At the recent Memorial Day ceremony at the Enterprise courthouse, the soulful tune of Taps was trumpeted and then echoed by another distant trumpeter. I rarely get to hear this, yet when I do, it pierces every defense I have around my mind and heart that distances me from the reality of the cost of war. I felt a lump start to form in my throat, but quickly abandoned it upon observing stalwart soldiers wipe behind their sunglasses.

Upon completion of this, the fifth ceremony, it was obvious the VFW members were emotionally drained from having remembered their buddies who came home in flag-draped coffins. I returned home, overwhelmed with gratitude, and wrote my reflections:

To my veterans,

I call you my veterans for the United States is my country, and because you served her well, you are in my heart also. Thank you for giving me the privilege today of seeing you as soldiers again, standing erect at attention, with your silver hair tufting out from beneath your VFW caps.

You gave me the honor of witnessing loyalty and dedication when one comrade, because of his injuries from his enlistment, could no longer stand in the rifle squad for the fifth 21-gun salute, so while he sat in his truck, you stepped in and made the squad complete.

My respect for you soared as I saw you discreetly wipe a tear from the corner of your eye at the playing of Taps, and you make me, a civilian, wonder what is it like? Not just what was it like back then. But now what is it like 20 or 30 years later to muster together and choose to go through the emotional wringer again, the price of fulfilling a commitment to never forget.

I doubt you would even say, because to you, your military service was basically a job to do. But if you were to tell me, how could I understand without having been there myself? Yet because you went over and did what had to be done, I dont have to.

At a prominent hospital that treats veterans, a banner reads, For those who fought for it, freedom has a flavor the protected never know.

Its true. I cant fully comprehend the price paid by the soldiers who gave their lives for my freedom. I will never know the price of sorrow by family members and friends who must pick up the pieces and move on.

And I will never know the price you, my combat veterans, pay as you try to function each day, without causing harm to others, while horrific memories pound your mind.

I will never understand. Not completely. But I thank you.

I thank you that, because of you, I dont have to be herded onto a train, then have my head shaved and my clothes stripped and more than likely be gassed because of my religious beliefs. Because of you, I dont have to worry about my granddaughter being one of three hundred girls kidnapped by militants. And because of you, I have the simple, yet expensive, freedom to choose.

Because of you, I have the freedom to choose what I believe. Freedom to choose where I live. Freedom to choose what I say.

And at this time, I choose to say a heartfelt, Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Guest columnist Katherine Stickroth writes from her home in Enterprise.