look like tiny figures standing in front of a toy fire truck. As I got closer, I saw another American flag; This flag was raised as a pair of uniformed firefighters saluted with their free hands. Civilians who came on their own also joined them. Men, women, children and even toddlers who are just a little older than my daughter greet me.

On our way home, we passed under about 35 overpasses. Firefighters maintained a stoic, reserved and respectful presence in nearly every one of them. American heroes pay tribute to a fallen soldier they have never met. And it wasn’t just about overpasses. People had pulled off the highway to the side of the road and were greeting us as we passed. I couldn’t believe the number of strangers paying their respects along the way.

I later found out our friend Josh helped organize this. I had called him a few days ago and asked if he could organize a small homecoming for his friends and family on Main Street in Woodstock. I wasn’t expecting a return home that involved the entire two and a half hour journey.

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Josh was a volunteer firefighter and knew the right people to call in the various municipalities along Route 64 and Route 81. His wife, Amanda, arranged for a professional photographer and videographer so that Andy’s final journey home would be preserved forever, mainly for Adalyn to watch one day when she was old enough to appreciate it.

Mike, one of the men in Andy’s unit, was also a police officer in Richmond. He led the march from the coroner’s office to I-95. From there, local and state police took over at regular intervals along the highway. At one point, they closed access to the interstate to allow our line of small vehicles to pass through the ramp unimpeded. My brother-in-law said, “They’re doing this for the President.”

Amy King is an Army widow and the author of “Saying It Out Loud: A Young Widow’s Triumph Over Tragedy.” (Post Hill Press)

Nobody warned me about this. They wanted it to be a surprise, a pleasant shock, the exact opposite of the shock I was given three days ago. This was especially true of one of the last memorials we passed under: a giant American flag suspended between two cranes on Route 81, flanked by ordinary people willing to show their support with a wave, a salute, a sign, or just a smile. I wish we could stop so I could thank each of them.

As we got closer to home, the overpasses gave way to something equally inspiring. Farm equipment was parked on the outer edges of Route 81 for the last 35 miles between Harrisonburg and Woodstock. Not random farmers. Andy’s customers. Andy worked in agriculture and treated the farmers he served like family. Now they lined the road with their tractors, pickers, diggers, loaders, cultivators and balers, standing in front of their machines with sad stoicism, greeting or waving.

I didn’t know their politics. I didn’t know who they voted for or what teams they supported. I didn’t know their dreams, failures, tragedies or celebrations. I just knew they showed up.

We set out for Richmond early in the morning, about a two and a half hour drive in bright sunshine. It took us four hours to get home, thanks to the endless tributes.

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I wish it lasted forever.

On our way home, we passed under about 35 overpasses. Firefighters maintained a stoic, reserved and respectful presence in nearly every one of them. American heroes pay tribute to a fallen soldier they have never met.

Our police escort slowly guided us along Main Street in Woodstock toward the funeral home. My neighbors stood on the side of the road, on their porches, in their front yards, waving souvenir American flags attached to a stick. It looked like the 4th of July. Pastor Nate stood with one foot on the road and the other on the sidewalk, crying as he held the Emanuel Church flag over his head, the same flag that welcomed us to Woodstock all those years ago.

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Andy died in the line of duty. Technically, this means that I was given the ceremonially folded flag at the funeral the following Friday. The Army actually provided three: one for me, one for Adalyn, and the third I gave to Andy’s Uncle Wayne. Every day since then, I have struggled with whether I deserved to call myself a military widow. Andy didn’t die in Afghanistan or Iraq. He was killed in a training accident on American soil on Thursday afternoon, four minutes after texting a friend to call him back in 15 minutes.

But what I learned on my drive home from Richmond is that this country does not measure this divide the way I do. Firefighters on the overpasses didn’t ask where Andy died, how he died, or whether his death counted. They climbed there in uniform, holding a flag, and stopped to greet a stranger because he was wearing the uniform and wasn’t coming home.

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I’ll think about it all on Memorial Day. Firefighters. Farmers. Neighbors with small flags in their hands. Pastor Nate is crying on Main Street. Strangers pulling their cars to the side of the highway because a hearse was passing by. None of them knew Andy. It all came out for him.

That’s what Memorial Day is. Not a sale, not a long weekend, not the start of summer. A country that decided on its own, without being asked, to stop and salute on the overpass.