We parked in the most distant parking lot. We walked to the street-side door of the hanger. We stood, flags in hand, while the family arrived. We went inside to await the plane.

The family went into the hanger before the plane arrived so we did too. Ride Captain Joe Alger had explained how we were to form after the plane was in position. For now, we formed in two facing ranks, flanking the big hanger door.

The door consisted of six massive panels. Their weight did not hang from the ceiling – instead they would roll sideways on tracks embedded in the concrete floor. The panels would separate in their middle – three one way and three the other, driven by electric motors. They were located near the floor at that middle point. Technicians were standing near them, ready to open the doors.

We waited. No one talked. The hanger was filled with people but it was silent. Then the technicians acted.

Ding-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling…

The two motors that pushed the door panels apart rang a small bell as the operated. They were big doors and it took a long time to open them. All the while we heard the bells. They reminded me of ice cream trucks that prowl residential neighborhoods in summer. The hanger was no longer silent. We heard the soft rumble of the doors rolling on tracks and we heard the ice cream bells.

Then came the jet. It was directed by a fellow with two large orange batons. He stood in the vast center between our ranks and before the family. He wore giant headphone-style hearing protection, and for good reason. The jet did not shut down on the tarmac. It was not positioned by that cousin-of-a-forklift that pushes jets into place. The jet that carried James Stack drove itself into the hanger using its two jet engines. The final return home of this young Marine was announced with 130 decibels.

“Re-form!”

On command we moved into the shape that Joe had so clearly put in our heads. The door of the jet is just forward of the wing. We would stand at the front edge of the wing so our line would radiate from the wing-side of the door. It would extend beyond the tip of the wing and then curve behind the audience. It would wrap around and then extend back toward the airplane at an angle reflecting the angle of the wing until it reached the forward side of the door.

The engines had stopped and the Good Humor bells had closed the hanger doors. It was silent again. My place was at the end of the wing. I couldn’t see toward the door without turning to look, so I couldn’t see toward the door. My view was of the family. Of course, I had seen the ritual before so I knew what was happening. First there are noises from within the jet. Then the door opens. Then more noises. Then the two aluminum ramps are positioned. Then the lift is rolled down the ramps. Then the ramps are removed. Then the lift raises a platform to the threshold of the door.

And then the casket appears in the door.

Prior to this moment, everything had been more or less normal. There was coffee in Styrofoam cups and aircraft directors holding large orange batons. But now, it was James. And since my only view was of the family, I know how they reacted.

Earlier, we prayed. Just before we walked into the hanger we were led in a prayer. I have offered prayers for the group several times. I am always cautious, speaking to God and not about Jesus, recognizing that they’re Jews among us, and perhaps even Muslims. But today we heard a full-throated Christian prayer. And when we walked into the hanger, Jesus Christ walked with us.

James was a devout Christian, as is his whole family. When the casket came into view, their knees did not buckle. They didn’t cry nor wail, and there was no need to console each other. They had faith. And they had strength.

The casket was moved onto the lift and lowered. The Marine detail moved forward and rendered a slow salute: “Present” (3 seconds to raise their arms) (3 seconds to hold the salute) “Order” (3 seconds to lower the salute). The rest of us raised our salutes and held them. The detail moved James to the hearse and rendered another slow salute. We finally lowered our salutes when we heard “Order” again.

His mother and father conformed to our example.

Their great strength undoubtedly draws from their great faith. When we are thanked, we commonly respond that “it’s not about us”. That is what his mother and father were saying: “It’s not about us.”

And with that, James was home. He had flown from Afghanistan to Delaware, and from Delaware to Arlington Heights. He was no longer in the custody of the military; now he was in the care of his family. Tomorrow he would be waked at a nearby funeral home. The next day he would be celebrated at a nearby high school and buried in a nearby cemetery.

All that was left was to lead the hearse to the funeral home. We would stand as the Marines carried James inside and then we would go to work or home or maybe to a restaurant first. Google had informed me that the trip was just 5 miles, all on Palatine Road. Should be quick, I thought.

Instead, it was 10 miles and we went all over town:

Three news helicopters followed us. Windsor Elementary School, Olive-Stitt Elementary School, Thomas Middle School and Christian Liberty Academy – four schools – had their entire student bodies standing along the curbs holding flags and signs and salutes. And between schools there were many others holding flags and signs and salutes. There were U.S. Navy uniforms and U.S. Army uniforms and police uniforms and fire uniforms. There were people caught in the suspended traffic caused by our procession who stood in the cold to salute individually. And there were many people who, alerted by the sound of the bikes, came running to stand for James.

Why isn’t this the “welcome home” for every KIA?

The whole day was a wonderful, uplifting experience for me. I believe that was also true for the others in the procession and for the many people who watched the procession pass by. James served goodness all his life. Some souls are such a powerful force for good they continue to serve even after death.

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