Of all of the museums in Washington, D.C. that my family and I have been to, my favorite is the Holocaust Museum. It tells a story of one moment in time and a story of a persecuted people. It tells the story of their dehumanization, the story of the destruction of their lives, and the story of their broken and stolen future.
At one point early in the museum, I remember receiving a little booklet with a name and picture of an individual. There was a paragraph or two about their life before and after their time in the camp, most likely, their end, how they had died. My little booklet was written about a child who died in one of the camps. I remember my daughter, Emily, reading her little booklet, and over and over at each exhibit, she would whisper to me, “Dad, this is so sad!”
One exhibit was of an oral and video history of some of the camp survivors. They spoke of their life in the camps, of their persecution, and of their loved ones who had survived, or perhaps, who had died. They spoke of their life before, and then they spoke of their life after.
For me, the exhibit that was the most moving was of shoes. A pile of shoes. Hundreds of shoes. Shoes of the lost. Shoes of the dead. Shoes of adult men and women. Small shoes of children. And like Emily said, “So sad!”
I’ve always admired stories of the men and women and children of the Resistance.
Simple folks. Farmers. Small shop keepers. No one special, really. Only in that which they did would be considered special . . . remarkable. Honorable.
They risked their beliefs, their lives against nearly impossible odds. The risked almost certain death. Men, women, and even children. Used whatever weapons they could find, and certainly not the weapons of those who they fought against.
The Honor Of Resistance.
They fought against oppression. They fought against domination. They fought against dehumanization. They spoke up and raised their voices in outcry when it would have been so very easy to remain silent. They stood up when it would have been so very easy to sit down.
The Honor Of Resistance.
There might be times in our life when we are called to Resist. There might be times in our life when we are called to stand up for what is right. There might be times in our life when we are called to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves, to speak for those without a voice, to demand rights for those who don’t have any.
As I sit here and write this, there most assuredly will be times in our life when we must do what is right, say what is right, and not shrink away because it might be unpopular to do otherwise. At that point in our life, at that very moment be it great or small, will we . . . each of us . . . have the same Honor To Resist? Will we have that same courage? Will we have that same strength? Something to think about . . .