I first read about this remarkable group of ladies a few years ago, and I haven’t been able to forget them, or the loving service they provide to the families of fallen soldiers. They are a beautiful example of compassion, respect, and patriotism.
Joyce Johnson remembers the drums beating slowly as she walked with her girls from the Old Post Chapel, behind the horse-drawn caisson carrying the flag-draped casket of her husband.
She remembers struggling to maintain her composure as she stared at his freshly dug grave, trying not to dwell on the terrible sight in the distance — the gaping hole in the Pentagon where he had so proudly worked.
The three-volley salute. Taps. The chaplain handing her a perfectly folded flag. The blur of tributes.
And then a lady stepped forward, a stranger, dressed not in uniform but in a simple dark suit. She whispered a few words and pressed two cards into Johnson’s hands.
“If there is anything you need …”