Section 60

Our first visit as a family to Arlington National Cemetery was in September 2020. Wes and I had been there only once before, nine years earlier, when we laid to rest our best friend John Brown. Our warrior. Our gentle giant. Our big brother. And to our girls, their “Uncle John.” Sadly, they never had the chance of meeting him. They only knew his picture, and his eyes, and his smile.

Wes and I were finally ready to face our pain. We hadn’t visited him since that beautiful and incredibly painful service on August 30, 2011 when he was laid to rest. We finally planned a trip to show the girls their uncle John’s grave, the infamous best friend whom we had talked about for so many years. London, our oldest, had been conceived right after John was killed. I often feel that he must have sent her to me in my time of despair. At least, I find comfort in that thought. The girls were excited to see his headstone.

I was nervous getting ready that morning. My heart was aching. I was afraid to finally look at his name etched into stone. I didn’t quite know what my body would do when I approached the large carved rock that I knew cradled him tightly under the earth, but I was determined. We girls dressed in white dresses, Wes in a blazer and nice jeans. We had a wonderful quiet breakfast at a local café, just off the water in the beautiful city of Alexandria where we were staying. The girls and I colored customary rocks to leave on Uncle John’s headstone as a gift.

We made our way to Arlington, to the endless hillside of graves. As we entered the grounds and walked into the cemetery, my eyes and senses were flooded with details. The landscape there is impeccable, almost heaven-like as if to remind you that the fallen are laying delicately among the flowers. The grounds are bright green and speckled with white headstones shining much like the souls they represent. There are towering trees, old and wise, letting us know they stand watch over the fallen who belong to them now—to the earth. I knew John’s grave was in Section 60. 

Section 60…Section 60…. So many sections, so many lives. He will never be sixty….

My brain was spinning as we mapped our walk out to the graveside. My throat kept tightening and my breath felt trapped in my chest. The girls were confused as to why there were so many headstones. Wes and I had to keep explaining, but I’m sure it will take years for them to fully understand. Still, they remained quiet and calm and kept monitoring the pain in my eyes as we made our way to John’s grave. They knew this was an important day, and that walk out to Uncle John gave them a memory they will forever have etched into their hearts.

I anxiously counted down the section numbers as we walked the arrow-straight road to Section 60. Fifty-four…fifty-five…. Then, suddenly, Section 60. My heart tore open and I swallowed hard. 

Known by many as the “saddest acre in America,” Section 60 is actually a fourteen-acre area in Arlington now reserved for those killed in action in our generation’s War on Terror. America’s longest war. They lay alongside heroes from the wars of previous generations. Vietnam. Korea. World War II. Being inside Section 60 can change you forever. 

John was laid with most of the men who died with him. A team of our nation’s most elite warriors killed in action during the infamous mission in Afghanistan known as Extortion 17, on August 6, 2011—a day that Wes and I will never forget. 

They lay together in a row. A row among rows, among rows, among sections, among us. My memory of that exact plot during John’s service was that of a fairly empty grassy knoll as he had been among the first laid to rest. But now it was packed full of headstones. So many lives rested surrounding him, lost in service to their country and to the ones they loved. We weaved through the field and down his row. I knew we would see his headstone soon. “Extortion 17” was etched into the headstones of the fallen teammates whose graves we solemnly passed. We were close. 

Then…his name. 

We stopped. I quickly turned to lock eyes with Wes. His body shuttered. His eyes couldn’t open. His pain was visible. We both broke down together and cried. The girls stood in silence and wrapped their arms around our legs. I looked down to see their watery eyes staring up at mine. They were tapping and rubbing our arms to console their mommy and daddy. We gathered ourselves and then slowly read the headstone aloud, London reading most of it as her little voice pierced through me:

John W. Brown. TSgt, USAF.

Afghanistan, Iraq.

November third, nineteen seventy-seven to August sixth, two thousand eleven.

Bronze star, purple heart.

Love of my life.

That others may live….

We explained to the girls what the words on the headstone meant. We reminded them of Extortion 17 and what that mission was. We explained how “That Others May Live” was the motto of Uncle John’s career field, how he was truly dedicated to fulfilling it. London and Berlynn knelt down in front of Uncle John’s grave, placed their hands on the stone, and said “Hi” to him for the first time. My eyes burned with tears and my chest pained with “what if?” What if I could bring him back? What if we could all laugh together again? What if I could watch him love my girls as his nieces? The pain was crippling. 

In the moments following, two little brown birds appeared. They cheerily hopped all around us, and on top of his grave and headstone. One of the birds wasn’t scared at all, and allowed us to come very close—close enough for me to hold my hand out to him. I thought for sure that he would hop into my palm at some point. But he continued to follow us and chirp around, watching us during our visit. In times of pain, it’s helpful to find connections to the afterlife…even if you’re not sure if you believe in one. For me, in that moment, the bird was John—and he was desperate to meet our babies.

The birds kept watching as we let the girls trace Uncle John’s name onto paper laid over the etched words of his headstone—another tradition that families of Arlington partake in. They each made a precious memento of his name to bring home and frame. I loved watching their little hands grip the pencils and paper against the headstone, they knew how precious this art project was and you could tell this by their careful, delicate approach. They wanted to make Uncle John proud, and I’m certain he was smiling while they colored. 

With more tears, we walked the row further while reminiscing. We honored the fallen of Extortion 17 laid to rest with John, and the graves of other fallen nearby. Eventually, we said goodbye. Goodbye? Again? It seems like we just got here. And that he was just here. That I was just wishing him well for his deployment. It’s so strange how grief steals away our concept of time. I looked at his headstone one last time and thanked him for all he was and all he had done, and we took a few pictures and slowly made our way out of Section 60. And away from our two bird friends. 

As I walked away from John and all those in the sacred acres, I couldn’t help but become overwhelmed with sorrow. I cried the entire walk back to the front gate. I didn’t want to leave. I just wanted so badly to cast a spell and bring him back to Tabitha—his wife and widow and our dear friend. Back to us. Back to the world. Accepting death is a part of this life…but I’m not sure I’ll ever accept John’s fate. Do I have to?

From now on, Section 60 will be where we visit Uncle John: Our friend. Our hero. Our warrior. Section 60 is where a piece of our heart lies in wait. Because of our loss, what’s remaining of us is left grateful for the brave, the bold, and the ones who have been left behind who know this pain of war. 

To all who truly know Section 60, please be comforted in knowing it’s packed full of many John 15:13s: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” They all did. And now they sleep in Section 60.